I emerge into the clearing, planning to skirt around the edge of the pond and head to Tom’s camper van, where I will present him with Baby Groot, and all will be well with the galaxy.
Except Tom isn’t in the camper van. Tom is in the pond. And yet again, he isn’t wearing any clothes – at least not that I can see. Maybe he has old-fashioned Victorian bloomers on beneath the water level, I don’t know.
I freeze, hidden behind the gnarled trunks of the oaks and the broad, swishing leaves of the clumps of fern. I remember my mum telling us a folk legend about the fern – that anyone carrying it could be rendered invisible. I consider swooping up a branch and hoping for the best.
I tell myself that I should just start whistling, or cough loudly, or start stomping around and snapping twigs, perhaps while singing Girls Aloud – anything to let him know that I’m there. That I’m not actually skulking around behind trees, holding a crocheted film character in a plant pot, stalking him.
I know that’s what I should do – but somehow, my body just doesn’t want to cooperate. My feet feel rooted to the earth, and my breath is stuck midway down my chest.
The first time I saw him like this, dappled and shining in the sunlit water, my mind leapt immediately to Edward Cullen, my teenage crush. Now, Edward Cullen is nowhere – all I see is Tom.
Tom, my friend, who speaks Klingon. Who goes to the gym a lot, and looks damn fine on it. Who is bare-chested and bare-shouldered. Who has tiny droplets of water sprinkled across his skin, and pouring from the short, thick coat of his hair.
He’s splashing and diving, swooshing his head in and out of the water, shaking himself like a wet dog every time he emerges. Rick Grimes is in there with him, paddling around and grinning as he snaps at enemy twigs. Rick Grimes also looks like a wet dog, but it’s less troubling on him.
Tom is laughing, alive with the sheer joy of the day. He is doing what he set out to do – loosening up.
I don’t know how he’d feel if he knew I was lurking in the background, watching. Creeped out, possibly. Maybe just embarrassed. I don’t really know – but I do know how I feel.
I feel like kicking off my boots, stripping naked, and jumping in there with him. I feel like reaching out to touch all that bare skin, and stroking that wet head, and wrapping all my limbs around his body. In short, I feel like a woman who has just noticed her libido switch click firmly into the ‘on’ position.
I place a hand on one of the oak trees as though I’m earthing myself – not quite able to turn away, not quite able to move forward. The old me might have done the impulsive thing, and run straight in yelling ‘Geronimo’. But the new me? She has a lot more to think about than her own needs. Even if Tom didn’t recoil with horror – even if he felt the same – it couldn’t possibly end well.
I know all of this, but I still can’t quite make myself leave. I’m enjoying the view too much. And when the rain finally starts, lashing down in warm torrents, it gets even better.
Tom stands still in the water, and turns his face up to the sky. He closes his eyes, smiles at the world, and holds out his arms in welcome. He grins as rivulets run across his skin, around his jaw, fat drops splashing on his shoulders and chest. He lets out a whoop of sheer happiness, and Rick Grimes joins in with a deep, resonant woof that echoes around the clearing.
The rain might be contributing to the erotic mirage playing out in front of me – but it is also, at least, helping to shake me out of it. The downpour is one of those fast, sudden storms that pass as quickly as they start. Within what feels like seconds, I’m drenched, and I fear for Baby Groot’s wellbeing. He is made of wool, after all.
I shove him into my pocket, and ever so quietly, start to retrace my steps. Running away is the best thing for both me and Tom, I know. I’m only flesh and blood, and I might have ravaged him if I’d stayed there any longer. Now Tom can carry on swimming like nobody’s watching, and I can retain my super-cool image. The one that’s so subtle, only I can see it.
I walk stealthily back to the place where the footpaths meet at a small, green junction, and pause. I am quite literally at a crossroads, and wonder if the devil might leap out at any moment and offer to buy my soul for a handful of beans or the ability to play Flamenco guitar.
I glance back down the way I came. That way lies Tom, in all his man-bodied glory. I glance down the other path, which leads back around Briarwood and on to the camper van via a longer route. That way lies sanity.
