One Week 'Til Christmas

by Belinda Missen

  ‘I’m going to tell him that I’m leaving at the end of the week,’ I said.

  ‘All you can do is be honest and see what happens, right?’ she said. ‘Who knows? He might be okay with that.’

  ‘Thank you, I think,’ I said. ‘Though I’m not sure how he would be.’

  ‘I do have a morning off coming up though. I need to go to the market and buy food and bits and bobs to take with me to Mum’s. You should come with me,’ she said. ‘I was thinking Parliament Hill, that’s nice this time of year. We can get breakfast and drinks and walk around.’

  ‘Sounds perfect.’ I took some toast from her plate. ‘Let me know when and I’ll make sure I’m free.’

  ‘So, do I get to know something other than “It won’t work”?’

  I wrinkled my nose. ‘We’ll see what happens.’

  Blurting out the finer details seemed a bit remiss after one date … if I could even call it that. Could I? I mean, I knew Estelle rubbed shoulders with the right people all day long, and discretion would be the name of her game, but I just couldn’t risk the finer details ending up in the grapevine, especially if I had somehow misremembered details and it turned out that none of it meant as much to him. Add to that the fact that every single time I got excited by a guy, it tended to go to hell in a silk-lined purse. So, for now, I kept the details minimal.

  ‘I get it.’ Estelle stood. ‘And on that note, I need to get to the gallery.’

  She left for the day and, some more toast and another coffee later, I opened a new document and finally typed the opening sentences for Edwin. Despite how my night ended, this part of the job still sucked, especially since my instructions were to write nothing too intellectual.

  A quick check of social media showed friends and family winding down for the year, pictures of brightly coloured Christmas trees, decorations and end of year parties, and here I was tapping away at last-minute work instead of celebrating with everyone else. Eventually, I hit play on the Dictaphone.

  Sitting alone in an icy kitchen with frosted windows, Tom’s voice echoed from the ceiling, his answers soon transcribed and stitched into my piece. I got a kick out of listening to a voice that now seemed so strangely familiar, even if his tone at the time still held an air of unfamiliarity. When I needed more information on a role he mentioned, I went back to the search engine results.

  A flurry of results had shown up – fan pages, social media feeds, and movie websites. I clicked on the first link, his official site, and found information about roles, an appearance calendar for fan conventions, and more pictures than I knew what to do with.

  Before I knew it, I’d fallen down a rabbit hole of photo galleries, leapfrogging between fan sites as I poured through red-carpet photos, paparazzi shots, and on-set candid photos. He was strangely attractive, those hooded blue eyes staring out from each photo, the hair at varying lengths of slicked back, and a beard that came and went with the seasons. He was a bit of an everyman you might pass on the street, but with that je ne sais quoi that made him stand out. In an effort to read the room, I clicked on a discussion forum. I wanted to know what drew people to this up-and-coming actor, at least outside my own thoughts.

  Quickly, I found myself reading what could only be half-truths and innuendo. Tom had been seen in a nightclub, in a theatre, in a hospital. Was he dating a blonde, brunette, or redhead? How much truth was there to rumours of conflict during rehearsals of his new play? Comments were attributed to a friend of a friend, or ‘my past work in the theatre industry’, and ‘I heard from someone on set’.

  It made me uncomfortable in a way I couldn’t explain. Or maybe I could; it was no different to being struck in the traffic jam directly beside a car crash. I didn’t want to read opinions that were so at odds with what I’d experienced, so I closed the window and filled in the gaps in my article as best I could.

  I worked in the media – I knew just how easy it was for some of these falsehoods to make it into the mainstream. I decided there and then that I’d ask Tom directly if I needed to know anything desperately. Anything else would just sully my opinion of him and, right now, I couldn’t afford that.

  Scratch that, I didn’t want that. I closed all the search windows down and went back to the interview.

  Let the record stand, I sent my article through about five minutes before diving into the shower and setting forth on a great preening adventure. Last night, I’d ventured out trying to look semi-professional. Today, I swapped that for something a little more date-night practical. Thick jeans, thicker socks, and tall boots met a T-shirt, flannel shirt, and my new favourite grey cable knit. My caramel-coloured hair fell in swirls around my shoulders and, for once, I thought I got my make-up right. Dewy without the sweaty sauna aspect.

