One Week 'Til Christmas Read online

  My grandmother had always said to grab life by the throat and throttle it, so I decided to run with that. I took a deep breath. ‘How does Sloane Square work for you?’

  ‘A Sloanie?’ He laughed behind his hand as he shoved another biscuit into his mouth.

  ‘And where, pray tell, do you reside?’

  ‘Ah, I’m a Knightsbridge boy,’ he said. ‘Well, South Kensington.’

  ‘Oh!’ I recoiled, clasping my hands. ‘Look who’s fancy now?’

  Tom rolled his eyes. ‘I’m not fancy.’

  ‘I’ll make you a deal, movie star,’ I said.

  ‘Shoot.’

  ‘You can walk me home if you show me where you’ve filmed along the way.’ I strolled towards the London Eye. ‘Give me something to look at that’s not in the tourism brochures.’

  ‘Now this, I’m good at.’ Tom shuffled up beside me.

  We crossed the Thames while Tom talked animatedly about his time running into the Tube station as part of a thriller. Though they only needed a few seconds on screen, it took all day to film, he said. Some shots didn’t look angry enough, some were too distraught, and, in another, a Stormtrooper walked within camera shot and threw everyone into fits of laughter.

  At Westminster Abbey, we talked about his night of reading Shakespeare to the masses, one of his favourite memories being able to walk around the old tombs at night. They were a different kind of haunting, he said. My own experience extended only as far as standing in a queue in the rain to get through the door, so I relished the behind the scenes glimpse he could offer, however brief.

  Closer to home, we debated some cheeky late-night McDonald’s but were distracted by a theatre up ahead. In fact, we were distracted by several of them, each with a story attached. Tom had worked as an usher at two of them and a stagehand in another, before catching his big break with a bit-part in a crime series.

  An hour after we’d left the market, we found ourselves standing outside the Royal Court Theatre – the writer’s theatre, as Tom described it. I was sure that if I aimed just right, I could throw a stone from Estelle’s back doorstep and hit one of the windows.

  It seemed a shame that the night was almost over. I’d loved my Tom’s-eye view of the city, his quips about little known clubs and theatres, coffee shops and characters. It called to my love of hometown perspectives. How I saw London would always be different to how Tom lived it and, from the view of a once struggling actor, it sometimes seemed incredulous.

  ‘What is it that draws you to acting?’ I asked. ‘I mean, why do it when it’s so … hit and miss in terms of success?’

  Tom took a deep breath and clapped his hands together. ‘I guess it’s quite like asking you why you write. I mean, why travel? Why not entertainment? Politics? Why not toil over novels? Why not bland copy for some shopping site no one will ever read because, let’s face it, we already know what we’re going to buy?’

  I shrugged. ‘Because it’s the only thing I’m good at?’

  ‘That is a bold-faced lie.’ He finger-gunned me. ‘I saw some of your photos tonight; you know that writing is not the only thing you’re good at.’

  I felt myself frown, an involuntary twitch.

  ‘No, don’t do that.’ Tom continued walking backwards. ‘Please don’t. What I love about your photos is that they’re raw and rough. Those portraits are all the lines and wrinkles and the bits I missed when I shaved this morning. You don’t airbrush, purposely.’

  ‘I like raw beauty.’

  ‘Bingo!’ He jumped excitedly, like he’d had a cattle prod shoved in the seat of his pants. He threw an arm around my shoulder and directed my attention to the façade of the theatre.

  ‘What do you see when you look at that?’ he asked. ‘Just, snap, straight off the bat. What’s the first thing that comes to mind?’

  I took a deep breath. ‘I see spectacle and posh people and a crowd I don’t quite belong to?’

  By all accounts, the building was gorgeous. It stood tall over the street like a grand dame of a time long gone. Popping, blinking lights, the name of a play in neon red letters against the backdrop of a scaffold-like sign, the plush red carpet visible as theatre goers left through the Victorian doors.

