Читать книгу One Week ’Til Christmas - Belinda Missen - Страница 12

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.

‘So, Isobel, you mentioned today that you’re a travel writer?’

‘Usually,’ I said. ‘Today was just a lucky coincidence.’

‘Does that mean you get paid to travel around the world?’ he asked. ‘Because I would not say no to that.’

‘Not quite.’ I dodged a buggy that careened its way between us and pushed away a balloon that blew back and bopped me on the cheek. ‘Ninety per cent of the time, it means I hang around art galleries, cafes, and local festivals. I try out new tour buses with the over-sixties and health retreats with people who have more dollars than sense. So, not the worst job in the world, but it’s not always the glitz and glam of the Olivier Theatre, either. It’s mostly waiting in the queue at Burger King for cheap coffee.’

‘Glitz and glam?’ he guffawed. ‘You should see that place after rehearsal. There is zero glam there. There’s more sweat than a sauna in summer, and not a lot of fancy.’

‘Most of my articles are written in pyjamas while I snack on a bag of jelly snakes and bemoan the fact I’m out of wine and too lazy to walk the block and a half necessary to procure another bottle,’ I added. ‘I’m surprised I don’t own seven cats and have bird’s-nest hair.’

‘Oh, but I hear bird’s-nest hair is all the rage right now.’ Tom frowned and pushed out his lips. ‘I’m sure you would rock that look.’

‘Marginally,’ I said. ‘Although I’m disappointed your job is hardly the glittering beacon everyone’s presented with.’

‘I wish it was,’ Tom said. ‘I really do. Half of it is simply trying to remember lines. That’s honestly the worst and hardest part. The rest is a jumble sale of make-up chairs, weird poses, and the nightmarish echo of a clapboard. I swear I’ve woken up from nightmares that have ended with someone screaming “Action!” at me.’

‘And shitty journalists who lie about your love life, right?’ I nudged him with my elbow. Static electricity jumped up and bit me like a rabid cat.

‘You heard that?’ Tom drew to a shocked stop.

‘I think everybody heard that,’ I said. ‘At least everyone within a mile radius of King’s Road.’

‘I wasn’t that loud.’ He dropped his head into his hands with an embarrassed laugh. ‘You didn’t even wait, what, ten minutes to bring it up.’

I drew my sleeve back. ‘Seven minutes, thirty-seven seconds.’

‘Well done.’ He gave me his best faux-serious face.

‘Seriously, though, did you sort it out?’ I asked. ‘Because it sounded horrid.’

Tom shrugged. ‘Who knows? I tweeted; it ran its course. It’s all just tomorrow’s chip-shop wrapping, isn’t it?’

‘Very philosophical,’ I said. ‘And probably not wrong.’

We fell in step with the crowd, and each other, a slow meandering wander taking us towards dozens of tiny stalls, each of them fashioned like log cabins, their eaves draped in pinecones, fir fronds, warm yellow twinkle lights, and wooden snowflakes dangling in windows. It felt homely and inviting, like knocking on the front door of your best friend’s home to enjoy a warm night of fun and laughter.

‘So, speaking of parmesan cheese …’ Tom stopped about halfway along the thoroughfare, a boulder in a raging river of people. ‘What I normally do here is walk all the way to the end and then double back before making my dinner choice. But if it’s parmesan you’re after, laced with a bit of pasta, we can go straight to the Pasta Wheel.’

‘I don’t know what that is, but it sounds delicious,’ I said. My mouth was already watering at the idea of parmesan cheese. And pasta. All the carbs and fat.

‘Shall we?’ he asked.

‘Please.’ I gestured ahead of us. ‘Lead the way.’

We might have decided on dinner there and then, but we still spent another hour browsing quietly before we did anything about it. Wines were refilled as we passed drink carts, and we marvelled at the charm of the micro-village vibe, complete with the occasional trinket stall. Tom navigated like someone who’d memorised the floor map before arriving, dodging crowds, fire pits and buggies in the process.

We arrived at the Pasta Wheel to a small queue and the biggest wheel of cheese I’d ever seen. In fact, the last time I’d seen a wheel that big, I’d had a flat tyre in the middle of the freeway and had to wait for roadside assist to come and scuttle me out of the way of traffic.

I watched on in glee as a chef tossed steaming fettuccini into the hollowed centre of the wheel of cheese, stirring it until the edges melted and it looked like one great big mess of dairy and cholesterol. It was topped with fresh goat’s cheese, cooked sausage and chives – and then handed over the counter to me. Delicious!

With plates piled high with pasta so cheesy we’d kill the lactose-intolerant, we made our way to the nearest dining hall. A tent full of heaters, ambient lighting, and a loop track of carols that played a tad too loud. Tom led the way to a back corner and an empty pair of seats.

‘Okay, now, Isobel.’ He threw a leg over the bench seat and wriggled about to get comfortable, fork and napkin placed carefully to the side, dinner container opened for the obligatory oh-God-let-me-eat-it sniff.

‘Hmm?’ I dumped everything in a pile, fork tinkling down on the table and dangling precariously in a gap between two slats.

‘Given you’ve had the opportunity to interview me today, is this the part where I interview you?’

