One Week 'Til Christmas

by Belinda Missen

  ‘Don’t think that,’ Tom mumbled before turning his attention to Estelle. ‘Where do you work?’

  ‘I work at Check-1-2 Gallery,’ she said. ‘Just up in Knightsbridge.’

  ‘I know the one. I walk past it all the time.’

  ‘It’s really quite excellent,’ I added. ‘She’s currently organising a charity auction on Christmas Eve.’

  ‘Trying to,’ Estelle pointed out.

  ‘That’s brilliant.’ His gaze drifted between the two of us. ‘I’m going to assume that it’s obviously a lot of work?’

  ‘I’ve had better years.’ She nodded and stabbed at a piece of beef. ‘Isobel, you know I was telling you about Sarah Day?’

  ‘The woman who absconded? Sure.’ I looked up from my plate.

  ‘Turns out she never got a release signed by the subject of her portrait, so we would never have legally been allowed to sell it. Apparently, the subject thought the photo was going to be a boon for his bank account, she hadn’t explained it was a charity event, and that was that.’

  Tom screwed up his face. ‘They wanted a cut out of a charity auction? That’s awful.’

  ‘A little, yeah.’ Estelle nodded. ‘Naturally, the artist was embarrassed and instead of just fessing up and saying something, did a runner.’

  ‘What about the print?’ I asked.

  ‘She destroyed it.’ She shrugged. ‘She said that she didn’t want it laying about for someone to find and make money from later, especially if the subject was going to be so greedy.’

  ‘What happens now?’ Tom asked. ‘You just go in with a hole in the show, or do you make it up somewhere?’

  ‘Still trying to work that one out.’ Estelle held her glass to her mouth. Suddenly, her face lit up, her mouth formed a tiny ‘O’ and her eyes widened. ‘But what if you submitted a photo?’

  ‘Me?’ I said around a mouthful of food.

  ‘Yes, you,’ she said. ‘We were only talking the other morning about you submitting something to one of the exhibitions next year. What if we just skipped all that and you, say, submitted a photo of … Tom? I mean, what a way to launch the next step in your career?’

  I looked to Tom to try and gauge his reaction. He sat wide-eyed, fork dipping aimlessly through his food. Laughter roared on the television.

  ‘There’s a small studio at the back of the gallery. We use it for staff photos and whatever. You’re welcome to come in and use that,’ Estelle added quickly. ‘It’s not much, but I’m sure it’ll suit.’

  ‘I don’t want to answer for Isobel, but I’d be happy to be involved.’

  I hemmed and hawed over my decision for a moment. My initial response was no; if this went belly-up, the last thing I needed was people laughing at me. By the same token …

  ‘I was going to photograph you anyway.’ I looked at Tom. ‘For my blog.’

  ‘You could use that photo,’ he suggested. ‘Or take an entirely different one? I don’t mind. If it’s going to help, I’m happy to be involved.’

  ‘Is tomorrow good for you?’ Estelle was leaning forward in her seat like the starter gun was about to sound.

  ‘Ah.’ Tom looked to me for help. ‘Tomorrow you’re coming to watch a rehearsal, and I kind of had something planned for dinner. But the day after is free, I think?’

  ‘Definitely the day after tomorrow,’ I said. ‘I can do that.’

  I wasn’t sure, but I thought I saw Estelle crumple under the weight of relief. All week she’d run around with square shoulders and a twitching jaw and, now, her face twisted into an almost giddy smile.

  ‘You two are amazing.’ She leaped to her feet and collected our empty glasses. ‘I’m getting more wine to celebrate. Top up?’

  * * *

  ‘Thank you for tonight.’ Tom swept up from behind me and buried his nose in my hair.

  After that first awkward kiss in the lounge, we’d done it again and again. We’d snuck out into the kitchen with the excuse of getting more drinks or topping up a plate of nibbles, and we’d been at it like overly hormonal, under-sexed teenagers who’d be booted out of a library and told never to return. He was fresh air in an oxygen-starved room, and I could not get enough.

  I shied away from his ticklish fingers and took another sip of wine. ‘Whatever for? It was just a cheap takeaway and a few drinks.’