  ‘Know what I see?’ Tom pressed a hand to his chest, fingers splayed out like a child’s drawing of the sun. ‘I see the fizz, the buzz of knowing they’ve just been within reach of the stage. Right there, palpable, heart beating, real, three-dimensional. The lights dim, their insides rise, and their breath catches somewhere near the top of their diaphragm. Then it starts. The silence, the hush and the hiss of feedback from the audio system, which is broken by the first echoing footsteps on wooden boards that only I can feel creaking under my feet. They’re like ice, one false move and I fall through, but they’re bouncing, propelling me forward towards the audience. I stop in my spotlight, I survey the room, scan the faces, the diversity in the crowd. I take a deep breath, place a hand on my stomach and I begin.’

  ‘And then?’ I asked, my own breath frozen in place.

  ‘Immediacy. Utter immediacy. I’m addicted to it. It’s nothing like television or film with clapboards and make-up artists and catering trucks. It’s an instantaneous feedback loop. I can see every smile, frown, confused face, hear the thunderous applause and feel the awkward silence of a misstep. It’s electric and never ever boring.’

  He stepped forward with a dramatic flourish of his arm and looked to me for a response. I realised then that I’d been completely sucked under the current of his explanation. I’d never understood it. But with him, it became a little clearer.

  ‘Of course, it’s not always bright lights and encores. Sometimes it’s falling off the side of the stage and breaking your leg in your first lead role, but that’s life, right? Swings and roundabouts.’

  As he walked away, I hesitated as I imagined Tom, fresh into his first role, eager to please and bounding out on stage with the youthful enthusiasm we all have in our first job anywhere. Then I pictured him dropping silently off the stage. It was neither vaudeville nor funny. I felt a pang of secondhand embarrassment for him.

  Disappearing around the corner, he beckoned me with a wave of the hand. By the time I caught up to him, we’d turned into my street. Estelle had left the porch light on, an inviting yellow glow against a white front door and windows that tinkled with multicoloured festoon lights that hung overhead. I raised my hands like a gameshow hostess as I stood upon the first step.

  ‘And, so, this is you.’ Tom looked around. ‘It’s cute. I like it.’

  ‘This is me.’ I leaned against the front door. ‘Good thing for you I wasn’t staying somewhere further out.’

  ‘It just would have been a longer walk,’ he teased. ‘I don’t have anywhere to be tomorrow.’

  And, oh, how tempted I was. Common sense stamped down any further ideas like a camper on the last embers of a fire; it pinched at a deep tender spot, but it had to be done. I was leaving within a week and, as wildly wonderful as he was, I didn’t see the point in continuing something that would be near impossible to maintain. In a different lifetime, maybe I’d grab this part of life by the throat.

  ‘Thank you so much for tonight.’ I said. ‘It was … I loved it.’

  ‘Likewise.’ He nodded once. ‘It was … I had a nice time.’

  I pointed to the space behind me. ‘So, I’m just going to go inside now.’

  ‘Goodnight, Isobel.’ Tom took a step backwards.

  ‘Goodnight, Tom.’

  Without another word, he turned and took a few tentative steps down the street. His silhouette was old school Hollywood, with his collar up against the wind, hands in his pockets and elbows at angles like coat hangers. My stomach gave a small lurch as I watched him stop three doors down, turn and walk back to me with more urgency than I’d seen in him all night.

  ‘Isobel, I’d like to retract my statement.’ Tom blurted as he came to a stop. His lips were pursed, and his eyes crinkled in a nervous wince. />
  ‘You would?’ I asked.

  ‘I didn’t have a nice time tonight. Nice is tea and scones and an afternoon of Bogart with my grandmother.’

  I bit my lip and laughed. ‘Okay.’

  ‘I had an amazing time and, with that in mind, I’d also like to retract my apology. I’m not sorry I knocked you into the gutter because without that I’d have had no reason to ask you for a drink under the pretence of apology.’

  I snorted, a little out of amusement, and a little just out of sheer nervous energy. ‘In that case, I accept your retraction.’

  ‘Oh, phew.’ He ran his hand across his brow. ‘I was worried I wouldn’t sleep tonight.’

  ‘Rest your sweet head, good sir, all is right with the world.’

