One Week 'Til Christmas

by Belinda Missen

So, this was what it felt like to have a spotlight on you. As Tom squeezed between people and past their luggage, heads turned in astonishment. Yes, it was him. He grinned at a small girl who waved like a lucky cat, and high-fived a boy who began shrieking to his flustered parents about Lieutenant Towers. As for me, it felt like this was all happening in slow motion. I could hear each crunch of footstep and shuffle of fabric as he shouldered his way towards me.

  With a nudge in the side, I stood a bit taller, bags dangling and rolling, and my scarf twisted under and around my armpit. Like a spaghetti western, Tom took a lanky step forward. I breathed deeply and wondered if I wasn’t just Dorothy, and Estelle’s place hadn’t floated away in the wind last night.

  For someone who’d spent the last twenty-four hours trying to work out what she wanted to say to him, I’d become suddenly mute. I opened my mouth, but no sounds came out.

  ‘Look at you with your back to the wall,’ he said. ‘That’s so typical of you.’

  ‘It is?’

  He shrugged; the right side of his mouth rose. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Why are you here?’ I asked, swallowing over and over to try and get some moisture into my mouth.

  ‘Please, will you stay?’ he asked, loud enough for the entire carriage to hear him.

  I blinked rapidly. ‘Will I what?’

  ‘I want you to stay. Here. With me,’ he said, this time more forceful.

  I frowned. ‘Just like that?’

  If I were broken up into equal parts, I’d be six parts relieved, three parts confused, and one part searing anger. I had offered him an explanation that he had rejected. It was as simple as my saying I wasn’t writing anything, but he wouldn’t listen. I’d tried calling, but he wouldn’t answer. I’d messaged, but he hadn’t read anything. I’d been met with nothing but silence. So, to think he could simply show up on the Tube and do this, well, I was confused.

  Tom looked around nervously, waving to someone behind him. ‘Yes, just like that.’

  ‘I’ve been trying to call you all morning,’ I said. ‘And last night, but you refused to answer.’

  Even with the crowd of people, some of whom were moving forward to watch the spectacle, I felt my throat close and my words wobble around like a drunk on a trampoline. Phones began popping up like lighters at a 1980s fever-dream Bryan Adams concert. If they all began swaying slowly, I’d know I was in trouble.

  ‘I know, and I’m sorry.’

  ‘Why didn’t you answer?’ I swallowed. ‘All I wanted was to do was talk to you. I didn’t write anything. I was never going to write anything.’ I licked a salty tear from my top lip. ‘I told him I wouldn’t do it the first time he asked.’

  ‘I know.’ Tom clasped his hands in front of him. ‘I spent yesterday racing about in circles. When you left I just … I felt awful. Everything felt wrong. And you were right, you were so right. That message went against everything I’d seen this week, against everything we’d talked about, everything I’d come to know about you, but it was just so hard to get past what had happened in the past.’

  ‘You couldn’t just listen to me? I tried to tell you,’ I said. ‘If you know me so well, why couldn’t you just listen to me? I was never here to hurt you.’

  ‘I spoke to your boss this morning.’

  ‘Edwin?’ I asked. ‘Really?’

  ‘Well, I didn’t so much speak to him. I was maybe a bit shouty.’

  The idea of Edwin being berated by Tom made me burble with laughter. I was sure that’s what I looked like anyway, with a face full of tears and snot. Again, he could have just asked me. You know, the person at the centre of it all. I was too exhausted to be angry though.

  ‘He would’ve loved that.’ I sniffed and wiped at my eyes with a tatty sleeve.

  ‘Can’t say he did, actually,’ Tom said. ‘But listen, the thing is, I made a mistake. I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you. I’m sorry I didn’t let you explain, and I’m sorry I said those things. None of them came from a place of truth.’

  ‘It hurt.’ My chest pinched. ‘I didn’t do anything wrong.’

  ‘Isobel, I know that this is fast, but I want to get to know you. And I mean really know you. Not just the types of things I learned this week, but I want to know you in that way you think you can’t ever know anyone. I want to finish sentences for you. I want to know what you’re thinking before you’ve even thought it. I want to fill the shopping list without asking, and I want you to shout at me for getting make-up on the towels.’

