‘Great! That gives us one week. I mean, one business week but, still.’ He stopped. ‘It is one week ’til Christmas though.’
‘It is.’ I dropped the hammer into the tool bag. ‘And you’re off to where, Belgium and America?’
‘Crazy, right?’ He shrugged. ‘Still, I think it would be crazier if we dropped the ball on whatever this was. Last night was brilliant until your Cinderella moment.’
I snorted. ‘I’m hardly Cinderella.’
‘And the night before that was just as excellent.’
‘What do you suppose we do then?’ I asked. ‘Just pretend it’s not happening?’
‘Not at all. What I’d like to do is vote that we continue to enjoy this week. Let’s just see what happens without making any life-changing decisions.’ Tom pressed his palms together.
‘I’d like that.’ A half-laugh, half-cry burbled up through my chest.
‘Come here.’ Tom reached out and pulled me into a hug.
I slipped my arms around his middle while his came to rest up around my shoulders. Tucking myself in under his chin, I found a soft warm space where I could relax, unwind, and let relief wash over me. It was a hug that felt like a ratchet; each time I moved, Tom held tighter, as if he thought I didn’t quite understand yet just what was happening. But I understood, I did. In his arms, the world melted away, and I felt a fool for ever trying to run from it in the first place.
‘Are you okay?’ he asked as he smoothed hair away from my forehead. ‘You kinda look like you haven’t slept.’
‘Thanks.’ I chuckled. ‘It wasn’t the best sleep I’ve had, I’ll admit.’
‘So, I was supposed to go into the theatre this morning. We were going to do a read-through, but we all got a phone call earlier telling us to come in later this week instead. That means, if you’ll have me, I’ve got the day free.’
‘Are you sure you want to?’ I asked.
‘I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t sure.’
‘All right.’ I swallowed hard. ‘I was actually planning on a few things. I was going to try Winter Wonderland. I felt awful about last night, so I thought I might eat myself to death there in a bit of a Violet Beauregard moment. After that, I haven’t the faintest, but I thought I’d start with that at least.’
‘Let’s go.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Like a heart attack.’ He chuckled nervously.
‘Gosh, you’re sweet. Come inside.’ I pushed the door open and waved him in. ‘No need to stand out in the cold.’
I’d been trying desperately to not entertain the idea of seeing Tom again. It was a little too much fantasy for me. Yet here he was, standing about in the entrance and rubbing his hands together by the heating unit. I stashed the tool bag under the stairs, flicked on the kettle, and went looking for biscuits, or breakfast, or anything I could serve with a hot drink. The pantry was so bare it was lining up to star in its own nursery rhyme. I peered down the entrance to Tom, who was now fixated on photos on the wall.
‘Tom?’
He turned to me. ‘Yes?’
‘How do you feel about grabbing a coffee first? I know this great place nearby.’
‘Yes.’ He nodded once. ‘Absolutely.’
‘Good.’ I nodded as well, squeezing past him in the hallway, all the while aware of his eyes set firmly on me. It’s the age-old cinema problem, isn’t it? Do I shuffle past backside first, or crotch first? Which one was the lesser of the two evils?
‘Wonderful.’
‘I’m just going to grab my things,’ I said, pointing somewhere in the vicinity of my room, stepping backwards and tripping on the bottom step. Grabbing at the bannister for support was no use when the newel cap came off in my hand.
Tom rolled his tongue around in him cheek pocket. ‘I certainly hope that’s not a regular occurrence.’
‘Huh?’
‘Knobs falling off in your hand.’
Brows raised, I breathed so heavily my cheeks puffed. ‘Might explain a lot.’
Chapter 10
‘So, this is your favourite place?’ Tom peered over my shoulder around the shop, at the overflowing tables and queue of people that stretched out behind the door.
After getting ready so quickly I’d likely broken world records, I’d taken Tom straight to the only place that made sense: Alfred’s. Instead of catching the bus, we chose to walk so we could recap our favourite bits of last night.
The moment I saw him on the doorstep, I decided I wouldn’t share details of my phone call with Edwin. There was no need to, and no way that mentioning it would end positively. I wasn’t going to write the article, so it was all a bit of a moot point anyway. Admitting something, putting it out into the universe, would only sow seeds of doubt I didn’t want flourishing.