In a move my teenaged self would never have believed, I choose sanity, and head away from the Pond of Much Temptation. I clomp through the woods, knocking branches and shrubs out of my way with an edge of anger – or more accurately, frustration. Everything feels very complicated, and a bit unfair, so I take it out on the green stuff.
By the time I reach the clearing where Tom has his van, the rain has passed – and I have cooled down. I’ve talked it all over with Groot and that has helped. He’s a good listener, and I am almost at the point where I can laugh at myself.
This is becoming a bad habit, spying on Tom in the pond. The poor bloke would be mortified if he knew. He might get a restraining order out, and then where would we be?
I tell myself not to take it all so seriously, and Groot agrees. I need to give myself a break. I’m a human being – I have needs. The fact that I’ve resigned myself to ignoring them doesn’t mean they don’t exist. And as chastity fails go, it wasn’t that bad – I looked, but I didn’t touch. I have the feeling that if I give in and let myself touch, something will snap and the carefully constructed house of cards that is my life will scatter around me in a flurry of jacks and hearts.
At the camper van, one of the chairs is set up outside, next to a small folding table. There’s an empty coffee mug sitting there, next to a book called The Martian, which is now a bit soggy. He definitely must be loosening up if he’s reached the stage where he’s recklessly abandoning soiled crockery in public.
I place Baby Groot on the table next to the book, giving his head a little pat before I leave. I wonder, as I walk away, if Tom will assume that alien life forces have snuck in and invaded his tiny patch of paradise.
Chapter 15
It’s Saturday night. And that means it’s ballroom night.
The café is packed for the occasion, with all of the usual suspects along with a gaggle of Edie’s nieces, nephews, and their children. Her fiancé is conspicuously absent, obviously, due to the fact that he is sadly deceased.
Laura’s laid on a table full of sandwiches and cupcakes, and there are many open bottles of wine scattered around the room. It feels a bit like a party already, even though this is only actually a practice run.
Edie is presiding over events at a table with Becca, looking so excited I fear for her health. Little Edie is somehow managing to sleep her way through the chatter and bustle, snugly tucked up in her buggy, one podgy bare foot poking out from beneath a blanket decorated with baby ducks.
The teenagers are all here, set up on a Base Camp at the back of the room, tables covered in textbooks and highlighter pens and notepads. Lizzie has GCSEs coming up, and Josh and Martha have exams on the first year of their A-levels. Nate is winding them up with his carefree schedule, playing Pokémon on his DS instead. It’s only a matter of time before someone punches him in his Pikachu.
My mum is sitting with Katie and Saul, colouring books and pens and craft materials in front of them. We’ve left Bella with Midegbo for the night, so they can keep each other company at Laura’s house at the Rockery. Putting a young Labrador in a room full of novice ballroom dancers seemed like a foolish idea. He also has a bad track record of counter-surfing, so I don’t think the cupcakes would have survived for long.
We also wanted Tom to be able to bring Rick Grimes with him – if nothing else, it will make him feel less overwhelmed, and give him a good excuse to go outside every now and then.
Right now, Tom is sitting with Matt, Frank, Sam and Cal, drinking the home-made cider that Scrumpy Joe h
as brought with him. I check in on him every now and then, but start to feel like I’m his mum, and back off. He’ll be fine. We’re back on normal terms, Baby Groot having worked his magic, and I need to let him get to know everyone without hovering like a helicopter parent.
Matt, our local vet and Laura’s other half, isn’t a million miles away from Tom’s personality type anyway. He comes alive when he’s around Laura and the kids, or anything with four legs, but other than that is definitely on the quiet side.
He fell completely in love with Rick the minute they walked into the room, and that was a good ice-breaker.
‘What is he? German Shepherd and Rottweiler?’ he asked, kneeling down and plunging his hands into Rick’s ruffled neck mane.
‘Probably,’ replied Tom, one hand proudly on his dog’s huge head. ‘Maybe some Retriever or Chow, looking at that fur?’
‘Could be. Laura tells me he’s not keen on other dogs?’
‘He is keen on other dogs – for dinner. It’s … well, it’s a real shame, he’s such a gentle giant with people, but a bit of a psycho with other canines.’