  In the real world, that last sentiment would have felt out of place in most instances. Not here, not living with someone who’d wear more make-up than I’d know what to do with on a daily basis.

  I laughed. ‘I wear make-up too, you realise.’

  ‘Yes, but you don’t need it. And I promise it’s nowhere near as much as me. I will out-moisturise your moisturiser, out-shade your eyeshadow and, well, let’s not get onto the lip balm.’ Tom smiled, rustling around in the bag that hung limply from his wrist. ‘Look, I’ve bought some sweets and sours. You still have your article to write, right? It’s not online yet. I checked. We can do this and make this okay, we can just get off the Tube at the next stop, and—’

  ‘I can’t stay.’ A lump in my throat threatened to strangle me. ‘You know I can’t.’

  Tom’s shoulders slipped, as did the hopeful smile he’d otherwise been wearing. ‘But you have your own Alfred, so you’re basically Batman. You can do whatever you want.’

  My chin wobbled at the thought of my friend behind the counter of his coffee shop. Why? I had no idea. I was just an overly emotional potato this morning.

  I shook my head. ‘I have responsibilities. People are expecting me. Is yesterday really such a great springboard for us? All I needed was for you to believe me, and you didn’t. I thought I’d proven myself.’ I stepped forward and kissed him on the cheek. ‘All the best to you, Tom. Thank you for an amazing week.’

  My legs wobbled like jelly as I took my first tentative steps away. The only option I had right now was changing carriages, but I could at least try. One woman had her handkerchief out and was dabbing at her eyes before I’d made it anywhere near the platform of the next station.

  ‘And what if I came with you?’

  I turned slowly. ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve still got a few weeks off for Christmas. Let me come with you. We can spend that time getting to know each other a bit better. At the end of it all, we can work out what happens.’

  ‘You’d come with me?’ I squeaked.

  He dug about in his coat, producing a passport. ‘I would.’

  ‘I can’t … no, I can’t ask you to do that.’

  ‘You’re not asking, I’m volunteering.’

  My vision blurred all over again. ‘And if it doesn’t work?’

  ‘Then at least we can say we tried, right?’ He took a tentative step towards me. ‘What do you say?’

  With a captive audience of silent onlookers, I smiled and nodded and rubbed at overtired eyes. Then I stepped forward to meet him. Of course I did. Because, as I threw my arms around his neck and kissed him, I knew that of all the places I’d see and all the people I’d met, he was by far my favourite.

  He was home.

  Epilogue

  Tom flinched against me at the first sound of my phone’s alarm clock. I reached up behind my bed and pulled the blinds shut. Our plane landed just after midnight so, technically, on Christmas Day. Our trip home had been busy. The first leg had me polishing my blog post about Tom. My website went live thanks to the help of Dubai’s Wi-Fi network, and Tom tore through his pile of scripts with a pile of highlighters and a pen. When we landed in Melbourne, it was an hour wait for the airport bus to the city and a dingy taxi the final few blocks of our trip. Now, as Tom grumbled and rolled away, I reached across to silence my phone.

  ‘I could sleep for an age,’ he mumbled into the pillow.

  ‘We can be a little late.’ I curled an arm over his side, pulled my knees u
p behind his, and got comfortable again. ‘You know, two or three minutes.’

  ‘How’d I know you’d add something like that?’ The bed jiggled with his laughter as he reached over for a bag that had been dropped hastily by the bed in a rush to get to bed. ‘Merry Christmas, Isobel.’

  He handed me a tiny package, no bigger than the palm of my hand. It was solid but rattled a little with a shake. I picked at the Sellotape, careful not to damage anything, unravelled the ribbon, and pulled back the sky-blue tissue paper it had been wrapped in.

  ‘Oh!’ I laughed with delight. ‘A little nutcracker on a red bus!’

  ‘I hoped you’d get a kick out of that.’

  ‘You know I’ll never be able to catch another one again without thinking about you, don’t you?’ I grinned, rolling in to kiss him.

  ‘That was the plan.’

  ‘Okay, my turn.’ I climbed out of bed, stretching out under the breeze of the ceiling fan. My suitcase was where it had been abandoned by the counter in the kitchenette.