‘Alfred is great.’ I plucked a menu from beside the till and caught sight of my friend giving me a thumbs-up from a corner near the stockroom. Heat pooled in my cheeks, and I averted my eyes. ‘I’ve spent so many afternoons in here, just at that little table in the corner, writing articles.’
‘Speaking of articles …’
I gave an embarrassed groan. ‘You didn’t go looking for yours, did you?’
‘No, no, not quite,’ Tom said. ‘What I was going to say was, I looked you up last night.’
I had a sudden inkling that the heart palpitations and light sheen of sweat that broke out was exactly how authors feel when people proudly decry, ‘I read your book!’
‘You did?’ Why did I sound so surprised by that? It wasn’t like I didn’t loll about in bed last night and type his name into Google. Again. For the record, I preferred the make-up-free, first-thing-in-the-morning Tom. It was the same Tom who stood in front of me: fresh, lovely and sleep-wrinkled. Red carpet Tom looked a little … artificial and trapped.
‘You’re a bit of a dark horse,’ he said. ‘You and your packing hacks.’
Alfred slipped back behind the counter, towel over his shoulder and mischievous grin on his face. There was a fleeting look of recognition, then a pop of the eyes and quick recompose, as he got a closer look at Tom, who placed a hand gently on the small of my back and urged me forward. My breath hitched at the contact and I stepped towards the counter.
‘Miss Isobel,’ Alfred beamed. ‘Good to see you’re not alone today.’
I looked at Tom, Tom looked at me, and I turned back to Alfred. ‘You’re always telling me to bring a friend.’
‘And for once, she listens to me.’ Alfred turned his attention to Tom.
‘Don’t get me started,’ Tom played, dimple tugging at his cheek. ‘Stubborn as an ox.’
‘That’s hardly fair.’ I laughed. How did this suddenly become the coffee shop versus Isobel? I did, however, love how easily Tom slipped into banter. After last night, after this morning, I wondered what I did to deserve someone so loose with their humour?
‘What can I get you on this fine morning?’ Alfred glanced briefly at the line of people snaking around behind us.
‘Well,’ I gestured to Tom. ‘Seeing as I wore my last eggnog—’
He rolled his eyes. ‘Here we go.’
‘—I’d like a large takeaway, please.’
‘Make it two, thanks.’ Tom leaned in to pay before I had a chance to wave my card in front of the contactless machine.
‘You don’t have to do that,’ I whispered at him.
‘But I do,’ he stressed. ‘You wore the last one, remember?’
I drew Tom to the side of the counter, past the cakes and out of everyone’s way as we waited for our drinks. While I turned my attention to the different tea and coffee blends for sale stacked in and on cubed shelves, Tom attended to his phone. I stole a quick look at him once, then twice. Each time, his frustration was clearly growing as the vibrating seemingly didn’t stop.
‘Someone’s popular,’ I commented.
‘I wish I wasn’t.’
‘Don’t say that too loudly.’ I collected our drinks, thanked Alfred, and followed Tom out the d
oor and into the street. I immediately regretted my decision to not tie my coat up as an icy chill whipped in and under the lapels. I pawned my cup off to Tom as I tied my coat and popped the collar. That was at least a little warmer.
‘Anyway, I want to know what inspired the travel writing.’
‘Okay.’ I sighed heavily. ‘In high school, I knew I wanted to be a writer. As I got older, that skewed more towards journalism. I wasn’t especially geared towards travel, just the journalism part of it. I was keen to hear how you described your love of theatre the other night. You know, the immediacy, because that’s part of what I love about writing. When I’d write essays, I’d always think of how bloody arduous they were. But, with a 500-word review or interview, everything was here and now. You got your words into print quickly, and I found that snappy turnaround really appealing.’
‘See, I knew you’d understand.’ Tom scratched at his jaw. ‘I was wondering how far I could go with that explanation, but I’m glad I just took a leap.’
‘It made perfect sense,’ I said. ‘Having said that, I do realise I poured my heart out to you about writing longer pieces the other night. I think I’m ready to take that leap.’
