One Week 'Til Christmas

by Belinda Missen

  ‘Good afternoon, Merry Christmas and all that. I’m Tom, lovely to meet—’ he turned slowly to face me as I stood to meet him ‘—you?’

  ‘You?’ I echoed, loudly enough that I heard my own voice call back to me from the rear of the theatre.

  Life stopped; I was sure of it. Earth stopped spinning, gravity ceased to be, and the stage floated from beneath my feet like I’d thrown myself from the International Space Station. Behind me, I heard the footsteps of security get closer, and the attendant in the wings stepped forward apprehensively.

  It was him, the guy from yesterday, from the sodden newspaper, angry phone call, arse in the gutter episode. Him with the universe in his eyes and Colgate smile. Tom. It was short and sharp and suited him perfectly. Pop! Straight into your life and out again. And here he was, standing before me, eyes wide, jaw dropped and arm outstretched waiting for me to shake his hand.

  I stepped forward and shook. ‘At last, he has a name.’

  Tom’s head tipped ever so slightly as he closed his other hand over mine. It was like someone had flicked a switch, and electricity swirled from my fingers to my toes and back around again. In the time since I last saw him, I’d been wondering if I hadn’t just imagined that feeling, perhaps confused it for an emergency rush of adrenaline. But, no, it was there, and it was as real as the sun and the moon.

  ‘I do,’ he said. ‘It’s lovely to … see you again? I can’t really say meet, can I?’

  ‘Likewise.’ I didn’t move. Neither did he.

  ‘Between almost being crushed by a bus and your running off, I’m afraid we didn’t get to introduce ourselves yesterday.’

  ‘I’m Iz,’ I said.

  ‘Is she a bird, is she a plane?’ He smirked and narrowed his eyes.

  ‘Isobel.’ I cleared my throat. ‘Isobel Bennett, I work with the Melbourne Explorer. I’m here to interview you today.’

  ‘Beautiful.’ His hand slipped from mine and moved straight for his hip. ‘How are you? I haven’t permanently scared you off public transport, have I?’

  ‘No,’ I said with a nervous chuckle. ‘Just street corners.’

  ‘Seat … sit … would you like a … for Pete’s sake, Tom.’ He took a loud, deep breath and clapped his hands. ‘Let’s start again. Isobel, would you like a coffee? Can I get you a drink?’

  ‘I’d trip someone up for a coffee right now.’

  An easy smile formed. ‘Perfect. Me too. Even better if it had a chaser in it.’ He turned away and made furious hand gestures to an assistant, who in turn made like a marathon runner on a mission. ‘Please, make yourself comfortable.’

  As I turned to sit, I eyed the chair like it was about to vanish into thin air before I sat down. Had there been any phone reception on the Tube, I’d have realised who I was interviewing and I might’ve been better prepared for this moment. Or, you know, added it to my reasons to run in the opposite direction.

  ‘How has your day been?’ Tom asked. ‘Drier than yesterday, I hope?’

  ‘It has been, yes. Thank you.’ I held my hand in place long enough to see my fingers shake. This was so ridiculous. I’d spent months asking Edwin for the chance to grow, to interview people and work on other articles, and here comes an actor to throw me off course. But he wasn’t just any actor, was he? ‘How about you?’

  ‘Ah, rather boring,’ he said, with an embarrassed laugh. ‘Not that I should say that too loudly around these parts.’

  Boring. Hmm. Not quite the word I’d have used myself, but anyway.

  I reached for my notepad and pen. ‘Shall we begin?’

  Tom stretched for my Dictaphone. Wait. What? I leaped forward, hand atop his. There it was again, warm and sharp and utterly exquisite. God bless this sleight of fate.

  ‘Relax.’ He clicked the red button. ‘You hadn’t hit record yet. Just helping you out.’

  I whipped my shaky hand back and did the oh-so-casual tuck the hair behind the ear move. So suave. I was sure I fooled nobody. ‘I’m glad at least one of us knows what’s going on.’

  He smiled gently, but all I could see was him in the gutter in front of the bus. On top of me.

