Then. Now. Always.

by Isabelle Broom

  ‘Do you think they’ll make it, her and James?’ I ask my dad now, and he pauses with the knife in mid-air.

  ‘Honestly, I don’t know,’ he says, a sigh escaping his lips. ‘They seem okay at the moment, but a baby is a big game changer. It’s impossible to know at this stage what will happen.’

  ‘Is that what happened with you and Mum?’ I ask quietly, finally asking the question that’s been bursting to come out since that call I made to my mum months ago. ‘Did I come along and ruin everything?’

  There’s a clatter as the knife drops on to the chopping board and my dad gathers me into his arms.

  ‘Oh no. Hannah, you mustn’t think that. It had nothing to do with you at all.’

  ‘But you just said …’ I argue, angry with myself now for turning the mood so sour.

  I feel him take a deep breath.

  ‘The truth is,’ he says, letting me go so that I can look him in the eye. ‘I kept making your mum unhappy, and I had no idea why.’

  ‘But you fell in love with someone else,’ I point out.

  ‘Yes, but not for a long time after things had started to go wrong,’ he replies. ‘I know you hate me for what I did, but I don’t want to stand here and lie to you.’

  ‘I don’t hate you, Dad,’ I mumble. ‘I never have – I just hate what you did.’

  He nods then, a stricken look on his face as he recalls the hurt that his past actions must have caused.

  ‘I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my life, Muffin, but choosing to leave your mum isn’t one of them. What we had wasn’t right, even if she thinks that it was. I desperately wanted to feel what I should have been feeling, but I didn’t. It wasn’t fair to either of us, or to you, that I stay – we would all have been unhappy.’

  I’m not sure I believe this, and my face must have communicated the fact, because my dad looks suddenly as if he might cry.

  ‘Don’t get upset,’ I say quickly, patting him awkwardly on the arm. ‘It was all such a long time ago. I’m sorry – I should never have brought it up.’

  ‘No, you have nothing to be sorry about,’ he says. ‘Just because I’m your dad, it doesn’t mean that I’m perfect. I’m a human being, Hannah, just like you, and I stumble and I’ve hurt people and each time I hope that I’ve learned something new.’

  ‘Do you think you’re still learning?’ I ask, and he nods again.

  ‘Of course I am. And that’s the thing about growing up, you see, it never really stops. There is always more to learn about yourself, but you can’t put your blinkers on and ignore what’s happening. You have to be honest with yourself and give yourself a break when things don’t go as perfectly as you would have liked. And, most of all, you have to be brave. Nancy is going to have to be very brave from now on, too.’

  ‘She already is far braver than me,’ I tell him, thinking just how proud I am of my strong and beautiful half-sister, who still looks better than most people even now that she’s eight months pregnant.

  ‘I think you’re braver than you realise,’ my dad assures me, going back to his chopping. ‘And you’ve discovered what it is that you’re good at – it can take some people a lifetime to work that out.’

  ‘I think they will make it,’ I say then, answering my earlier question. ‘James is on the phone every five minutes lately, checking Nancy hasn’t gone into labour a month early. You can tell that he loves her.’

  Dad chuckles at this, his eyes narrowing in the same way as my own do when I’m amused by something.

  ‘Love isn’t always enough,’ he says.

  I glance at him with disapproval. ‘It’s a pretty good starting point.’

  ‘Yes,’ he smiles, looking at me with pride. ‘A very good starting point.’

  By the time we’ve arranged the crudités, peeled the plastic off the top of the supermarket-bought dips and carried everything through into the screening room, there’s only a few minutes left before the film starts. Rachel and Paul smile at me as I top up their glasses, and I thank them yet again for coming. What Rachel said to me during that awful phone call back in June, about Paul being intimidated by me, really struck home, and after I apologised to her, I asked to speak to him so I could make amends. He had joked that all the Spanish sun must have melted my brain – but if anything, I think it’s been sharpened.

