One Week 'Til Christmas Page 2

  ‘Go? Sorry?’ he asked. ‘Oh, yes, of course. Yes. The bus.’ He extended his hand again, and I shook it, warm and tight, much more than it had been moments earlier when he’d helped me off the ground. ‘Again, I’m ever so sorry. Have a good day.’

  ‘I do.’ Oh, shit. ‘I will … I mean, I will. You, too.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  The doors of the bus opened again with a pneumatic hiss and I was greeted by a driver wearing a Santa hat. I was still brushing my pants off as I boarded. She smiled knowingly as I tapped my Oyster card and grabbed for the handrail.

  ‘There are worse ways to land on your arse.’ She winked.

  Heat bloomed in my cheeks as I looked around to find an entire busload of people watching, waiting. For me. I shied away as the bus pulled out into the street, my mystery assailant watching on from the kerb. Even if I now had a backside that hadn’t been this wet since I was a baby, it truly was the most wonderful time of the year.

  If only I’d caught his name. Or, you know, his number.

  Idiot.

  * * *

  Estelle’s home sat at the end of a narrow cobblestone mews with honey-brown brick buildings on either side, glossy white window frames, and bulbous shrubs. I’d never been happier to see her front door than I was today. I dropped what was left of my takeaway cup into a galvanised rubbish bin, wiped a sticky hand down my front and grabbed at the brass knocker.

  ‘Shiiit!’ Estelle roared with laughter as she swung the door open full tilt. ‘You know you’re not meant to swim in the Thames, right?’

  ‘It wasn’t me.’ I pressed past her into the hall, knocking down a photo frame in the process. ‘Some jerk in a hurry to get to his look-at-me car wasn’t looking where he was going, and I ended up in the gutter.’

  ‘Are you okay?’ she asked. ‘Nothing broken?’

  ‘Only my ego.’ I pressed at the tacky spot on my jeans. There was no way they’d be escaping the wash tonight. ‘And I think we gave the bus driver a spot of angina.’

  ‘Is there an article in there about handsome men who bowl you over?’ she asked. ‘You know, for the paper?’

  ‘I didn’t say he was handsome,’ I grumbled.

  ‘No, but I’m not entirely convinced by your faux outrage, either.’ She bit the inside of her lip as she watched for my reaction.

  ‘All right, you got me,’ I said with a defeated laugh. ‘He was attractive. I suppose it’d make a decent story, wouldn’t it? What to do when your lady parts scream yes, but the raging torrent in your pants pats you on the shoulder and says no.’

  ‘And that’s just the gutter water.’ Estelle followed as I pushed my roller case into the living room. ‘Look at you, still travelling around with that tattered neon-green thing.’

  ‘Still,’ I said, pulling a paper bag from my backpack. ‘But, hey, I remembered the bread! It survived the gutter-pocalypse.’

  ‘Tell you what, you shower and clean up while I find some wine,’ she said. ‘I want to hear all about this guy.’

  Chapter 2

  9 Days ’til Christmas

  I woke with a start. My face was mashed into a cushion on the sofa and my breath blew back on me like a vineyard that had been freshly razed. If my guess was correct, I hadn’t moved since we’d uncorked bottle number three last night which wasn’t long after we realised the pizza box was empty and we’d debated getting dessert delivered just to see the Deliveroo boy again.

  My brain scratched its nails down the blackboard of my skull.

  Last night had been a long overdue catch-up. It had been six months since I’d last stayed with Estelle and, while we messaged each other constantly over social media, nothing could make up for the bone-crushing hugs and shared stories that came complete with pulled faces and bad impersonations.

  Neon numbers on the microwave told me the city was about to tip over to the afternoon hours, which explained why Estelle was nowhere to be seen. I did not envy her having to disappear to work if she felt half as bad as I did. While I’d planned on being up early to get out and explore the city, a thumping head reminded me that I needn’t be in too much of a hurry. My day would simply start later and maybe I could even take in some Christmas lights when the sun dipped into the night.

  I grabbed a coffee and walked upstairs to my bedroom to find my phone still plugged into the charger and ringing wildly. As it turned out, four missed calls and five messages meant that something was rotten in the State of Victoria.