  ‘Why have you got a neon-green suitcase?’ Tom asked.

  I glanced at him over my shoulder as I unzipped the case and fished about for his gift. ‘Helloooo, how easy was it for you to find it on the conveyor belt?’

  ‘That’s fair.’

  I crawled across the top of the bed, waving his gift like a trophy. The parcel, which I’d wrapped in half a roll of tape and few rounds of curling ribbon, was almost completely flat, but Tom still shook it by his ear.

  ‘There’s no rattle,’ he said.

  ‘Only in my brain,’ I quipped.

  I watched him watch me as he drew a finger under corners and lifted the paper. These were the moments I loved about gift-giving, the curiosity, the trepidation about what it could be, and then the lit-up eyes and wild smile as he pulled out an old theatre program.

  Tom gasped. ‘Are you kidding me?’

  ‘Cool, huh?’

  In a moment of boredom and wild procrastination, I’d typed Tom’s name into eBay a few nights earlier. My search had turned up a theatre program from his first role. I bought it with express delivery, and it arrived just in time for me to catch the plane home with it in my possession.

  ‘This is phenomenal.’ Tom flipped through it quickly. ‘We had one, my mum did anyway. It disappeared about five years ago. I love it. Thank you so much.’

  Overhead, the fan whirred and the small air-conditioner in the corner groaned under the weight of the warming morning. I snuggled down against Tom and his sticky summer skin, and hoped to drift away. Then my phone started vibrating against the bedside table. We listened to it once, twice and, on the third time, I rolled away again, fumbling about through half-closed eyes.

  ‘‘Ello?’ I mumbled.

  ‘Isobel!’ Estelle squeaked. ‘Good morning! How are you? Merry Christmas and all that.’

  Picking sleep from my eyes, I glanced over Tom’s side of the bed for the alarm clock. It had always been on the wrong side of the bed, if only to force me to move each morning. I guess, now, it was no longer a vacant plot.

  ‘It’s seven in the morning.’ I reached down and threaded my fingers through Tom’s as he slipped an arm around my middle. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Your portrait of Tom is what’s up.’ She sounded almost delirious. ‘Where is he, by the way? Do you know? I’m going to have to call him when I’m done with you.’

  I chewed my bottom lip and smiled completely self-satisfactorily. ‘He’s here.’

  ‘What?’ She laughed. ‘Come on, be serious. His phone is switched off.’

  ‘I am serious.’ I said. ‘We may have had a romantic rendezvous on a train, and he decided to fly to Melbourne with me.’

  ‘Hello, Estelle!’ Tom called.

  ‘I’m going to need a paper bag.’ I heard her breath shake. ‘Are you serious? I love that so much.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ I asked. Nerves were already tickling my stomach, and I considered getting up and walking around the room just to temper them. ‘Estelle?’

  ‘Right, so, are you ready?’ she asked. ‘Maybe you might want to sit down.’

  ‘We’re still in bed, so technically sitting,’ I said. ‘Lying.’

  Beside me, Tom flopped down onto his back and flipped through his program. ‘Is she okay?’

  Estelle took a deep breath. ‘All right. Originally, we thought the Mick Jagger portrait would be the one that went crazy. In the end, Tom’s shot out in front of everyone like a thoroughbred champion. It was a huge surprise to everyone during cocktail hour before the auction and that alone created a heap of buzz.’

  ‘And?’ I asked. ‘Did it sell?’

  ‘Sell?’ She laughed loudly. ‘After some very voracious bidding, it sold for £200,000.’

  ‘What?’ Tom and I said in unison, looking at each other, wide-eyed and suddenly very awake. That couldn’t be right. ‘You mean £200, surely?’

  ‘Absolutely not. There was a flurry of activity. We’ve just closed for the night, signed the bills of sale, it’s all done. Also, don’t be surprised if your phone runs off the hook. It was the star attraction. Tom is a very popular man at the moment.’

  ‘Are you serious? That much?’ I scratched at my neck and could feel my pulse racing just below the skin’s surface.

  ‘You should’ve heard the comments,’ Estelle continued, pausing briefly for the chatter in the background. ‘It was amazing. I am so, so proud of you. And of course, I talked you up and handed your phone number out to absolutely everyone who looked at me the wrong way. I think you might be busy with your website for a little while. You know, if you’ve still quit your newspaper post.’