‘Oooh.’ I frowned. ‘No, I need to apologise for today.’

‘Apologise?’ Tom frowned. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘My interview. It was awful.’ I stuffed the first bit of food in my mouth. It was so much better than I could have imagined.

‘It wasn’t awful, I promise you. I’ve had worse,’ he said, shaking his head and prodding at his dinner.

‘It’s just … I should have been more prepared.’

‘Really? Because the impression I got was that your boss hung you out to dry. Last-minute invite and all that,’ Tom reasoned.

I sat back and thought for a moment. It was a little from column A, and a little from column B. ‘Maybe, but I said to him last year that I wanted to do more interviews, wanted to get my experience up. Purely selfish reasons though.’

‘What reasons are they?’ he asked.

‘Honestly? I want to move away from travel writing and on to something else, something I have more control over.’

‘You don’t like the travel?’ he asked.

My eyes popped. ‘Don’t like it? I love it. I have seen so much of this world, but I want more from this job. I want to write things that matter. I want to interview people on deeper topics. I want to be in control of when I’m away.’

‘Now you’re hitting on a sore point.’ Tom’s fork dangled in the air in agreement. ‘The uncertainty of time away.’

‘You know what I mean?’ I asked. ‘What am I talking about? Of course you would.’

‘Absolutely.’ He nodded. ‘I miss so many family events because I’m away on set. People have this idea that I have this astounding jetsetting life. I mean, for the most part, it is. It’s the best. Like you, I see all these great places, and I have my dream job, but there’s the built-in guilt at not being there for things. I get the phone calls asking if I’ll come to birthdays, weddings, even funerals, and sometimes I just can’t.’

‘See?’ I held my hands out. ‘You get it.’

‘I promise you, I do.’

‘See, I figure that if I can create my own blog that’s, I don’t know, part travel, part feature articles, maybe I can create something with a bit more clout, something that’s a bit more in line with me and who I am. I can write about more than the temperature of the water in the hot springs, or—’

‘—what’s your favourite cheese?’ Tom broke in.

‘Please don’t tell me someone asked you that?’ I cringed, embarrassed that someone could ask something so arbitrary.

‘The reporter after you,’ Tom nodded. ‘Apparently, they thought it would be a great idea to open up their Twitter feed for questions.’

I buried my face in my hands. ‘I am so sorry.’

‘Pfft. Don’t be. Just don’t be so hard on yourself.’ He stirred his dinner. ‘Just know that, when you interview me for your blog, you can ask me way better questions.’

‘Interview you for … wait, are you saying you would do that?’

‘Absolutely, I would,’ he nodded. ‘You know, if I told anyone else this, they would tell me to shut up and be grateful. In fact, I had that conversation with a friend recently. I bemoaned wanting to see a band play in town, but I was going to miss them because I was away, and I got the old—’

‘—I don’t know why you’re so ungrateful,’ I mocked my sister. ‘You just got back from Disneyland.’

‘And I am grateful. I’m so humbled by everything I have right now. My life is amazing, but there is more to me than photoshoots with puppies, fan fiction, favourite cheeses, and asking me whether I would date a fan.’

I screwed my face up. ‘I cringe because I would have eaten that stuff up at fourteen.’

‘I know,’ he chuckled. ‘And I get it, but …’

‘But there’s more to Tom?’ I asked.

‘Yes. So, let’s do this. You want to launch your site and do this interview over again? Let’s do it.’

I bumbled around a bit. ‘I mean, we could.’

‘Don’t back out on me now,’ he said. ‘What else have you got planned this week? Let’s set a time. We’ll make it way better than this afternoon’s effort.’

‘Plans for this week?’ I raised my cup. ‘I am going to stuff myself with mulled wine—’

Tom nodded in the direction of my cup. ‘Good start.’

‘—and eat all the Christmas food, and just generally be Christmassy. It’s the first chance I’ve had to spend time in London over Christmas, so I’m feeling especially festive with bells on! I need to go ice skating and get my photo taken with Santa.’

‘Hold up.’ Tom poked the air with his fork. ‘Your first Christmas in London?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘And where, pray tell, do you usually spend your Christmases?’

‘Usually?’ I looked up from my dinner. ‘Melbourne.’

‘I love Melbourne,’ Tom gushed. ‘I was there, oh, about six months ago. It was only for three weeks, filming this godawful straight to DVD film, but I loved every minute of my time there.’

‘Excuse me?’ I feigned my disgust. ‘You were in Melbourne and didn’t call? Tom, how very dare you. If it’s not bad enough that you body slammed me into a gutter, you don’t call the next day? What are you?’

‘I am but an awful man, a husk of a gentleman,’ he teased with a laugh.

‘Tell me all about Melbourne,’ I said. ‘I want to hear your version.’

Wherever I travelled, I adored talking to people who’d been tourists in Melbourne. Because I lived there, I often felt that the city had lost some of its wonder in the rush of everyday life. As much as I tried to see the city through a tourist’s eyes, I’d been there, done it, seen it a million times. Sometimes, that caused some of the finer, more beautiful details to fade into obscurity. So it was refreshing to hear about our restaurants and zoos, shopping strips and tourist traps from people who’d only ever had fleeting visits.