  It was my boss, Edwin. His incessant calling meant one of two things. Either he absolutely hated my last submission and I’d have to rewrite it to within an inch of its life (farewell to today’s plans), or he was about to ask me for something. I wasn’t sure which was the lesser of the two evils.

  Right now, I had two options. One was to ignore him, and that would be fair. I was on holiday, I’d submitted all my pieces, and I was done for the year. Or, I could answer. Realistically, I knew what I had to do because the longer I hesitated, the larger the sinking feeling grew in the pit of my stomach.

  Sighing, I answered his call as I reached for my jeans. After dinner last night, before the bloom of alcohol took over, I’d managed to wash and hang the gutter-damp clothes. They’d been spread across the bannister, hung off the backs of chairs and the heater in my room and now, not only were they dry, they were perfectly toasty.

  ‘Isobel, thank God you’ve answered,’ Edwin said with all the relief of a burst dam.

  ‘Oh, no,’ I grumbled. ‘What have you done?’

  ‘Nothing, nothing. I haven’t done anything, but I do need a huge favour.’

  A begging Edwin was my favourite kind. Actually, not really, but it did give me a little wriggle room for bargaining.

  ‘You do?’ I ventured.

  ‘How was your night last night?’ he asked. ‘Head out on the town?’

  I shrugged at the mirror, turning gently to make sure my clothes looked okay. There was no clumped washing powder on my pants, which was a good start. I switched my boss to speakerphone, threw on a shirt, and dabbed at my make-up while wriggling my feet into ankle boots with far less grace than Cinderella had with her glass slipper.

  ‘Can’t say I did, no,’ I said. ‘Just stayed in and had dinner with a friend.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ he said. ‘Listen, this favour.’

  I sighed. ‘Here we go.’

  ‘Don’t be like that. You’ll love this one, I promise.’

  ‘You say that about all the terrible jobs, Ed,’ I said, tucking my passport away in the top drawer.

  ‘I do not,’ he balked. ‘Okay, maybe I do.’

  He really did. A miracle pet story ended up being a revived hamster that had choked on the head of a Lego minifigure. A film premiere saw me vomited on by a washed-up soap star and my number being passed around like it had been written on the back of a public toilet door. It got so bad that I had to change numbers the following week. Oh, and the cooking contest at the local women’s association? I found myself the unwitting centre of a stolen recipe scandal. It was always the ‘one last thing’ jobs that went to pot, not the relatively safe travel reporting.

  ‘So, what is it?’ I asked. ‘Adding, with just a gentle reminder, that my holiday began at midnight, so I’m now very much ready to embrace my time off.’

  ‘All right, so, you know how readership has been lagging the last twelve months?’

  ‘You’ve mentioned that at the last four or five meetings, yes,’ I said. ‘And in big, bold neon Comic Sans letters in emails.’

  ‘Okay, well, I think this might really help give us a boost,’ he continued. ‘And you’ve been asking me for more interview experience.’

  ‘I recall something like that, yes.’ I pinched the bridge of my nose. I knew that would bite me in the arse eventually.

  ‘I’ve just got a call from a friend who owes me a favour. He’s managed to wrangle us a fifteen-minute interview slot with Tom Bracken. Season one of his telly series, Countershock, was a ratings
bonanza. Everyone loves a war hero covered in blood, sweat and mud, right? Sexy. He’s riding high on critical acclaim and heading into a theatre season early in the new year. There are half a dozen film projects lined up plus a possible superhero franchise. Basically, he’s everywhere including your grandmother’s fantasies.’

  ‘That’s gross.’ My grandmother was filthy enough as it was. She didn’t need the extra encouragement. I dithered about for pen and paper to make a note but, frustratingly, couldn’t find anything.

  ‘I suspect his success is purely down to screaming girl theory because I’ve seen him in action and, I’ll be honest, he’s no Olivier.’

  Screaming girl theory? Urgh, because girls can’t just have free thought. I tossed my head back and shook a fist. ‘Yes, but you also have terrible taste.’

  ‘Only in women and booze,’ he quipped, the tell-tale sizzle of a burning cigarette filling the dead air. ‘Anyway, I really think it’ll be a boon for website traffic. What do you say? Ready to be swept off your feet?’