  ‘For exactly that.’ He plucked a plate from the rack and wrapped a towel around it. ‘The last, say, twelve months of my life have been bedlam. Even this week, when I haven’t been with you, I’ve jumped from here to there. I’ve been wined and dined. I’ve been to meetings where people have been sickly in their heaped praise and falsities. Even this morning at breakfast I was just kind of hoping it would be over so I could come and find you.’

  Watching him from the corner of my eye, I placed another plate in the rack.

  ‘I guess what I’m saying is that it’s been nice to just sit and watch television with zero pretence.’ He leaned in. ‘I mean, Estelle calls it as she sees it, right?’

  A tiny snort turned to quiet laughter. ‘You could say that, yes.’

  ‘And you, you just have this view of the world where you just get it.’

  ‘You do have other friends besides me, don’t you?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, yes, of course, and I’d love you to meet them. I’m just saying that you’ve been a wonderful anchor this week.’ He glugged down the last of his drink. ‘I know you think you’re not getting a lot right, but I think you are. You’re getting lots of things right.’

  We heard the last shuffles of Estelle as she headed to bed. I was sure she mumbled something, but it was lost between walls and floors and the mutable force of the duvet she would have pulled up over her head. I peered up at the roof above us and, eventually, she settled. I drew my eyes back to Tom.

  ‘Can I say something cheesy?’ He poured the last tipple of wine into his glass.

  ‘Depends on how cheesy we’re talking.’

  ‘Deep-fried parmesan-coated mozzarella sticks.’

  ‘That’s my level of cheese,’ I said. ‘Hit me with it.’

  ‘My Christmas wish list.’

  ‘Yes,’ I drawled.

  ‘Actually, no,’ he stopped himself. ‘I’ve just got last year’s wish, so no, I don’t think I want to jinx it.’

  ‘Oh, hell.’ I tossed the dishcloth over my shoulder and just about threw myself at him.

  ‘I didn’t say it was you.’ He smiled against my mouth.

  ‘Yes, you did.’

  ‘Okay, all right, I did,’ he said.

  I clutched at his hand and drew him upstairs, still kissing, still touching, and slipping groggily back down the occasional step. While I pulled my sweater over my head and tugged at my shirt buttons, he bounced, yanked at laces that wouldn’t come undone, wobbled, then fell against a chest of drawers.

  Exhausted, Tom slumped to the floor and giggled. ‘I can’t … I can’t do this tonight.’

  ‘Do what?’ I hung a hand over the edge of the bed and ran my fingers through his hair. It was the most amazing feeling, like cool water on a hot sandy beach.

  ‘I can’t have sex tonight. I’m done.’ He tipped his head back and peered at me. ‘Although I’d quite like to, so please don’t think it’s you.’

  ‘You don’t have to do anything tonight,’ I said with a laugh. ‘You don’t have to be Mr Action Man.’

  ‘But what if I want to be Mr Action Man?’ He pulled himself up on the edge of the bed and climbed over the top of me. ‘Hey? I could be. I could be strong and handsome. Shoot to kill. Yes, captain.’

  I laughed into the crook of my elbow. ‘You could, but I think we’ve both had too much to drink.’

  ‘A little.’ He pinched his finger and thumb together and fell onto the bed between me and the wall.

  ‘It’s enough.’ I drew my fingers through his curls.

  ‘I’m just going to go to sleep then.’ He fumbled awkwardly with the covers, like a cat trying to burrow into the warmest part
of the bed. I shuffled aside to let him in.

  ‘You do that.’

  Later that night, the sound of his light breathing filled the room and I knew right then, that I could never hear it enough.

  Chapter 17

  5 Days ’til Christmas

  The next morning, I woke up to find a Tom-shaped gap in the bed. I’d have made some quip about the sunlight slicing through the window, except it was overcast and grey and looked like the sky was about to fall. I fumbled around my side table for my phone and, when my brain finally kicked into gear and I remembered last night, sat bolt upright.

  He was gone, but my bed was still warm and I could still feel him against my lips, his foot stuffed between my ankles as we slept. I smiled, tossed the covers off and headed downstairs. Estelle was munching on some toast by the kitchen sink.