  ‘But what happens now if I wanted to retract my retraction?’ he asked.

  ‘Does that make it a square root of retraction? Or an extraction?’ I asked. ‘I’m not entirely sure.’

  ‘What are you doing tomorrow?’ he asked.

  ‘Well …’ I sighed and folded my arms across my chest. ‘Firstly, I thought I’d put your name in the Google machine.’

  ‘Why on earth would you subject yourself to that?’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry. I’ve got the eye bleach and wire brush ready.’

  ‘Ouch!’ he said with a chuckle. ‘Small but tender ego here.’

  ‘Small but tender?’

  ‘It rises to the challenge.’ He scratched at his cheek and peered up at me from under those eyelashes again. Seriously, had he had training in this? ‘Don’t you worry about that.’

  Laughing, I pushed my hands back into my pockets. ‘I have to write up your interview.’

  ‘Ah, yes. I’d almost forgotten that.’ Tom scratched at his chin and looked at me thoughtfully. ‘It’s going to be complimentary, right?’

  ‘Mildly,’ I said, pinching my thumb and forefinger together. ‘Don’t want to get too carried away. Depends on how this retracting a retraction idea works.’

  ‘Yeah, about that …’ He shifted nervously. ‘What happens when you’ve finished that article?’

  ‘Probably head to M&S for a single-serve meal.’

  Tom smiled, chewing the inside of his cheek. He glanced up at the festoon lights that reflected back in his eyes like a rainbow galaxy.

  ‘Any chance you’d feel like making that a meal for two?’ he asked.

  ‘Twin-share?’ I mused. ‘You know, as a traveller, there are certain advantages to doing things twin-share. For one, it’s cheaper—’

  ‘For you.’ He nodded.

  ‘—and wonderful company.’

  ‘For me.’ He tapped his chest. ‘And if it’s a rotten time, at least you haven’t been alone.’

  ‘I’d love to.’ Excitement bounced me once on the spot.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ I said.

  ‘I was thinking ice skating at Somerset House. If I recall, you mentioned tonight that you wanted to do that. We could follow it up with dinner and drinks? You can quiz me for the piece you want to write for your site.’

  ‘Sounds amazing.’ I knew what I’d told myself earlier about distance and impossibility, but this was just too lovely an offer to pass up.

  ‘Should I … I should probably get your phone number.’

  ‘Yes, I think you should.’ I took his phone when he offered it and saved my number in his contacts.

  ‘Home?’ I asked, showing him his own wallpaper.

  ‘Ah, yeah. Peak District.’

  ‘Love a good hike in the Peaks.’

  ‘I—’ he waggled a finger ‘—am going to keep that in mind.’

  ‘You do that.’ I gave him back his phone and felt his hand close around mine.

  ‘Until tomorrow.’ He leaned in and kissed me on the cheek.

  ‘Text me the details.’ I swallowed. Hard. ‘When you know what time.’

  ‘Will do.’

  ‘Thank you again for tonight. It was wonderful.’ I smiled.

  ‘See you tomorrow.’ Tom tinkled his fingers and backed away slowly. Finally, my toes uncurled, and I let out a tightly held breath.

  Watching him disappear quietly down the mews towards the High Street, it seemed a shame that this was the end of the night. Something bubbled up from my stomach, floated through my chest and popped out of my mouth.

  ‘Goodnight, sweet prince!’ I called.

  He stopped still under the streetlight on the corner and turned up his collar. ‘Now, see, you do know theatre!’

  Chapter 6

  8 Days ’til Christmas

  In the darkness of the early morning kitchen, I popped the screen on my laptop and sat it on the tiny two-person table by the wall. Outside, past the net curtain and beyond a neat backyard, a lone star stood steady against an increasingly brighter sky. I loved these quiet moments of truth before the world awoke, they allowed clarity and relaxation against an oncoming restless day. Also, I just really wanted to get this interview done. I had no choice in the matter now.

  I poured myself a coffee and opened my notepad. My notes suddenly felt entirely inadequate.