  Despite my requests for experience, I don’t think Edwin realised it had been a good six months since I’d sat down to binge-watch anything except the inside of my eyelids, let alone consider anything in the entertainment industry.

  My days were either spent in an office that still had dusty Easter decorations fluttering from the air-conditioner, or on the lowest of low-cost airlines to visit some new health retreat for an exclusive article. Nights were spent at the latest bar openings in Melbourne, racing home to write an article before I turned into a pumpkin. Television was a distraction I simply couldn’t afford. Between that and trying to maintain relationships with equally busy friends, I hadn’t had a lot of time to dip my toes into the world of celebrity.

  ‘What do you want me to put together?’ I asked. ‘A fluff piece? A five-minutes-with type article? A few hundred words on the rise of this magic star? Or something more in-depth?’

  ‘I’ll leave that up to you,’ he said. ‘But let’s not get too deep and meaningful. Just something to bring in the clicks.’

  Quelle surprise. It was so like him to just drop something on my lap with zero structure and expect me to pick it up and run with it. I looked longingly at the handwritten list Estelle had prepared of Christmas experiences I should have while I was in town. Did London have a 34th Street? At this rate, I’d be heading down there to try and conjure up a miracle just to get through half of it.

  ‘Have you got anything at all you can send through? A bit of a cheat sheet?’ I asked. ‘Some more details? Any questions you specifically want to focus on?’

  ‘You get yourself into a cab. I need you at the National Theatre by 1 p.m. I’ll shoot you through the details,’ he said, excited to finally have me over the line. ‘Oh, and make sure you take your camera equipment. I need some of those award-winning shots you’re so famous for.’

  Cab? I huffed so hard my fringe blew into the next postcode. If I had to be in the seat by one, I had just over thirty minutes to get myself to the Southbank. Anyone with half a Google Map and a set of eyes could tell you a cab wouldn’t cut it in the middle of London. Not today. Not ever.

  As for award-winning photos? While travel allowed me to indulge in my mistress of photography, if ever I’d won a prize for it, nobody had told me.

  ‘All right, okay,’ I said, as if I had absolutely any choice in the matter. ‘You do realise that I’m supposed to be on leave, don’t you?’

  ‘Just know that I adore your commitment to the Melbourne Explorer,’ he said.

  ‘You owe me an extra day. Or, you know, actual money so I can pay my bills,’ I said.

  ‘I’ll even buy you a slice of your favourite cake when you get back.’

  If that were true, he’d be buying me mango and macadamia cheesecake and not one of Coles Finest chocolate mud cakes every time he ‘nipped out’ to the shops near the office, but beggars can’t be choosers, and cake was cake.

  I unplugged my phone, threw my backpack over my shoulder and raced down the stairs. ‘I’ll have it through in, say, twenty-four hours?’

  ‘There’s that Christmas spirit. Thanks Iz, you’re a keeper, you are!’

  Yes, I bloody well was.

  I hadn’t even left home and I was already running late. I didn’t check to see if I had everything I needed before I stole Estelle’s leather jacket and made my way to the Tube at Sloane Square. By the time I made it to the street corner, snow was falling, and the neighbours were arguing as they tried to pull a fir tree through their front door. Fronds and needles littered the footpath but, boy, did it smell great.

  And that was about as Christmassy as I was likely to get today.

  Chapter 3

  I hadn’t been to the theatre since a compulsory high school trip where we were told Macbeth would hold the answers to life, or at least our English essay due later that week. Immediately afterwards, we were spat out into local parkland to eat squashed sandwiches for lunch that were picked off by seagulls the size of chihuahuas. To add insult to injury, I failed my essay. Was it any wonder I’d sworn off theatre since?

  As I hurried along the Southbank, I grew not so silently jealous of the winter market, which was bustling with all things yuletide. I could almost taste the freshly baked, sugar-dusted mince pies that still bore the bite of whiskey, not to mention the orange and berry scent of mulled wine. Hell, I’d give anything for something as simple as a hot chocolate with a few marshmallows right now.

