Fanfare

by Renee Ahdieh

  Tom walked upstairs after the meal, and I followed him to clear the air. I stopped in the doorway of his bedroom. “Um . . . Tommy?” I hesitated.

  He glanced morosely over his shoulder at me and sighed. “Back for round two?”

  I balked momentarily. “No. I’m—I’m really sorry.”

  He turned to face me.

  “You’re right—it’s not my business how you choose to handle your father. I just . . . it hurts me to see you so frustrated about something, and I wanted to help. Please forgive me.”

  The tension on his face melted as I spoke. He wavered a bit and then smiled wryly. “I’m sorry I yelled at you like that. I know you were just trying to help.”

  “But still . . . I should have known better. It’s your decision about whether or not you go to lunch. I won’t say anything either way, and it was really shitty of me to issue an ultimatum like some crazy girlfriend with nothing better to do than make your life difficult.”

  He laughed softly to himself. “Self-aware to a fault. The ultimatum was a really shitty thing to do, by the way.”

  “I know. Truce?” I stuck out my hand.

  “Truce.” He took hold of my palm and pulled me into an embrace.

  Without pausing to let me catch my breath, he pressed his lips to mine and lifted me off the ground. I wrapped my arms around his neck and kissed him back fervently, while my rationale tried to remind me I was in his parents’ house. Thankfully, my ears detected the sound of falling footsteps on the stairs, and I struggled to push myself out of Tom’s ironclad grip. He chuckled at my expression as I steadied my pounding heart and breath before anyone saw my flustered state.

  “Stop laughing, Tommy!” I demanded under my breath.

  “Incidentally, when did you start calling me ‘Tommy’?”

  “Um . . . I don’t know. I think it’s because Anne and your mother keep referring to you that way. If it bothers you, I won’t do it anymore.”

  “No, no. It doesn’t bother me. For some reason, I rather like it coming from you.” He grinned.

  “Cristina?” Tom’s father called from the hallway.

  “Yes sir?” I scrambled towards the door and into the hall where he stood waiting for me.

  “I just wanted to thank you again for the book. I’ve already read some of it, and it was very thoughtful of you.” He smiled earnestly at me, and I felt as though I had made a good deal of progress with the toughest member of Tom’s family.

  “It was my pleasure.”

  “I was also hoping . . . to have a chess rematch later on? A proper game, this time.” The hopeful expression on his face made him look even more charmingly boyish.

  “Absolutely.”

  He nodded in satisfaction, and then turned to walk back to his bedroom.

  “Dad?”

  Tom’s father stopped in his tracks and twisted around awkwardly at the sound of his son’s voice.

  “Yes?”

  Tom had come to stand behind me. He took a deep breath and placed his right hand on the small of my back before he spoke to his father.

  “Where would you like to go for lunch? My treat.”

  I looked over my shoulder at his handsome face and beamed with uncontrollable pride.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Is what I’m wearing okay?” I asked Tom at the top of the stairs that evening.

  “They’re not the type of guys who care what you’re wearing, so don’t worry about it,” he replied with amusement.

  I tugged on the front of my fitted red shirt as I glanced down at my jeans and beige espadrilles one last time.

  “I don’t regularly hang out in pubs, and I don’t want to stick out too badly.”

  “You’re going to stick out no matter what you wear. It tends to happen to beautiful women,” he noted.

  I gave his arm a lighthearted shove before we made our way downstairs to leave.

  “You don’t need your ‘disguise’ here?” I asked after we bid his parents goodnight and strolled out the front door.

  He shrugged. “I guess we’ll find out. Honestly, I don’t think many people know I’m in London at the moment. I haven’t been back home for a while, so I guess I’ll know soon enough if I made a bad decision about the disguise. Last time I was about, I didn’t need anything.”

  He reached for my hand as he spoke. I noticed his stride seemed more at-ease here than the times we had gone out in public back home. He walked with unfailing confidence, and it was painfully obvious he felt a great deal more comfortable in this small section of London than at any fancy party or on any red carpet. His calm bearing was infectious, and soon I matched his relaxed gait and drank in the sights around me as though I knew exactly where we were and where we were headed.