  ‘Good morning, Sleeping Beauty,’ she teased, offering me a slice of toast. ‘Sleep well?’

  ‘Is Tom around?’ I peered around the corner, towards the bathroom, and stuck my head into the lounge.

  ‘Now that’s a question for the ages.’ She beamed, pulling the milk from the refrigerator. ‘Are we talking about Tom the mystery man you’ve been running around with all week, or Tom Bracken, heartthrob and all-round good guy who races across my television screen shooting up bad guys?’

  ‘You’re really having fun with this, aren’t you?’

  ‘I caught him sneaking out when I got up for the loo. He thanked me for a lovely night, hoped to see me again soon, said he’d left a note on your bedside table, and that he would see you this morning at rehearsal.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, patting myself down. ‘I probably should get ready for that.’

  ‘I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.’ Coffee sloshed over the side of the mug as she pushed it across the table at me. For a moment, I could’ve sworn she was upset, but the slight twitch of her mouth told me otherwise. She was enjoying this just as much as I was.

  I wrinkled my nose. ‘It’s odd, isn’t it? I mean, it’s super fresh and if this were a normal relationship where we lived in the same city, we’d probably keep it quiet for a little while.’

  ‘That’s true.’ She slipped into the chair opposite me and propped her chin in the palms of her hands, elbows on the table. ‘I like him.’

  ‘Yeah.’ I sighed. ‘Me too.’

  ‘What’s he like in bed?’

  ‘Well, he doesn’t snore,’ I deadpanned. ‘Very comfy though.’

  Estelle laughed. ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  ‘I know what you mean, I’m just not going to answer that,’ I said. ‘It’s kind of private.’

  ‘Please don’t tell me he’s a dud.’ She sank back. ‘I’d be so disappointed.’

  ‘I’m not going to tell you anything,’ I said. ‘Because I haven’t slept with him.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What do you mean what?’ I asked. ‘You know I was a bit tipsy last night. By all accounts, so was he. He fell over trying to get his socks off.’

  ‘Damn, I thought that was him trying a power move.’

  I laughed into my hand. My face burned with embarrassment. ‘Hardly.’

  ‘Are you going to sleep with him?’

  ‘I go home in a few days, is that really wise?’

  ‘It’s not unwise,’ she said. ‘It just depends.’

  ‘On what?’ I asked.

  ‘On what you’re going to do at the end of this?’

  I studied what was left in my coffee cup. I had no answer for that. Not yet, anyway.

  * * *

  The last few days had left me more inspired than ever to get my website up and running. With nowhere to be until Tom’s rehearsal at two o’clock, I found my favourite seat at Alfred’s and began snowflaking ideas. Who did I want to interview? Why would I want to interview them? Notes began sprawling out to a blizzard as I tried, and failed, to narrow down some of the topics I was interested in. Did I really need to narrow things down to one or two hot topics? It was my site; I could tackle whatever the mood dictated.

  I turned my attention to the pros of getting everything up and running. The pros were obvious. I could kick my career up a notch, finally work for myself and write about the things that mattered. Basically, all the points Tom and Estelle had been pointing out to me all week. The most alluring of those items was the ability to work from anywhere in the world. Tom’s name was written in brackets next to that one.

  But I didn’t look at the cons. The list of things that could go wrong was as immeasurable as the stars in the sky and I didn’t want to get mired in all the things that had held me back. I was ready. This was going to happen by hook or by crook. All I needed was a website and a small outlay for a domain name and hosting.

  When I was done, or as done as I thought I could be, I drained the last of my eggnog, packed everything away and headed towards the Southbank.

  For a place I’d barely known existed a few days ago, the National Theatre was starting to feel like a home away from home. I’d have sent Edwin a thank you message if he wasn’t so likely to use it as clickbait on the paper’s website.

  A drama school class made a noisy entrance, positioning themselves a few rows before me. I didn’t mind being hidden in the shadows. That was another thing: putting myself out there with a spotlight, turning up and interviewing people when we all saw how badly that went with Tom. I sighed heavily and promised myself I’d stop beating myself up.

  It would be what it would be. Practice made perfect, and all it would take was a few interviews to iron out the kinks.