  My eyes darted nervously from him to the email on the screen in front of me, most of which now looked like Tolkienesque gibberish. What was worse was I had only fifteen minutes to nail this interview before I was booted out in favour of someone who actually had a clue what they were doing. I took a large gulp of coffee and rapped my pen against my notepad.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ Tom leaned in, elbows on his knees. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I just … I have absolutely no idea what to ask you.’

  ‘None at all?’ He shifted, leaning back into his seat. I couldn’t tell if he was annoyed or amused, and I was sure I’d seen both of those expressions yesterday.

  ‘This thing, this interview, is a last-minute thing for me. My boss rang me about half an hour ago with a time and location and told me to get here.’

  ‘I was going to say, looking at my schedule before I walked out here, you don’t exactly look like an Edwin.’ He smiled reassuringly. ‘Much lovelier than an Edwin, if I can be so bold.’

  Oh boy. My mouth filled with sand and my heart dropped the needle on some EDM.

  ‘Well, I may not look like an Edwin, but I certainly feel like an imbecile, which is quite in line with his personality. I mean, he’s offered me one suggestion here: How do you unwind after a busy day? What even is that?’

  ‘In bed.’

  Coffee cup to my mouth, I coughed. Had someone switched up the thermostat? As much as a sense of humour was the first thing I looked for in a man, I didn’t need that mental image. At least not right now. I rubbed at my chin and focused on my phone again.

  I was way out of my depth and the realisation was crushing. All the daydreaming in the world wasn’t going to help me build my own brand or launch my own blog when I couldn’t stumble through the simplest of interviews. By now, I was sure I looked like I was begging and wasting everybody’s time.

  ‘I should explain that, usually, on a good day, I’m a travel writer. I go to health spas and restaurants, climb rope bridges and cram myself onto overstuffed bus tours. I don’t do interviews per se.’

  Tom crossed one knee over the other. ‘Can I make a suggestion?’

  ‘Will it help?’ I let out a deep breath. ‘Because I’d really appreciate that.’

  ‘Why don’t you let me fill you in on what we’re doing here?’ he said, lacing his fingers together and crossing his legs at the knees. ‘That way, I toe the company line, you get all the important bits, and neither of us have to deal with any of the arbitrary garbage.’

  It was the permission I needed to let go and relax. Lifting my eyes to his, I felt my body unravel. Blood stopped bellowing through my ears, and I was sure my teeth stopped doing their impression of a mortar and pestle.

  He opened with a few brief sentences about his play, which was about a couple in the throes of a marriage crisis during World War II. That led to a discussion of how he’d indulged in books about wartime history, the psychological impacts of it.

  His ability to correlate past events into minor details of the present, even extended to the fictional worlds he inhabited. This was especially pertinent to his role on Countershock, a role that saw him play a lieutenant caught in the middle of a modern-day war. His openness and intelligence made it so much easier to volley questions.

  From then to now, and to what the future might hold, he had a studious eye, discerning taste, and was every bit in command of his own ship. Listening to him talk about roles and how he picked them, I wished I had more time to indulge in life, like normal people who binge-watched television over pizza and wine.

  When somebody appeared to tell us our time was up, I felt a deep sense of deflation. Our time may have been short, but I’d found him to be utterly fascinating. He was handsome, whip smart, wryly funny, and wasn’t so tall he’d trip and hit his head on the moon. All I wanted was to l
isten to him talk about his world view a little more; it was deliciously addictive. Alas, it was over.

  ‘I guess that’s us?’

  ‘I guess so.’ He nodded once.

  Tom’s eyes did not leave me as I watched his assistant walk away. Always with a phone to her ear, she looked to be holding four conversations at once. It made me grateful I’d only had to manage one with Tom. My gaze drifted back to him to find a whimsical smile set upon his face.

  I stood and readied myself to leave. Stuffing my belongings into my bag was the only thing keeping my brain and my mouth from running away with me. My feet felt like lead knowing that I’d be heading out the door in the next minute or two.

  When I’d done, I smiled and offered my hand. ‘Tom, thank you for being an insightful, intelligent interview.’

  ‘Yeah, well, you get me talking about my favourite topics and you’ll be stuck with me for hours.’ As he smiled, a tight dimple pulled at his left cheek.

  ‘That would not be the world’s worst way to spend a night,’ I threw him a look over my shoulder as I stepped off the stage.