  “Your dad looked really happy when you came home from lunch,” I commented casually.

  He glanced at me with a wry smile. “It definitely went better than I would have thought. There’s still a great deal that needs to be dealt with on both sides, but I was surprised by how willing he was to admit that he hasn’t been very pleasant towards me.”

  I nodded silently.

  “You’re not going to say ‘I told you so’?” he teased.

  “There’s no reason for me to be smug. Any progress you made is entirely your own. I’m not going to be a ‘buttinski’ anymore . . . but I’m really happy you spent time with him and that it went well,” I replied in an even tone.

  He responded by squeezing my hand affectionately. I noticed he navigated down many small side streets towards a destination I would never be able to find again, even on pain of death. The trail grew more and more narrow, and the asphalt became mottled with patches of cobblestone that grew in quantity with each passing step we made. Soon we came to a small alleyway that a car would never be able to traverse. The path before us consisted entirely of square grey stones that had eroded to smoothness by the passage of time and the soles of many feet treading upon their surface. The mortar between them was cracked and discolored. I had to slow down because my effing espadrilles kept turning precariously on the uneven surface. Several times Tom had to catch my arm before I pitched forward into a graceless pile that would undoubtedly leave the imprint of a two hundred year old brick on my forehead. Tom’s step never faltered as he smilingly saved me from that fate time and time again. Damn him . . . and the cobblestone.

  When I nearly face-planted for the hundredth time, Tom decided he couldn’t keep silent any longer. “I fancy those shoes were an ill-advised decision.”

  “The time to tell me these shoes were a bad choice was prior to leaving the house, smartass. I do recall specifically asking you about my outfit.”

  “Pardon me for not remembering that the last time I wore high heels in London, walking was a real bitch,” he joked.

  “You think you’re so funny.”

  He laughed and came to an abrupt halt when he noticed a group of girls our age walking directly towards us while cackling and carrying on in a manner that suggested mild intoxication.

  Trapped in the narrow alleyway, we stood still with baited breath and hoped they would pass by us without noticing anything.

  And then . . .

  A girlish screech pierced the night air.

  “Holy shit! It’s-it’s . . . THOMAS ABRAMSON!” one girl cried. The others merely stood there and gaped at us for a lingering moment. Once the shock wore off, they rushed him without a second thought. One of the young women actually threw her arms around Tom’s neck for a hug! A flurry of comments flew around us, and it became difficult for me to process anything as their praise melded together to form a banshee wail of worship.

  “Tom! Your last film was absolutely brilliant! Oscar-worthy!”

  “God, my sister will never believe this!”

  “What are you doing in London? Can I take a picture with you?”

  “Where’s my bloody camera when I need it?”

  “Can I get your autograph?”

  “This is unbelievable! I
swear I’m not crazy, but I’m totally in love with you!”

  “Does anyone have a fucking pen?”

  Wordlessly, I reached into my purse and produced a black pen that was immediately snatched from my hand. Tom smiled and tried to field their questions with as much poise as he could manage while scribbling quickly on scraps of paper. Creases of strain marred his forehead when they pushed him for a picture.

  “I’d really rather not,” he said kindly as one girl flourished her camera.

  “Oh, please! I promise not to sell it to a newspaper or anything!”

  The look of sardonic dubiousness that graced his expression was completely lost on her as she tried to rally her friends for the photo. The hilarity continued when none of them would step forward to snap the shot, lest they risk being left out of the moment forever. Sense befell one of the girls as she spun around to look for help and unwittingly noticed me for the first time. Her face flushed crimson in realization.

  “Blimey, is this your girlfriend?” she stated awkwardly.

  “Yes,” Tom responded. “Her name is Cristina.”

  “Oh! I saw a picture of her last week from a party in Hollywood. You looked so . . . different!” remarked another girl.