  Nancy has commandeered the two-seater leather sofa in the corner, her legs stretched out so she can rest her swollen ankles and a bowl of olives balanced on her bump. The baby is fond of a kicking session, and my dad tells every single person they meet that his grandson-or-daughter-to-be is going to be a professional footballer when they grow up. I prefer to think of him or her as a martial arts expert, complete with tiny ninja costume, but that mental image understandably didn’t go down too well with either expectant parent. Honestly, nobody seems to have a sense of humour when it comes to babies.

  Theo is sitting in his big office chair, which he’s wheeled through specially and positioned not far from the large pull-down screen. Unlike the rest of us in this room, he’s already seen the finished film, but that hasn’t seemed to dim his interest in the slightest. If anything, he’s the most excited person here, and I feel a tingle of warmth as I take in the expression of happy contemplation on his face. He was a closed book to me for so long, this man, and now I feel like I can call him a real friend. Of course, the first few weeks back after the shoot were slightly awkward, but I didn’t want to let what happened in Spain come between us or affect my ability to do my job, and so I just stopped thinking about it. That turned out to be a lot easier than I expected, and I think Theo is very grateful to me for being so professional about it all. Well, I know he is – he told me so himself the same day that he offered me a promotion. According to Theo, I am wasted being stuck in front of a computer all day, and he now wants me there on every shoot, doing interviews and giving Vivid Productions a more human face. I couldn’t have designed my own dream role better, and in just a few weeks I’ll be heading off to Thailand with him on a brand-new project.

  I used to think that nothing meant more to me than Theo, but it turns out that he was actually way down the list, and the biggest surprise I think I’ve had since Mojácar is realising that little old me is actually fairly high up in the rankings after all.

  Claudette has taken off her shoes and is sitting cross-legged on a stool, a straw connecting her mouth to one of the jugs of sangria which she’s pinched off the table. In typical Claudette style, she’s in the way of at least three other members of staff and is barking at people to pass her morsels of food so that she doesn’t have to move. I notice that Sergio in accounts is watching her with a look of fascinated horror on his face, and I very nearly spit out my mouthful of crisps with laughter.

  ‘Hannah, your phone’s flashing at me.’

  I hop down off my own stool and hurry across to where my mum is sitting in another of the office chairs, resplendent in a satin blouse decorated with strawberries which she’s tucked into a dark red pencil skirt. Those zoga sessions are clearly paying off – she’s looks bloody amazing.

  ‘Thanks, Mum! Oh, it’s Tom. It’s Tom, everyone!’

  There’s a flurry of cheers as I press the button to answer and I can hear Tom’s lovely booming laughter coming through the handset as there are cries of ‘we miss you’ and ‘hurry home’. I glance at Theo.

  ‘Five minutes,’ he says, tapping his watch, and I slip quickly out of the room into the quiet corridor.

  ‘How’s it going?’ I ask, beaming with pleasure at the sound of his voice. I’ve really missed the big scarecrow over the past month, even though I’d never tell him that.

  ‘It’s hot!’ he declares, and I scoff at him.

  ‘Well, durr – it’s Sri Lanka.’

  ‘I know,’ he grumbles. ‘But nobody told me how hot it was going to be. I mean, it’s so humid over here that I feel like I live in the shower.’

  ‘I’ve been spending lots of time in your shower,’ I inform him. ‘It’s s
o much better than that dripping mould cave I had in Acton.’

  ‘I hope you’ve been looking after the place,’ he says sternly. ‘If I come back in five months to find you haven’t cleaned it, there will be big trouble.’

  He’s joking, of course, but I hope he knows just how grateful I am to him for letting me stay in his flat while he’s away fulfilling his dream of travelling the world. It may be tiny and smell of chicken, but it’s so nice to have a bit of independence at last, and London is finally beginning to feel like a home.

  ‘Is it tonight?’ Tom asks now.

  I glance up at the clock on the wall.

  ‘It’s actually in about three minutes. I can’t believe you’re not here.’

  ‘Me too,’ he says, but he doesn’t exactly sound devastated to be missing it.