  ‘So, let’s do that then.’

  ‘Sorry?’ I turned back to him.

  ‘It’s almost two. I finish here at four o’clock tonight. Meet me out by the foyer if you like. We can grab dinner and drinks and continue the conversation. Maybe compare Oyster balances, favourite bus routes and the like.’

  Running into him at the bus stop may have been a simple accident of the universe. But this? This felt like … fate. It had to be. Simon Van Booy said coincidences were the universe’s way of letting you know you were on the right track. And, if that were even partly true, then there had to be a reason why all of this had happened.

  Tom had been dropped into my lap twice, once quite literally. Despite the jelly legs and tunnel vision, I took one look at the exit and another at Tom. Curiosity may have killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back, and here I was with a flickering tail and rubbing myself against the furniture.

  ‘Four o’clock?’ I searched his eyes. Please, don’t let this be a joke.

  ‘On the dot,’ he said.

  ‘Okay.’ I smiled. ‘Sure. I’d like that.’

  ‘Out in the foyer, where you came in.’

  ‘In the foyer,’ I repeated. There went my heart again, tripping and stumbling and sending papers into the breeze and eggnog down my pants.

  ‘I’m looking forward to it.’ His eyes crinkled as his lips turned up into a smile. With a spring in his step, he raced backstage like he’d done it a thousand times before. I turned and left, my stomach blooming with spring butterflies and the fizz of excitement. Security gave me a knowing look as I passed, and I scuttled out the door.

  Four o’clock. Two hours and thirty minutes. Not that anyone was counting. I checked my watch and stepped outside.

  Chapter 4

  Just over two hours. It wasn’t much time if I considered heading home to get a decent article written. The travel alone would eat up almost an hour. The same could be said of Alfred’s where, while I could calm my growling stomach, I would be tied up in conversation. The winter market was another option, but I wouldn’t get a thing done there. So, I stayed close to the theatre.

  At a bakery by the end of the concourse, I found a table near a fireplace, a full cup of coffee, and a sandwich to tide me over until my … date? Was it a date? I wasn’t sure. I sent Estelle a message telling her not to wait up for me. A flurry of messages followed as she tried to glean the tiniest sliver of information out of me. I pulled out my notepad and Dictaphone and set about my work.

  And then, nothing happened. My head was still floating somewhere up around the rigging of the theatre and, try as I might, where I wanted to find words, none came. I spent more time staring at an almost blank notepad than I did with my pen in my hand. In the end, I fell into the void of social media and spent time catching up on travel groups and with colleagues. Oh well, I did say a twenty-four-hour turnaround.

  When it was time to leave, I shouldered my backpack and walked back to the National Theatre.

  Until now, nerves hadn’t been a problem. After all, I’d made it through that mess of an interview and still came out the other side with an invite for drinks. From where I stood, this was the least of my problems. That was, until four o’clock came and went without a hint of Tom.

  Each time the door opened, my stomach did a handstand, only to find others leaving the theatre, talking and laughing. Yellow streetlamps glowed overhead, and Ariana Grande’s ‘Santa Tell Me’ drifted up the concourse from the market. I was beginning to feel like maybe I’d got my wires crossed, or maybe he’d changed his mind altogether and Not-Quite-The-Rock was about to come and sweep me away like a filthy cigarette butt. But finally, as the door of the theatre opened with a swish and Tom stepped out into the night, those worries receded as I felt an effervescent burst tingle up through my chest and across my scalp.

  Help!

  ‘Isobel.’ He approached with a spring in his step and a boyish, lopsided grin. ‘Thank you for not running away on me again! It appears I owe you another apology. I’m really racking them up, aren’t I?’

  ‘It’s okay, your tenth one is free,’ I said. ‘I’ll get you a loyalty card you can put little stamps on.’

  ‘I’m awful, I know. We ran a little late on the end of day meeting,’ he explained, tucking a piece of paper in his back pocket.

  My eye caught on someone in a gingerbread person costume as they bounced along behind Tom looking more like Mr Blobby. When my gaze returned to Tom, he looked on the cusp of a question.

  ‘So, ah, Tom … can I call you Tom?’ I threw him a quizzical look. ‘Or are you a Thomas?’