Matt nodded and stood up, not quite making eye contact with Tom. That’s a habit of Matt’s – he gazes off into the distance slightly while he talks to you. He didn’t need to bother with Tom, as he was doing exactly the same thing. In fact, it looked quite weird, the two of them chatting but busily looking in other directions.
‘Is he a rescue?’ asked Matt, staring at the bookcase.
‘He is, though I’ve had him for over a year. He was a stray, and in the shelter for a long time – he was too ugly-looking for most people, and his size put them off, so he ended up as a long-term resident,’ said Tom, watching the fridge.
‘Right. Well, that might explain some of it – he’s protecting you, and his role in your pack, and he doesn’t want to let any other dogs near in case they threaten that. He might also have had bad experiences with other dogs in his previous life that have left him scared. Dogs often react aggressively when they’re scared. There are a few things we can try, if you’re interested? No miracle cures, but it might help.’
Matt is a dog whisperer of great renown, and I see Tom’s face light up at the thought of being able to solve some of Rick’s behavioural issues. He even looks right at Matt, and smiles. Matt is looking at the floor by that stage though, so it’s wasted.
Almost against his will, Tom was scuttled off to sit with the Menfolk, and he’s currently trying to look anything less than uncomfortable while the others discuss their excitement about our new ballroom teachers, who are due any minute.
All Cherie’s told us is that she’s arranged for two tutors to come for the next few weeks, to give us the basics we’ll need to make Edie’s party go with a swing. Edie can already dance – she’s of that generation that learned from a young age – as can Frank. Sam and Becca mastered a rumba for their performance in our Christmas talent show, and I know my own mother is a salsa demon. The rest of us, as far as I know, are absolute beginners – so this could be very amusing indeed.
‘I reckon,’ says Cal, big and blonde and wearing his usual cowboy hat, his Australian accent pronounced after a couple of drinks, ‘that we’re in for a treat. I’ve watched that Strictly show – and those dancers are hotties.’
Surfer Sam raises his cider in salute of that concept, and nods.
‘I’ll drink to that!’ he says, quickly glancing to check if Becca’s listening. She is, of course, and shoots him a mock scowl.
‘I mean,’ he adds, lamely, ‘I’ll drink to a celebration of the beauty of the human form … not to hotties. I have no interest at all in hotties. Apart from my gorgeous girlfriend, of course.’
She gives him a thumbs up, and goes back to chatting to Edie instead.
‘And there are two of them! One is bound to be a leggy blonde!’ Sam says, much more quietly now. He sounds way too excited for a grown man; more like a kid anticipating a new Xbox under the Christmas tree – he doesn’t get out much these days.
I glance at Cherie, and see that she is looking highly amused. She, of course, has the advantage over all of us – she already knows who’s coming, and what level of hotness they’ll bring with them. Laura is shaking her head as the men continue to anticipate the sheer gorgeousness of our flimsily-dressed mega-babe dance teachers, and Zoe wanders over to me, bearing wine.
‘I think’, she whispers so they don’t hear her, ‘that they’re overlooking something quite important.’
‘What?’ I ask, accepting the glass with a nod of thanks. ‘That you ladies are going to kill them if they carry on?’
‘No,’ she replies, grinning. ‘The fact that Cherie is highly unlikely to have booked two female dance teachers, when half of us are women. It’s pretty simply logic, but as ever, logic seems to desert men as soon as they start thinking with their cha-cha-chas …’
Ah. She has a point, I think, looking across at their table. Even Frank looks a little giddy at the prospect, and he really should know better. Has age taught him nothing?
By the time the dancers actually arrive, anticipation is at a fever pitch. Wine has been consumed, cupcakes have been fondled, and a hundred theories about our mystery guests have been put forward. Cherie has refused to be drawn on the subject, but I can tell from her expression that it won’t end up with two Ukrainian supermodels tangoing through the doors to the Comfort Food Café.
The reality, when it arrives, is definitely not one that the men had considered – and it leaves everyone in the room biting back laughter. Well, when I say everyone, I mean everyone with boobs – because Cherie has really outdone herself.