  ‘Yeah, I don’t think there’s any going back from that,’ I said quietly. ‘You’re not actually kidding, are you?’

  ‘Pinky swear,’ she said. ‘Have a champagne breakfast for me, will you? We’re about to head to another bar to party. Record donation night tonight! I just wanted to let you know, and to thank you, and you are amazing. Please say hello to Tom for me. I can’t believe he’s there with you!’

  Before I had a chance to answer, the dial tone sounded in my ear. I turned to Tom, who was stretched out across the bed, the barest of sheets protecting what was left of his modesty.

  ‘You’re famous,’ he teased.

  ‘I am not.’

  He laughed, low and rumbling. ‘You so are.’

  I looked at the long list of missed calls on my phone – not all of them from Estelle and not all of them from UK numbers. My inbox was no different, all the introductions were variations of ‘I know we’ve never met, but …’. For a laugh, I checked the hit counter on my website, and watched as it and the comments section ticked over slowly. I didn’t know where to begin.

  It was dizzying to think that this was my life now. I’d gone to bed as an unemployed journalist who was preparing to trawl job adverts and write copy for anyone who’d take me. This morning, a global photographer? I’d always heard of that one photo that sent someone’s career through the stratosphere, but for it to happen to me … well, it didn’t seem right.

  Tom reached out to pull me back down into the bed and watched as I scrolled through the numbers. ‘Some of them may be my fault. I called in some favours for you before I chased you down on the train.’

  ‘You what?’ I wriggled to face him. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘I’m so serious.’ He pressed a kiss into my forehead. ‘And so proud of you.’

  ‘This is all your fault.’ I kept one eye on my phone as he made a ticklish path down my nose and to my mouth.

  ‘Nope,’ he said, rolling me under him. ‘What time do we have to leave? I can be quick.’

  ‘I don’t want you to be quick.’

  * * *

  I stopped peeling a potato long enough to look out into the backyard of my parents’ home, past all the overgrown plants and shade umbrellas, over the heads of all the relatives, the sizzling barbecue, and jugs of cold drink spread about tables. When my gaze landed on T
om, that’s when I stopped searching.

  Even if we were an hour late, sneaking in with him in tow had been near on impossible. Heads turned, conversations were reduced to hushed tones, and the questions began before I’d made it halfway across the yard or had the chance to introduce Tom to my parents. That’s where he was now, ensconced with my family and answering rapid-fire questions.

  While Mum was busy pressing Tom for answers, I’d been put to work in the kitchen, prepping vegetables and making sure lunch was cooking properly. Even if it was thirty-seven degrees and the sweat was dripping off me in the humid kitchen. But, compared to my morning, all of that paled in comparison.

  Surrounded by family and friends, Tom had become the gift that kept on giving. He was shiny and new, the most beautiful bauble on the family tree, and he was a little bit famous to boot. Dressed down in a billowing linen shirt and shorts, Wayfarers on, and someone’s wide-brimmed hat pressed onto his head, he laughed and joked, and stayed centre-stage like meeting a new family was something he did every day.

  The slide of the side door caught my attention. Miriam appeared clutching empty plates and collecting some glasses as she shuffled her way towards the kitchen sink. I rearranged potato halves in the roasting tray and watched her from the corner of the eye. The glasses landed on the counter with a heavy thud.

  Silence stretched out like the cheese on the platter that had melted in the sun.

  ‘He’s really lovely,’ she ventured cautiously. ‘We’ve been watching his show at home, you know. It’s very good. He’s incredibly talented.’

  ‘I haven’t seen it yet.’ I reached for the last potato, rinsing it under the faucet.

  ‘And he won’t stop talking about how amazing you are.’

  ‘I really like him.’ I felt my throat tighten. ‘A lot.’

  ‘I can tell.’ She rubbed my arm. ‘You get this look about you, like someone has just tossed the winning lotto ticket in your lap. Considering how bloody sardonic and deadpan you are most of the time, it becomes really noticeable when all he has to do is orbit somewhere in your direction and you light up like a Griswold Christmas. Christ, I threaten to disown you, and all you can manage is “RIP me”.’