  I grabbed my keys and raced out the door.

  Chapter 7

  Tom was pacing. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, wearing a track into the footpath outside Somerset House. I checked my watch; I wasn’t late, though I wouldn’t be surprised if I were with all my dithering about and practising what I was going to say to him, how I was going to tell him I was leaving. I’d even prolonged the inevitable by stopping for a sneaky coffee in a back-alley café by Temple Station before wandering along a squelchy leaf-littered Victoria Embankment.

  The closer I got, the more I saw he was doing exactly what I’d been doing: practising lines. He rubbed the back of his neck as he spoke, head bowed as his mouth moved to silent words and hands bounced in imagined gestures.

  I moved a little closer and leaned into his line of sight. ‘Tom?’

  ‘Oh! Hello.’ He stopped on the spot, his hands frozen in the air near his head.

  ‘Are you okay?’ I asked.

  His body sagged like a deflated balloon. ‘Honestly? I didn’t think you were coming.’

  ‘What? Why not?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know.’ He lifted a shoulder. ‘Just … I thought maybe you’d finished your work this morning and decided I was boring, after all.’

  Lips pushed out, I shook my head. My stomach twisted. ‘Sorry, not today.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No, but I did discover that there are enough photos of you online to make a flip book,’ I teased with a wink. ‘Who knew we needed that many photos of anyone?’

  Tom threw his head back and let out a relieved laugh. ‘Ah, the perks of the job. Let’s go.’

  Our backdrop tonight was a gorgeous neoclassical building full of large stone bricks and their perfectly bevelled edges. Blue, silver, and gold baubles, and rustic wooden boxes mixed with twinkly lights joined the earthy smell of a real pine Christmas tree at the other end of the rink, while colourful projections floated across the word SKATE, held high on the building in large white letters.

  We moved over to the shoe stand to collect our skates.

  ‘Am I going to cut my fingers off?’ I looked up at Tom as I yanked on the laces of my skate shoes. ‘I am, aren’t I? These are pretty sharp.’

  ‘You’ve never done this before, have you?’

  ‘Not ice skating,’ I said. ‘You?’

  ‘Every Christmas,’ he said. ‘So, to answer your question, probably, yes. There’s a fatality a day here,’ he said. ‘Fingers come off, blood spurts like ketchup on one of Greggs’ finest sausage rolls, and it’s all over before someone can scream “clean up in aisle five!”. Days without incident? Zero.’

  ‘What?’ I screeched.

  ‘I’m kidding.’ He stood and fixed me with a look that I was sure said, You’re an idiot. ‘You’re not going to cut anything off. Do Torvill and Dean use prosthetic fingers? No, and they’ve been doing it for years. Just follow me, and you’ll be fine.’

  ‘You know, we’re going to have to talk about this life-threatening business.’ I clomped around in circles trying to get used to the skates on my feet. My ankles quibbled under the extra weight. ‘The most experience I’ve had on any skates involved antibacterial wash and picking gravel out of my knees.’
r />   ‘Please tell me you know their Bolero,’ Tom continued. ‘You must. It’s cultural history at its finest.’

  ‘Tom, I get it. I know who they are.’ I gripped his coat so tightly my nail plates went deathly white.

  ‘Dear Lord, are you sure you want to do this?’ he asked as he watched my ankle give out and my leg flop.

  I nodded madly. ‘I just need to get used to them, that’s all.’

  Ice skating had been at the top of my list of things to do while I was here. I’d been bombarded with messages from friends as soon as they knew I was in London again. ‘Have you been skating yet?’ they’d ask. It was either that, or requests for me to drink their share of mulled wines. I’d been trying, I replied, too embarrassed to admit I’d been sucked back into work.

  ‘Isobel, come on. We only get so much time.’ Tom waved a hand at me. ‘We can do all the photos later.’

  ‘Hang on.’ My attention drawn back to the here and now, I shoved my phone back into my pocket and lumbered across to him.