There are indeed two teachers – one male, and one female. The lady teacher is approximately five foot tall, and not much less across. She has one of those incredibly solid builds where it looks like she needs scaffolding instead of a bra, and is dressed in a pair of skin-tight jeggings and a cold-shoulder top that shows a lot of shoulder. She has dyed black hair frosted solid with spray, a ferocious expression, and is approximately 700 years old. She looks like the Yoda of ballroom dancing.
The male teacher, however … well, he’s a little different. He’s long and lean and Latin-looking, with slicked back hair and a widow’s peak. He’s in his twenties, dressed all in black, and comes across as a bit of a sexy Dracula. He’s eyed up every woman in the room within seconds, and manages to give off the vibe that he’d cope with us all if he had to.
‘Oh my!’ squeaks Edie, gazing at him over the top of her specs. ‘I’m looking forward to seeing his hip action!’
That breaks the silence, and everyone burst into laughter. Or at least the female half of the room does. The men … well, they look a bit scared. Their teacher is brandishing a cane, and she looks like she knows how to use it.
‘Serves them right,’ says Zoe, pointing at Cal and grinning. ‘Sexist pigs!’
Cherie bustles to the front of the room, and introduces the teachers as Zelda and Mateo. Zelda nods and waves her cane at us all, and Mateo gives a low bow from the waist. Both of them are provided with drinks, and after a few minutes of small talk, the serious business begins.
Matt has rigged up the speakers, and Zelda has brought the music. She separates us into groups arranged in lines as she begins to demonstrate the basic steps of the waltz. She might be sturdy, but she’s nimble, and soon we’re all gazing at her with admiration as Mateo whips her around the room. My mum is smiling as she watches, and I can see her tapping the one-two-three rhythm on the table top as they go. She’s so entranced she doesn’t notice that Saul is busily drawing all over his face with red felt tip.
We all practise the steps in lines, before our teachers demonstrate the correct hold positions. After that, basically all hell breaks loose. If someone had had the foresight to rig up a ceiling camera, it would have looked like a roomful of people all spontaneously being possessed by demons.
The next hour is spent bumping into tables, colliding with each other, tripping over our own fee
t, and in the case of the giants, occasionally getting whacked on the head by the mobiles hanging from the ceiling. Zelda raps various people’s ankles with her cane, and Mateo spreads his charm around the room to make up for it.
Frank and Edie glide majestically at a pace that belies their combined age, but the rest of us have no dignity at all. It’s absolutely hilarious, and I seem to spend a lot of time wiping tears of mirth from my eyes as we all unleash our inner Fred and Gingers. If Fred and Ginger had been drunk, and on acid. And getting electrocuted.
Katie is the surprise of the evening, turning out to be one of those women who had ballet lessons as a child and never lost her grace; Cal gives it a good go despite his rough-and-tumble Aussie exterior, and Laura and Matt spend so much time laughing they barely get any steps right at all.
We’re all partnered up with various people as the lesson wears on, Zelda casting a stern assessing eye over our efforts, barely breaking a sweat while the rest of us huff and puff our way in and out of hold.
By the time I end up with Tom, we’re both red-faced and tired. He’s actually limping after a close encounter with Cherie’s rise and fall, and I’m glad I wore Docs for my box step with Joe.
‘I feel like I’ve been in a combat zone …’ he murmurs, as Zelda points at us with her Cane of Justice.
‘I know,’ I mumble back. ‘And she’s our sergeant major … come on then! Put your arms around me, I won’t break!’
He accepts the challenge, and swoops me into his arms with a flourish, bending me backwards and then whirling me back up to my feet so suddenly I end up lolling against his chest. That’ll teach me.
Once we’ve stopped laughing, we assume the correct position – his hand on my back, my hand on his shoulder, the other two clasped and raised – and begin to dance.
It’s actually reached the stage of the night where at least some of the repetition has started to sink in, and we manage a pretty decent attempt. Maybe it’s also because he’s actually so much taller than me, but I even start to feel a bit girly – letting him lead me around the way I should, and the way I’ve found impossible all evening.
Sunshine at the Comfort Food Café Page 13