  Finally nearing the end of my patience, I forced myself to smile broadly at the brood before I stuck my hand out for the camera. “I can take the picture, if you like.” Then please leave us alone.

  I was treated to a chorus of “thank you” in exchange for my efforts.

  After we managed to escape, Tom reverted back to his familiar stance of constant vigilance and slouched self-awareness.

  “God, that was so awkward!” I remarked quietly as we continued to our destination. “Is that what usually happens?”

  “More or less.”

  “Man, if people I didn’t know ran at me for a hug, I would probably punch them before they could get close enough,” I continued.

  The lines on his face faded as he peered down at me and laughed. “Then it’s a good thing they didn’t try to hug you. Truly, I’m starting to get used to it.”

  “I don’t think I could ever get used to complete strangers invading my personal space like that.”

  His expression was pensive as he paused for further consideration. “I wish I hadn’t frozen in place like a moron when I saw them. I should have, I don’t know . . . pushed us against the wall and starting snogging until they passed or something, but I couldn’t think of anything to do at the moment . . . I just froze. Idiot.”

  “You’ve watched too many James Bond movies. Making out in a dark alleyway isn’t the key to remaining nondescript. If I saw two people going at it, I would definitely stop to watch,” I teased.

  My cheesy attempt worked. He exhaled through his amusement and walked forward with a more lighthearted step. A few moments later, he stopped before an old wooden door with weather-beaten varnish and held it open for me. As I stepped into the dimly lit room, the scent of cigarettes and alcohol inundated me. Raucous laughter filled the air and a cloudy haze of smoke settled around us. The sparse lighting illustrated the unfurling wisps that twisted in response to the movements below in a macabre dance. The establishment was half-filled with patrons in varying degrees of inebriation.

  Without pausing, Tom took my hand and led me to the back of the pub with purposeful strides. My eyes adjusted to the lighting as a booth directly ahead of us came into view where two men were seated.

  “It’s about bloody time! Did you leave your watch at home, mate?” one of them crowed in a mocking tone as we slid seamlessly into the booth.

  “I actually left it at your mum’s,” Tom jeered back with a wide grin.

  “Piss off!” He punched Tom roughly and clapped him on the back in a gesture of affectionate welcome.

  “Thomas is buying the next round since he’s a filthy millionaire . . . and the one after that, as well,” the other guy said sarcastically.

  Tom chuckled in acquiescence and turned to me. “Cris, this is Ben.” He motioned to his friend who had mocked him about the watch. He had a curly mop of blond hair and an extremely friendly expression on his stout face. “And this ugly tosser is Philip.” Tom smiled at the man directly across from us. Philip was a far cry from ugly with his thick, black hair and tanned skin. I was certain the brooding badass had broken the hearts of many women. He stared at me with striking green eyes filled with curiosity.

  Ben leaned over Tom with his hand outstretched for mine. “Christ, Abramson! You did a shoddy job describing her to me. Cris, this pitiful sod here talks about you like you’re his new religion, so it’s really a pleasure to meet you.”

  I blushed furiously at his open gaze of admiration.

  Philip smiled at me with a nod and said, “Really glad to meet you, as well.”

  “He talks about you guys and all the trouble you got him into all the time, so it’s great to finally put names with faces,” I said warmly.

  “Us? He thinks we got him into trouble? Bollocks! This moron could act his way out of anything. Those big eyes worked miracles whenever we were caught doing something naughty. I always had to serve out harsher sentences than either of these two. Being cute has its perks,” Ben commented.

  “You idiot. You deserved to get caught. Every ill-advised thing I ever did was because I was daft enough to listen to you,” Philip retorted at Ben.

  “It’s not my fault you’re both so damn gullible!” Ben shot back.

  “Gullible? More like conned! You’d sell crayons to the blind if you thought you could get away with it!” Tom jeered.

  “Shut your face, you tosser!” He turned his twinkling eyes in my direction. “So tell me, what’s it like dating a movie star?” Ben asked me in a teasing voice. His gaze shot over to Tom as though he knew he would emerge the victor in the Battle of Heckling.