  ‘What’s going on over there?’ I ask. ‘Is there’s something you’re not telling me?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Out with it.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Yes!’

  Tom laughs. ‘How do you do that?’

  ‘Do what?’ I say sweetly, examining my nails. I really should paint them more often.

  ‘Do that thing where you read my mind.’

  ‘Oh, that,’ I reply breezily. ‘You know, years of practice.’

  ‘If you must know,’ he says, his voice dropping an octave. ‘I’ve met someone.’

  ‘A someone, someone?’ I exclaim and I hear his smile.

  ‘Well, a someone who wasn’t disgusted by my kissing technique, so that’s a good start,’ he says.

  ‘You’re never going to let me forget that, are you?’

  ‘Nope.’

  Tom starts talking to someone in the background, and I look again at the clock. Less than two minutes to go.

  ‘Sorry.’ He’s back again. ‘That was Sophie. We’re just about to go to this bar with the rest of the crew.’

  ‘You’re up very late,’ I remark. Sri Lanka is five hours ahead of the UK, which never fails to turn my brain into wire wool.

  ‘Well, we took a nap earlier after—’

  ‘I don’t need the details!’ I interrupt loudly, and he starts laughing.

  ‘I was going to say, after we got back from the tea factory. Honestly!’

  ‘Of course you were,’ I say, but I’m smiling. ‘Listen, Tom, the film’s about to start. Will you call me tomorrow and let me know how your date went?’

  ‘I told you, it’s the whole crew – it’s not a date.’

  I blow a long raspberry into the handset and hang up – like I said, incredibly sophisticated and grown up – then allow myself a few seconds before I go back into the room with the others, my hand going automatically to the necklace I always wear, the one that Tom went back and bought me from the stall in Mojácar. Perhaps it’s greedy to have an Indalo Man on my wrist and one around my neck, but as Claudette is always reminding me, a girl can never have too many good men in her life. And I’m happy that Tom has met someone – it is about time, after all. I was worried that the business with Nancy would set him back, but in true Tom style he has been nothing other than sweet to her since we got back from Mojácar. I don’t even have to worry about whether this Sophie girl deserves him. If Tom likes her, then I already know she must be wonderful.

  What I didn’t tell Tom was that I have a date myself in a few days’ time. I can’t wait to hear what he says when I tell him it’s with a friend of Paul’s. He will probably rib me about it every day for the rest of my life – especially after some of the stuff I’ve said about Rachel’s fiancé in the past. But I’m trying with Paul, I really am, and who knows – by the time he and Rachel get married next year, I may even have enough kind things to say about him to be allowed on the top table. As long as I’m not relegated to the bloody singles’ table, I don’t care.

  ‘Hannah – hurry up!’ yells Claudette, so loudly that it can’t have been the first time, and I make it back to my stool just in time to hear everyone gasp as an image of Mojácar comes shimmering into view, and Claudette’s sultry French accent fills the room.

  ‘On the south-east coast of Spain, in the foothills of Sierra Cabrera, there is a place both hidden and proud. A village that seems to shimmer as you look upon it, the cluster of white buildings a honeycomb shot through with moonbeams of colour …’

  Even though I’ve heard these words before, they still cause every single hair to stand up on my arms, and from the looks on all the faces in the room, I’m not the only one who feels moved by the combination of Theo’s script and Tom’s stunning camerawork.

  The food sits untouched on the plates and bowls as we all gaze at the screen, utterly enraptured by the story Claudette is telling. As the camera traces its way up and down those labyrinthine cobbled streets, I feel as if I can smell the bougainvillea and the jacaranda trees. There’s laughter as Claudette recounts some of the more bizarre local legends, and tears when Elaine reveals her tragic story. In the end, it was she who contacted me to say she was happy to appear undisguised, and I feel a new swell of unbridled pride at just how incredibly brave and honest she has been. Theo was right about her story bringing something special to the film, and he’s edited it expertly so that her haunting words stay with you long after the scene has moved on.