  I glanced down at the surface of the rink. It was lit a bright aqua and smelled like someone had left the freezer door open in the supermarket; a smell I loved. It was damp and frigid and my idea of a perfect setting. Carols echoed out across the open space and I took another look around as people pushed past us for their skate session.

  ‘Do you trust me?’ Ice crunched under Tom’s feet as he stepped backwards onto the rink. He held his hands out.

  I reached out but stopped, retracting my arm. ‘I’ll let you know if you let me fall.’

  ‘I’m not going to let you fall.’ He took my hand and urged me slowly out onto the ice.

  That moment, that first touch, stretched out into what felt like hours. As his fingers drew lightly across my palm, like the tickle of a caterpillar as a small child, a butterfly cage opened that made my stomach lurch and legs weak. I looked to him, not so much for support, but more in a moment of Oh shit, what now?

  ‘Knees bent,’ he said gently. ‘There you go, arms out until you get some balance.’

  This was nothing like roller skates, and still different enough from rollerblading that I felt like a complete amateur. I did as I was told, not taking my eyes off him for a second as I stepped onto the rink with him. Eventually, my ankles stopped trembling, and I was able to wobble about behind him. We moved aside, stepping carefully around the edge until we were away from the crowd and the wash of people flooding into the rink.

  ‘Good, good. You’re doing well. Now take little steps towards me. Clomp, clomp, there you go.’ Tom stepped back. ‘And, now, you just push backwards like you’re rollerblading. Please tell me you’ve at least done that before.’

  ‘I have done that before,’ I said, thinking back to a friend’s birthday party at a rollerblading rink.

  ‘All right, good.’ He moved away so as held me only by the tips of my fingers. ‘Now, just follow me.’

  That was all well and good in theory, until I let go of the side railings and felt my feet slip out from under me like a greasy olive. Tom watched on, ignoring the occasional knowing look from other spectators.

  The staring from strangers was unusual, and not something I’d noticed until now. A gamut of thoughts ran across their faces like storm clouds. They began at ‘Yes!’, through to ‘No, surely not!’, ‘Are you sure? I think it’s him?’, and then that final realisation of ‘Yes, that’s definitely him. Should we approach?’. Yet, nobody did.

  ‘Go on,’ he encouraged. ‘I’m right here.’

  I began slowly, pushing away just gently enough to feel the sharp slide across the ice. Tom was right, it was quite a lot like rollerblading and, the further he moved away from me, the more I had to work to chase him. Around us, a kaleidoscope of people and colour blurred into the background, music drowned out, and it felt like … flying.

  A cool breeze tickled through my hair and a weightlessness came from moving about so freely. The more confidence I gained, the quicker I became, and I was soon zipping around after Tom, who found infinite joy in slipping away just as he got within grasp. I soon realised, however, that I hadn’t quite worked out the intricacies of avoiding people. In a poor attempt to avoid one collision, I knocked another person, and one foot clipped the other in a metallic clunk. I grabbed hold of Tom for support and the ground slipped out from under the both of us. Again.

  ‘Is this the part where I get mad at you for throwing me to the floor?’ Tom asked.

  ‘Are all my fingers there?’ I squeaked.

  Tom laughed. ‘You’re perfectly fine.’

  I opened my eyes slowly to the world around me. Tom wriggled about and got comfortable beneath me, a mildly amused smirk tugging at his lips. I froze. Literally. I’d landed on top of him in a way that would probably have us dragged away for public indecency if I didn’t move. He offered a slightly sheepish smile as I retreated, shuffling away awkwardly, slipping and sliding as I came to a wobbly stand. Apparently, I was quite good at this balancing business when it mattered.

  Now that I was upright, I took a quiet moment to glance at the world around me. I loved the atmosphere, the pinks and purples offset against the sandstone building. I especially loved the giant Christmas fir by the end of the rink. I skated across until I was within view to snap a selfie. When Tom buzzed by again, I pulled him close for one, too.

  ‘Are you loving it?’ Tom took my hand and twirled me under his arm.

