One Week 'Til Christmas Page 4

  ‘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 the
ir 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—’

  ‘Gotcha.’ I showed him my phone before adding with a snort, ‘Release the Bracken. That’s so you.’

  ‘Oh, is it?’ he played.

  ‘It really is.’ I had no idea if that was accurate or not, but I was running with that. Tapping away, I added my caption, selected a filter and, when everything had uploaded, I put my phone away. ‘Done.’

  ‘Can I ask you a question?’ Tom looked at me, an uncertain crease forming between his brows.

  I took the bag of biscuits from him again. ‘Sure.’

  ‘And, please, don’t feel like you have to answer it in the affirmative if you don’t want to.’

  ‘Yes,’ I answered slowly. Statements like that always made me nervous.

  ‘It’s just that, well, it’s getting towards the end of the night. I thought that, perhaps, if it was okay with you, that I could walk you home.’

  Chapter 5

  ‘Like I said, it’s okay if it’s a no,’ he said after a few quietly stunned moments, his knuckles white as he wrung his hands.

  It had been so long since I’d had to worry about dating protocol that I had no idea how I was supposed to answer. That funny, tingling, pinching feeling? I realised it was my heart, folding itself into an origami swan and launching itself into the river. What did I do here? Did I leap in with an answer, write an address, phone number and email on the inside of his palm? Or did I play it cool, tell him it wasn’t necessary and that I’d get the night bus home?