  ‘Now, see, that’s an interesting story,’ he began, lifting his shoulder in an invite to follow him. ‘There wasn’t enough ink in the pen when Dad was filling out the paperwork at the hospital, so he economised on the letters. Thus, I am just plain old Tom.’

  ‘Thus.’ I snorted.

  ‘Bonus points on the essay, right?’ As he slipped his hands into his pockets, his elbow knocked mine. I took a sharp, surprised breath. ‘It’s good to see you again, by the way.’

  ‘Third time’s a charm,’ I joked, then inwardly cringed. Honestly, it sounded much better in my head.

  He wrinkled his nose and bit his lip. ‘Second time wasn’t so bad either, was it?’

  ‘It was okay,’ I said cautiously. ‘Like I said, interviews aren’t my specialty.’

  ‘See, I thought you did perfectly fine.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said meekly.

  ‘Now, serious talk, you are okay after yesterday, aren’t you? I didn’t break you or your belongings, or anything at all? Please be honest, I don’t want to be one of those jerks who, well, you know …’ He grimaced. ‘Look at him, thinking he’s all that.’

  ‘Honestly, it’s fine. I was more worried about my laptop, but nothing got too wet, so you’re off the hook.’

  ‘I think we gave the bus driver a fright though.’

  Squinting, I pinched my thumb and forefinger together. ‘Just a little.’

  Tom moved away from the current of pedestrians and drew to a stop by the Thames. ‘Now, Isobel.’

  ‘Yes, Tom.’

  ‘I realise that, as the instigator of tonight’s activities, it is up to me to come up with a plan. However, I was wondering if you had any preference for dinner, drinks, something along those lines. Allergies? Aversions?’

  I adjusted my backpack and glanced over his shoulder into the market behind him, towards the candy floss machines, fir trees, snowman decorations and swirls of light and colour. ‘Can I be really cheesy?’

  ‘The more cheese the better.’ He bounced once. ‘Bring on the brie, roll it in mozzarella, and tell me when to stop with the parmesan.’

  ‘Oh, we never stop with the parmesan,’ I played. ‘You just leave the block right there and take the grater away.’

  ‘I like you.’ He rubbed his hands together
gleefully. ‘Right. Hit me with your idea.’

  ‘Okay, so, the thing is,’ I leaned in conspiratorially, palms bouncing off each other, ‘I really love Christmas.’

  ‘Come here.’ Tom wriggled a finger, inviting me further into his space. When I finally got close enough, he whispered, ‘Me too.’

  I recoiled with a disbelieving laugh. ‘You do not! You’re just saying that to be agreeable.’

  ‘I absolutely do,’ he said, false shock all over his face. ‘What other time of year do I get to drink mulled cider like it’s cordial and call it indulging in tradition?’

  As a lover of a cheeky mulled wine or two, I had to agree. ‘All right, points for that.’

  ‘Shall we avail ourselves of a warm drink and the winter market?’ Tom pointed lazily towards the market. ‘Two birds, one stone and all those other idioms?’

  ‘You’re an ideas man, Tom,’ I said. ‘See, when I woke up this morning my plan was to spend the day getting festive. That is, until my phone rang, and we got stuck together again.’

  ‘I really have done a number on you, haven’t I?’ Tom asked, pinching at his chin.

  ‘You’ve certainly been a prominent feature these last twenty-four hours, yes.’

  ‘Shall I make it up to you, then?’ He took a comically large step towards the crowds and urged me to follow. ‘Let’s go, Alice, down the rabbit hole.’

  I slid my hands into the warmth of my pockets and followed. ‘Does that make you the Mad Hatter?’

  ‘On that, my mother would probably agree,’ he said. ‘Now, wine or cider?’

  Down a set of stairs onto the main thoroughfare, we passed a fairground carousel brimming with light and colour, horses that glistened with the pearlescent sheen of boiled lollies. At the Beltane & Pop cart by the main entrance, we bought a mulled wine each and sipped on the spiced contents as we passed through the main entrance of the market. I wondered how hard I’d have to petition to have all markets begin with a drink stand.

  I craned my neck for a better view of the glittering lights strung between buildings and posts like an extra galaxy of stars to love and admire against the inky sky.