As if on autopilot, we’d found ourselves at a bus stop awaiting the next one that headed towards Hyde Park. We boarded the first bus that arrived and, like a regular Christmas miracle, found two empty seats towards the back.
I slid across the seat, pressing myself against the wall of the bus. Tom squeezed in beside me, and the forced contact was almost too much. It was all well and good to walk around and wax lyrical about life, as if either of us had a clue, but when his leg pressed against mine, I was sure I could feel the thickened seam of his jeans branding my leg. It was warm, familiar and so nice to feel him as a physical human being.
‘So, how did you find yourself at your particular paper?’ he asked, breaking a chain of thought that wasn’t going to lead me anywhere but into the gutter.
‘That was borne out of a trip to Spain, getting aggravated that every tour was cheaper twin-share, and then having to navigate a country on my own. I started keeping a social media blog that morphed into more of an advice column than anything. One night, I had to get crafty with my packing. My suitcase was underweight, but the items were oddly shaped.’
‘Hence the packing hack video.’
I snapped my fingers. ‘That was such an intense period. I went from only friends and family reading, to hundreds of thousands of people all looking at that one video. It ended up out of my control on different social media channels and the like. It caught the attention of the newspaper, and I was offered a job.’
‘Your newspaper stuff is nowhere near as funny as that period on your social media.’
I scoffed. ‘No, that wasn’t funny.’
‘Actually, it’s bloody hilarious. There was one entry that had me in stitches. Was it a bus tour through America?’
‘Oh God.’ I rolled my eyes and laughed. ‘That tour was a nightmare.’
While Tom pointed out Christmas trees in the street, ugly Christmas jumpers and random Santas waving bells on street corners, I told him about an autumn tour I’d taken through California’s wine region. It was right after university. Stupid me was hoping for something a little more relaxed than I got and spent two weeks on a bus listening to locals hollering over the top of each other and fighting over football teams and political persuasions. And that was all before any alcohol was poured. In hindsight, it was hilarious. At the time, it was awful; another trip best experienced with a friend.
‘I noticed you’re a rather quiet person.’
‘You did?’ I asked. ‘I don’t think of myself as quiet.’
‘Well, when I knocked you over, you just kind of sat there, stunned.’
‘That’s because I was stunned.’
‘I was almost expecting you to start shouting at me,’ he said, his cheeks flushing a bright pink. ‘I was so embarrassed. I just sat there for a moment thinking, “Oh shit, what now?”’
‘You must’ve done a good job to shut me up then.’
‘Maybe quiet isn’t the word then,’ Tom mused. ‘Maybe respectful. When everyone is busy trying to climb over the top of everyone else, you’re just happy to do your own thing and follow your own path.’
‘Wow.’ My eyes widened. ‘Thank you, I think? That’s a lovely thing to say.’
‘While we’re on the compliments, I love your photography,’ he said.
‘Oh.’ I sipped at my drink and hoped it hid my continued embarrassment. ‘Thank you.’
‘I especially love the portraits.’ Tom scrolled through my Instagram feed like the first flickerings of a cinema reel. ‘Who’s this?’
I leaned into his shoulder to look at the black and white photo of an older woman. ‘That is my grandmother.’
‘Really?’ He drew back slightly. Far enough to press his phone against my head to compare the shots. ‘Mum’s or Dad’s?’
‘Dad’s.’
‘Interesting.’ Tom sank back into his seat and was knocked in the head by a shopping bag as someone else exited the bus. We laughed as he rubbed at the sore spot. ‘The way you’ve captured her, I feel like she’s kind of telling a story. I mean, you look at the shape of her eyes. There’s a sadness there, but there’s also that glint of … hope? She looks like she’s seen a lot.’
‘She wasn’t well when I took that photo,’ I explained. ‘And selfishly, I wanted to take the photo in case she didn’t make it through.’
‘And did she?’
I nodded. ‘Oh yeah, she’s still kicking goals. But, I mean, the great thing was, it was just the two of us. We went out for lunch and spent the afternoon talking. She talked about her life and where she grew up and all the places she’d been to and seen. I took her to the park and shot that photo while she doled out some life advice.’
‘Oh, I love grandma advice.’
‘Right?’ I chuckled. ‘Grandma’s rules of life are to, and I quote, fuck the patriarchy.’