  The world spun by in a blaze of colour. ‘I feel like one of those ballerinas in a jewellery box.’

  ‘I can’t say I’d know, but I’ll take your word for it.’

  Overhead, a fifteen-minute announcement sounded. My shoulders sank. I didn’t want this to be over yet. I wanted to keep skating, to get it right, to continue the free feeling that zipping around brought.

  For a moment, I thought this might all turn on its head. He was close enough to kiss, and our breath floated about in misty clouds between us. I looked at him, he looked at me and, just as he began to lean in, I looked away.

  ‘Tell me something,’ he said.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘What on earth do you do at Christmas if there’s no ice skating or mulled wine or gingerbread to eat?’ he said. ‘Let’s say you take me to family dinner. What should I expect?’

  ‘Sweat,’ I said with a laugh. ‘We would sweat, a lot. Christmas dinner is usually on some stinking hot forty-degree day. And, no matter how hot it is, there’d still be potatoes in the oven. Mum will be screaming that no one helps, while telling you not to help, and Dad will be outside in his shorts, getting burned on the barbeque, and there’ll be more food than anyone ever needs.’

  ‘Throw another shrimp—’

  ‘You stop it.’ I clapped a hand over his mouth and laughed. ‘Stop.’

  ‘All right, okay. I give up.’ He reached for my hand. ‘But we’ve not got long left. How about one last dance?’

  ‘A dance?’ I teased. ‘With moi?’

  ‘I don’t see anyone else around here I want to dance with.’

  Oh, my poor little heart. It had been so long since I’d slow danced with anyone. Our eyes met as I slipped my hand into his and followed him a little further onto the ice. Wrapping an arm around my back, I rested my hand on his shoulder. I pulled him in just a little closer while trying to keep a wary eye on my feet. The last thing I needed was to topple over during my first romantic moment in forever.

  I rested my cheek against his and let myself sink into the feeling. He was warm and solid and pure, and everything I’d been missing for longer than even I had realised. Right now, nothing else mattered; not the screaming, the laughing, the yelling, or the breeze of people zooming past us in their last chance for a quick lap. It was just us, my heart like a jackhammer and my mouth drier than it had ever been, but I didn’t want to be anywhere else.

  ‘You know what would happen if I took you to Sheffield for Christmas?’

  I drew back and looked at him. ‘What would happen?’

  ‘Well, we
wouldn’t have to do anything fancy,’ he continued. ‘We’d just put on our woollies and walk around town. I could show you my old school, or my first theatre where I was some random woodland creature in Wind in the Willows. We could head out to Chatsworth House for a drink, or we can go and look at Castleton, which is one of my favourite places. It’s a small village, but big on character.’

  I took a deep breath and felt tears prickle at the back of my eyes. Against everything I knew, I wanted to tighten my grip. I drew a shaky breath. People had often talked to me about a moment their life turned on the dime, and I could never quite identify with them, until now. It had been nothing short of ignorance to try and ignore the fact I was going home, but I had hoped it wasn’t going to come out quite like this. I took a step back and looked at him.

  ‘Isobel?’ His brows drew together. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘It’s this article.’ I scratched my fingers through my hair. ‘Not the one I wrote this morning, that one’s fine, but the one you wanted to help me with.’

  ‘Sure.’ He stuffed his hands in his pockets. ‘Have you come up with an angle? Because, personally, I think my best angle is in the dark.’

  I stared at him for a moment. I wanted to laugh, I did, but I just couldn’t. ‘I’m going to say something, and then I’m going to leave. I don’t want you to follow—’

  ‘Isobel,’ he complained. ‘Can you please just—’

  ‘I won’t … I’m not going be here next week. I’m leaving, going home, getting on the plane. It’s probably not enough time to do an article, so please don’t feel obliged to spend time with me.’

  ‘But you don’t … Isobel.’ He reached for me as I slipped away.

  I pushed through the crowd, shoulder to shoulder with others trying to get off the rink and to the cloakroom. I stepped onto the rubber matting and was sure I felt my knees give way. At the back of the crowd and unable to get out, Tom skated around the sides of the rink in search of me.