We pulled out phones and compared photos of places we’d both been, talked about Tom’s newfound love of all things Lygon Street and the three P’s found along the famous dining strip: pizza, pasta, and patisserie. He’d been to the Eureka Skydeck, comparable to The Shard for its sheer height and scale, and he’d loved that the trams reminded him of his hometown, Sheffield.

I’d been to Sheffield twice; both times different, but equally brilliant. The first time was a stopping point between London and Edinburgh, somewhere to park the hire car for the night and stretch my legs. I wandered around Sheaf Square, up through the middle of the city, and used the tram system to find my way back to my B&B booking by the River Loxley. The second time I’d been, I’d spent my time covering local industrial museums before heading to Chatsworth House for a Pride and Prejudice festival.

‘You know, you didn’t call me either when you were in Sheff,’ Tom played, patting his napkin against his eyes far too dramatically for anyone to believe. ‘If I die tonight, Isobel, it’s from heartbreak. It’s on your head.’

‘You poor love,’ I chortled. ‘Next time, you can be my personal guide.’

‘Football and beer at The Howard it is, then.’

I snorted, hand clapped over my mouth to stop food and laughter spilling across the table. I was delighted to see Tom’s eyes crinkle as he peered up at me from under thick eyelashes. Something in me fluttered.

‘Speaking of all things food and drink, that was ah-mazing.’ I blotted my mouth with my napkin. ‘Piggish me would totally go back and get another plate.’

‘Feel free.’ Tom nodded in the direction. ‘I’ll wait.’

‘But then there’d be no room for dessert, would there?’

‘Amateur. There’s always room for dessert.’

‘In that case, do I get to pick?’ I asked.

‘Absolutely not.’ Tom slapped the palms of his hands against the bench. ‘Of course you can, what did you have in mind?’

Shouldering my backpack, I gathered our rubbish and wedged myself between tables full of people and loud chatter. A quick check of my phone revealed we’d been sat under the oversized tent for hours, though it had felt like the blink of an eye. That explained why the last of my dinner was delicious, but cold. Slipping my phone back into my pocket, I found Tom catching up, looking as though he’d been stopped in the crowd for a quick hello.

‘I saw this gorgeous little German bake stand, up towards the far end of the market,’ I said as we stepped back into the flow of people. ‘I thought we might check it out?’

He nodded. ‘Sounds great.’

The market was quieter than it had been earlier, but what I loved about these evening markets, even ones at home, was that they brought locals out in their droves. It added vibrancy to a city that may otherwise be sleeping, though I suspected London never did. The bakery stall was thriving as the perfect end of evening dessert stand.

‘Okay, what’s the order?’ Tom looked to me.

‘I’d love a bag of pfeffernüsse.’ I smiled.

‘Who’s a goose?’

‘You’re a goose.’ I pinched at his jacket, urging him forward in the queue.

‘All right, but if you’re going to get biscuits, you have to get some butter grog as well,’ he said, pointing to a mug that had just been handed over the counter.

‘Butter grog?’ I looked at him, confused. ‘That sounds like a Harry Potter character.’

‘I promise it’s not.’ Tom offered up a twenty-pound note. ‘I may die of a heart attack with the amount I’m about to consume, but it’ll be worth it. Make it two doubles, chuck them in milkshake cups if you have to. It’s amazing. Please and thank you.’

As I took my first uncertain sip, I watched him watch me and, for a moment, I decided that I enjoyed the way he looked at me. There was a certain softness I hadn’t seen in a long time. I would’ve taken more if I could.

‘What do you think?’ he asked. ‘Of the drink?’

The fruity undertones of cider, lashings of butter, the acid of lemon and orange, coupled with the back of the throat bite of ginger and rum. I might have found my favourite drinks night tipple. ‘Can we go back and get a vat of this?’

‘I’m going to have to learn to make it, I think,’ he said. ‘It can be my new party trick.’

Without even thinking, discussing, agreeing, or disagreeing, we’d found ourselves wandering out of the market. We walked along the Thames towards the London Eye, which was illuminated a deep red colour and rotating slowly.

Armed with my bag of biscuits and nothing more than the courage of too many mulled wines, I drew Tom into a quiet corner by the Thames, the lights of Westminster burning in the background. I gave him my phone and stood back against the river barrier.

‘Please, can you take a photo? I need to Instagram this.’

‘You do?’ he asked.

‘Travel writer?’ I jangled the bag about and posed, drink in one hand, bag of biscuits in the other – labels facing forward, thank you – as he took one, two, three photos.

‘Are they okay?’ He hovered while I checked the results. ‘Do you want me to take them again?’

‘They’re perfect, thank you.’ I flicked through the handful of shots. ‘Are you on social media?’

‘Me?’ Tom picked through the bag. ‘Why? You gonna follow me?’

‘Everywhere.’ I batted my eyelids. ‘I’m going to turn up on your doorstep and tie ribbons around your fence while offering up a dance to the fertility gods.’

‘Well, in that case, it’s Release the Bracken,’ he said dramatically. ‘Full stop between “release” and “the” and all one word—’