Tom laughed loudly. ‘Yes.’
‘Grab life by the throat and throttle it,’ I said. ‘Which sounds way more violent than it needs to. She also said I should do what makes me happy.’
‘Agreed. Five points to Grandma.’
‘And follow your heart which, I think, is kind of the same as the last point.’
‘Only if they don’t come into conflict, I guess.’ Tom put his phone back in his pocket. ‘My grandmother is very similar, you’d love her. I’m already looking forward to going home for Christmas. I’m scared I’ll be murdered if I don’t show up. I haven’t been back since Easter. I mean, it’s not that far away, is it? A few hours on the train, but it’s just … life gets busy.’
‘I understand that.’ I pivoted to face him, hanging my arm over the back of the bus seat. ‘Are you staying long?’
‘About a week, I think. Ten days, if I’m lucky. I’m going to enjoy sleeping in my old bed at home. Then there’s the toast that doesn’t taste right unless Mum makes it. And when I’m not catching up on sleep, it’ll be catching up with family and school friends and not thinking too much about work at all.’ Tom stood. ‘This is us.’
‘It is?’ I turned quickly and looked out the window of the bus. ‘Already?’
I felt a pang of disappointment. It would have been so easy to just sit in the bus and talk about each other’s families while we did laps of the city. Instead, I stepped off the bus and into Hyde Park. Ahead, Christmas lights in the shape of trumpeting angels heralded our arrival. I hoisted my backpack onto my shoulder and followed Tom across the road.
Chapter 11
‘Normally, I would suggest Winter Wonderland is best experienced after dark,’ Tom explained as we walked through the entry, a tall arch illustrated with cursive writing, a Santa Claus, wreaths and every other Christmas motif that would fit. ‘But, you know, it’ll probably be overrun by about five or six o’clock, so we can move on if it gets too much.’
It felt like Wi
nter Wonderland was what happened when the Royal Melbourne Show dropped acid and spent a sordid night with Candy Crush. Where the Southbank Winter Market had been subdued and relaxed, this was the best possible assault on the senses. With rollercoasters and carousels, pirate ships and candy floss machines, it was a cacophony of lights, colours, and sounds that evoked Willy Wonka’s psychedelic boat trip – and I couldn’t get enough.
‘Where do you want to begin?’ he asked.
‘I want … something different.’ I held a map out between us. ‘We’ve done the mulled wine and cider. What else is there for us to do?’
The tiny legend led us around to food, drinks, a circus and theatre. I wasn’t opposed to a stage show; it would at least be a great talking point. I wasn’t sure I wanted a market, I’d done enough browsing the other night at the Southbank. We’d also already eaten German desserts, so the Bavarian Hut was out, no matter how much it looked like a party at eleven o’clock in the morning.
‘Are rides your thing?’ Tom asked. ‘Do you want to go on the rollercoaster?’
‘No.’ I shook my head. ‘I don’t think I do.’
‘How about something Scandinavian?’ he asked, pointing somewhere north of us. ‘A tipi bar sounds like fun.’
‘Sold to the boy in the back row.’ I folded the map, tapped him on the chest with it, and tucked it away. ‘Let’s go.’
In all my travels, I’d never been to a bar inside a tipi before. Hell, I’d never been inside a tipi, full stop. Had I been writing that Christmas article for Edwin – which I wasn’t – this would have been near the top of my list of places to visit. There were twinkle lights entwined with ivy that ascended the fabric walls and poles to the apex of the tent. A Christmas tree stood watch over the bar and while Tom joined the queue for food and drink, I dropped my bag by the fire pit in the centre of the room and took a seat.
Watching him waiting in the queue, all rugged up and warm with his beanie and jacket, scrolling aimlessly through his phone and laughing at who knows what, I wondered what the next few days would bring.
I couldn’t shake the pangs of guilt at not telling him I was leaving sooner. It was stupid that I hadn’t, I knew that now. But, above that, I also felt a flurry of … well, it wasn’t love. No. It couldn’t be. What I knew was that it was a little stronger than like. Like is what you use to describe chocolate milk. This was the kind of admiration you save for your first coffee of the day. It was longing, mixed with adoration, and a sprinkling of relief.
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