  Taken off guard, I blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “Dude, I have no idea how to answer that kind of question.”

  He laughed in surprise. “What do you mean?”

  “Do you want a beauty pageant answer about how meaningful and eye-opening an experience it’s been? Do you want me to tell you about being chased down the street by crazy fans? Do you want to know what it’s like to have half the world’s population hate me? What exactly do you want to know?”

  Philip groaned. “Never ask Ben that kind of question.”

  Ben leaned forward in anticipation but was promptly cut off by Tom.

  “No you don’t! Don’t even think about it!”

  Ben ignored Tom with a wicked wagging of his eyebrows. “I think I’ll settle for something . . . highly embarrassing and potentially lucrative.” He paused for effect. “Kiss and tell. What’s it like to snog a movie star?”

  “You bastard!” Tom moaned.

  I couldn’t help the laughter that bubbled from my lips at the sight of Tom flushing a deep red under Philip’s watchful eyes and Ben’s elated mockery.

  “Nope.” I shook my head through the mirth. “I’m not answering that one.”

  “I could make it worth your while. If we sell the tale to a trashy tabloid, I’m sure you could run away with me to a deserted island. It would make a brilliant story: ‘Beautiful Idiot Dumps Handsome Movie Star for Chubby Best Friend,’ ” he pressed on, heartless in his attempt to make Tom squirm and get a good laugh in the process.

  “See, I never know why these girls who hook up with a movie star go online or to these gossip magazines to blab about their story. They go on and on about ‘what a great kisser he is’ and whatnot. It just makes no sense to me,” I stated carefully.

  “Why not?” Philip asked, unable to conceal his interest.

  “Personally, I wouldn’t do it, and my reasons are far from being honorable,” I hedged.

  “Blast it, woman, just tell us!” Ben crowed with delight.

  “Well, it stands to reason that if they ‘kiss and tell,’ they aren’t likely to have any further encounters with their heartthrob. So, I won’t kiss and tell because
I definitely want more . . . much, much more.” I winked at Ben suggestively, and Tom’s countenance turned several different shades of mortified as they all digested the clear meaning behind my insinuation. Even Philip couldn’t hold back his loud guffaw.

  After Ben finished cackling at the look on Tom’s face, he managed to bark out, “I’m marrying this woman. Seriously: smart, funny as hell, and completely gorgeous.”

  “You wish,” Tom replied morosely.

  “No, mate—you wish.” Ben grinned at Tom.

  The evening progressed as the level of comfort continued to increase between us all—aided by never-ending mugs of Guinness. Stories of the trio and their dastardly deeds throughout the years flew across the table, and the tales only made me even more enamored by Tom and his friends. Ben and Philip were witty and unfailingly loyal. They both tried to hide their pride in Tom’s achievements, but it was so nakedly apparent in their affection that it was impossible to conceal it for long. Soon, Ben turned his torrent of mockery onto me with an ease that heartened my soul.

  After three solid hours of conversation and more pitchers of beer than I cared to count, Ben made a suggestion that I initially thought was merely in jest.

  “Gentlemen . . . and lady, of course! I suggest we return to my flat for a drunken round of Guitar Hero!” he proclaimed.

  “What the fuck? Guitar Hero?” Tom replied dubiously.

  I laughed; no one else did. “Are you serious?”

  “I’m extremely serious about Guitar Hero,” Ben asserted.

  “He’s not kidding. Every time he gets even slightly smashed, he wants to play that bloody game. I won’t lie, it’s great fun,” Philip admitted.

  “I don’t know how to play!” I moaned.

  “Neither do we. That’s what makes it ridiculously fun. Of course, Tom is not allowed to play the guitar. That would be the grossest kind of cheating. I nominate Abramson to be our drummer,” Ben announced.

  “I thought the game was only for the guitar, hence the name Guitar Hero,” Tom argued.

  “No, no, no . . . that was then. This is now—the era of Guitar Hero World Tour. Watch and learn, you peon. Watch and learn.”