  To get my mind back in the game, I packed my notepad away and grabbed for my camera. My security guard friend, who I no longer called Dollar-Store Rock, but George, tapped me on the shoulder and waggled a finger; the universal sign for ‘no photos’.

  ‘Just one?’ I whispered my plea. ‘Please, just one?’

  ‘One.’ He pointed a finger. ‘And if I see you taking more, I’ll sell your camera on eBay.’

  Cast members begin to file out onto stage. I felt instantly guilty that I had no idea who anyone else was. Clearly, I’d given up doing homework on my holidays and was only here for Tom, who appeared towards the end of the group. He was in the world’s oldest looking pair of tracksuit pants, the kind that saw more lazy Sunday mornings than track events, a comfy crumpled T-shirt, and a pair of socks. Today, shoes were optional.

  There was a murmur in front of me, people questioning the lack of shoes, but I recognised that automatically as him enjoying the feel of the tread below his feet. This theatre may have been more modern than some of the older ones he’d performed in, but there was still that connection to the ground, to the boards springing him forward to the audience. And spring forth he did.

  After a brief introduction, the read-through began. It was gentle, tempered, calm. Tom slipped from his stool and began walking around the stage, the physicality of the role taking over. My breath caught and held as I watched him transform into a man completely unknown to me. From softly spoken and gentle to loud and angry, tearfully begging his stage wife for a second chance.

  Thank God I wasn’t the only person in the room, otherwise I might have flung myself at the stage and offered to give him anything he wanted just to stop the crying. How the hell did he do that? Like the flick of a switch, one moment he was jovial, the next close to maniacal. When the scene was over, he returned to the same calm man I knew and adored.

  That moment, that feeling, hit me harder than I thought it ever would and, when everyone disappeared backstage for a drink break, I made a charge for the loos. My phone had been rattling around in my pocket for the last twenty minutes. Answering it would give me something else to focus on. I locked myself in the very last stall and braced for impact.

  Thankfully, it wasn’t Edwin. The fact I hadn’t heard from him since our phone call told me, I hoped, that he had accepted my answer. No meant no. Instead, it was Miriam, fresh off the plane in Melbourne.

  ‘Finally!’ she sq
ueaked down the line as she answered. ‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you for hours. What are you doing?’

  I cast a glance to the roof tiles and waited for the blow of the hand dryer to stop. ‘I’m just at the theatre.’

  ‘You?’ She laughed. ‘What are you doing there?’

  ‘I was invited to watch a rehearsal,’ I said.

  ‘Oh,’ she stopped short. ‘Well, that’s good I suppose.’

  ‘How about you? What are you doing?’ I asked.

  ‘We’ve just got home to Mum and Dad’s. The girls are crabby and fighting, and Jack has fallen asleep on the couch before we’ve taken the luggage out of the car,’ she said, her tone a mixture of exhausted and wild. For the record, I didn’t blame her. ‘Anyway, I just wanted to check and see how you’re doing, make sure you’re all still locked and loaded and ready to fly home.’

  I pulled the phone from my ear and frowned into the display. ‘Sorry, what? Why would you ask that? You know that I’m flying home. Hell, I’ve sent you a photo of my booking confirmation.’

  ‘We’re all looking forward to seeing you,’ she said. ‘The girls especially. It’s been three years, after all.’

  ‘I know how long it’s been,’ I said. ‘Mir, what’s going on?’

  ‘You are coming home, right?

  I sighed. ‘Of course I am.’

  ‘It’s just that, after we spoke the other day and you mentioned meeting someone, one of our cousins might have spotted you on Instagram. I mean, it’s a bit blurry, but it does kind of look like you. Anyone would be forgiven for thinking you look like someone who’s not coming home.’

  ‘What?’ I shrieked. ‘What is someone who’s coming home meant to look like?’

  ‘Well, for starters, she wouldn’t be taking up with some guy from the telly, would she?’

  I let out a long, low groan and fell back in the seat. ‘I cannot believe this.’

  ‘I can,’ she said. ‘It’s just like you to do something like this.’

  My mouth dried up and my tongue felt like it had swollen to twice its size. ‘Honestly, I don’t know where this is coming from. I said I’m coming home, so I’m coming home. Why don’t you believe me?’