  It held much more promise than the National Theatre, which was an imposing grey beacon over the Thames. Even the sky was a brighter shade of mid-winter white, the sun hidden somewhere behind it all. I wrinkled my nose, curled my lip. Bloody Edwin.

  It was just my luck that he hadn’t emailed me yet. I considered turning around and going home, bodging up a piece full of pull quotes from old articles and stock images, except I couldn’t remember the actor’s name in a fit. Also, the guilt would kill me quicker than two-day-old takeaway, so Edwin had that on his side.

  So, here I was, going in blind.

  Smile plastered on, press pass in hand, I made myself known to the burly security guard by the door. With his head gleaming under fluorescent lights and polo shirt pulled tight around his biceps, he looked like a charity store Dwayne Johnson.

  ‘You don’t look much like an Edwin,’ he commented, flipping papers on his clipboard. ‘Isobel.’

  ‘Yeah, see, I shaved my beard off this morning.’ I bounced nervously on the spot.

  He narrowed his eyes at me and snatched up my pass. ‘What?’

  ‘Never mind,’ I mumbled. ‘Edwin should have rung to confirm. Or maybe he emailed? See—’ I tapped my pass ‘—I’m from the same newspaper. We’re really very good quality. Paper … of … the year.’

  We really weren’t. In fact, I don’t think we’d ever been nominated.

  Mr Security turned and walked away, mumbling into his walkie talkie and casting suspicious glances my way, brows tripping over themselves in confusion. Well, my fly wasn’t undone (I’d checked), I’d brushed my hair (with my fingers) and I’d stuffed half a packet of gum in my mouth on the Tube, but maybe there was still gutter mud on my backside. I did a very subtle feel about the seat of my pants as he walked away. No, all good.

  A few, ‘Are you sure?’s later, he ambled his way back and handed me my press pass.

  ‘Right this way … Miss Bennett.’

  I smiled tightly, and followed him through the foyer of the theatre, past posters for new shows that barely registered and a bookshop that pulled at me with the preternatural strength of an ACME magnet, and into the fittingly titled Olivier Theatre. Theatre might not have been my thing, but I knew who Sir Laurence Olivier was.

  The rear door swept open to reveal stunning velvet seats set in steep tiers that fanned around and forced your attention in one direction: the stage. Today’s ensemble was simple. Two seats, a small table, and two glasses of water which were being eagerly replaced by someone balancing a clipboard in one
hand and a pitcher in the other. Another journalist passed me on the stairs. She offered the dewy-eyed, flushed-cheek look of a teenage girl at a boyband concert, eyebrows up near her hairline as she continued nattering excitedly into her phone. If she were a cartoon, her heart-shaped eyes might pop from her head and she’d thump her foot on the floor.

  ‘… It seems like, right now, Tom Bracken has all the right moves.’ She winked at me. ‘Risky business, he is not.’

  I clicked my fingers as realisation hit. Tom Bracken. That was his name.

  My gaze followed her as she disappeared back up through the stalls and out of the theatre. If, in the next few moments, Tom Bracken happened to slide out of the wings in just his socks and a business shirt, I’d call Edwin to thank him for this assignment. Hell, I’d even buy him a drink or two. That would make my day, and then some.

  The stage remained empty as I climbed the steps and arranged myself in one of the chairs on stage. I placed my recording device on the table, checked my email one last time and was relieved to find some notes from Edwin had finally come through. Then … I waited. When it looked like I was on my own for a while, I dug about my bag for my camera and the best lens and snapped a few random shots of the theatre.

  Atmospheric. I scribbled on my notepad. Edwin would love that. He loved buzzwords like ants loved picnics.

  I sneaked looks at the activity in the wings. A smartly dressed dark-haired man had his back to me as people gathered around him; one for reminders, another for a tease of the hair, and his own hands at his throat in that tell-tale move that said, ‘Be right there, just straightening my tie.’ It was momentarily fascinating and I noted what I saw, even if it did feel slightly voyeuristic.

  Character. It would add some flavour to my story.

  When the moment finally arrived, Tom Bracken crept slowly out onto the stage, backwards, still chatting to the attendant by the curtain. She smiled coquettishly at him. One final comment about it being almost the end of the day and, as he got closer, his footwork resembled a dance more than a stroll.