  The hour feels as if it’s flown by, and when the credits eventually start to roll and I see my own name appear in the list, I’m happy to let the tears fall brazenly down my cheeks. There are a few hushed moments of humble silence, as everyone lets the enormity of what they’ve just seen settle into them, and then I’m almost deafened by a chorus of cheering roars.

  My mum has wept all her mascara across her face and Theo is busy wiping it off with the fancy hanky from his jacket pocket, his smile of pride so big that I can’t help but match it with one of my own. Claudette has finished her entire jug of sangria and is crying noisily into the shoulder of Sergio in accounts, who is in turn grinning like a ventriloquist dummy that’s swallowed a handful of Viagra. I look over at Nancy to find she is smiling at me, and when our eyes meet she winks and gives me a thumbs up. I know she loves Mojácar now just as much as I do, so the fact that she approves of the film makes me feel even happier than I already did. Rachel and Paul give me a high-five each, and my dad comes over for a hug, telling me over and over again how astounded he is at what we’ve all created, and joking that he finally forgives me for getting ‘that bloody tattoo’. He’s served me well over the years, my little emblem, but in the end, it wasn’t me who needed protecting – it was my job to protect. For a minute, I’m simply content to sit and be with the people I care most about in the world, and my heart aches for Tom, who by rights really should be here, but is instead using part of his round-the-world sabbatical and all his own funds to help make a film for a charity in Sri Lanka. That’s Tom, though, and I wouldn’t want him any other way.

  Theo puts down my mum long enough to fetch some champagne from the fridge, and before long the lot of us are dancing to Paul’s rather eclectic iPod playlist, in between stuffing handfuls of leftover food into our gobs. There’s a tense moment when my dad picks up Claudette’s bowl of home-made guacamole and asks me loudly where I bought the dog vomit, but aside from that the mood is one of frivolity and relieved joy. We’ve all worked so hard to create something meaningful in record time, and it’s more than paid off. Twitter is going berserk as viewers begin to declare the documentary everything from ‘awe-inspiring’ to ‘magical’ to ‘spellbinding’, and one especially impressed user makes Theo’s night by tweeting, ‘Give this film a BAFTA!’ Even though I fear an accolade of that stature would send his already very large Greek ego soaring into a solar system in a galaxy far, far away, I can’t help but cross my fingers and make a little wish that it comes true.

  By the time I’ve kissed goodbye to Nancy and my dad, waved off Rachel and a very drunk Paul and put my rather unsteady and overexcited mum into a taxi, it’s almost ten o’clock, but instead of heading back to the party room to join the
others, I go over to my desk for a time-out. I’ve been so caught up with the preparations for this evening’s screening that I’ve barely sat down since lunchtime, and my afternoon post is sitting in a small pile next to my keyboard. Ignoring all the boring envelopes, I select the stiff cardboard tube from the top of the heap and ease off the plastic lid.

  There’s a painting inside, and as soon as I start to unroll it I let out a yelp of joyful recognition. Elaine has captured me and Nancy perfectly, a faraway but contented expression on our faces. We even look like sisters, as Elaine’s expert eye has noticed traits that I had never been aware of before – the tilt of our heads and the neat curve of our jawlines. My tan, which has been long since lost to the mediocre British summer, warms my slender limbs in the painting, while Nancy’s dark, shiny hair seems to gleam with vitality on the paper. I’m just laying it out flat for a better look when the phone on my desk starts to ring.

  ‘Vivid Productions,’ I say, habit driving my hand towards the receiver before my brain has time to remind it of the late hour.

  ‘Hello, is that the right place for the film about Mojácar?’

  ‘The one that was just shown on BBC Two?’ I enquire politely.

  ‘Yes.’ The caller sounds relieved. ‘I was wondering if I could speak to whoever did the interviews.’

  ‘That’s me,’ I tell her, opening a drawer and pulling out a stapler and a hole punch to anchor the painting and stop it from curling up at the edges.