  Two words: character and atmosphere were all that popped out at me. I hadn’t made any further observations whatsoever. I was disappointed in myself for wasting time yesterday and thought it further proof I shouldn’t be interviewing people. I could only hope my Dictaphone would have everything I needed. I raced upstairs and dug around in the bottom of my bag. I found it underneath what was left of the greasy paper bag of biscuits, the name of the stall stamped on its side.

  And right there with the biscuits was Tom, waiting for me in the recesses of my mind, where he’d been comfortable since that moment on the doorstep last night. Or rather, since our first meeting at the bus stop. I was sure if I prodded him, he’d turn into the human equivalent of the all-singing, all-dancing, Michigan J. Frog. I took the Dictaphone downstairs and typed Tom’s name into the search engine.

  ‘Good morning,’ Estelle sang, her heavy footsteps thudding on the stairs. ‘How’d you sleep?’

  ‘Very well, thank you.’ I pushed the laptop screen down, closing off the offending search results. I was already knee-deep in images, not info, and it felt altogether adolescent. ‘How about you? How was your day? Sorry I wasn’t home for dinner.’

  ‘Don’t apologise, you’re here for a holiday.’ She flapped a hand and switched on the kettle. ‘My day was great, actually. I ended up at a bar with a heap of artists, but at least it wasn’t in the office, right?’

  ‘Just a regular catch-up?’ I asked.

  ‘A bit of that, but a bit of crafting and planning for an exhibition next year, too.’

  ‘Anybody I know?’ I asked.

  ‘Probably not.’ Estelle poured herself a coffee and sat opposite me. ‘We’re doing a show for local kids, something to fill in a fortnight between exhibitions.’

  ‘That sounds amazing,’ I said. ‘I mean, we all need a leg-up at some point, don’t we?’

  ‘I mean, I say “kids”, but we say that about twenty-somethings now, don’t we?’ she said, cringing. ‘I’m closing in on forty, Isobel.’

  ‘Don’t remind me,’ I grumbled. ‘Thirty-five this year.’

  ‘But, you know, because you stay here sometimes, I could always slide in one of your photos if you wanted to submit something.’

  ‘Am I allowed to?’ I asked, feeling surprise and excitement catch in my throat. There was no doubt it would be an amazing opportunity.

  Estelle shrugged. ‘Eh, I’m the boss. Sort of.’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’

  ‘I would say stop thinking about it and just do it, but that would just be avoiding the real issue.’

  ‘Sorry?’ I balked. ‘What real issue?’

  She circled a finger in front of my face and smirked. ‘All that beautiful contagious laughter in the street last night.’

  ‘Oh.’ I took a large slug of my drink.

  ‘And? How was it?’

  ‘My night
was very lovely,’ I said, feeling my cheeks redden. ‘He was – is – glorious.’

  ‘And?’ Her head jutted forward with a tiny shake.

  ‘And I think we’re going ice skating this afternoon,’ I said. ‘I mentioned I wanted to do that, so he offered to take me.’

  ‘That’s adorable.’ She sighed, propping her chin in the palm of her hand. ‘How’d you meet? Fast mover, by the way. In town a whole day, and you’re off on a date.’

  ‘Uh … it’s actually the guy from the bus stop.’

  ‘No!’ she shouted. ‘Get out of town!’

  ‘No, no, don’t get too excited.’ I grabbed at her hands. ‘It can’t go anywhere.’

  ‘Why? Why the hell not?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, because I leave in a few days.’

  ‘You don’t need to though, do you?’ she said. ‘Leave, that is.’

  I shrugged. ‘But I do. This Christmas will be the first one both my sister and I will be at for a few years, so it’s kind of important that I’m there.’

  ‘Ah, yeah, she’s in New Zealand, right?’ she said. ‘I’ve got the same thing this Christmas. Finally, everyone under the same roof. Mum is going spare organising everything.’

  ‘Tell me about it. I’m kind of looking at my inbox through my fingers at the moment. I’ve got Mum in one window, telling me how excited she is for Christmas, and Miriam in the other asking me to be doubly sure that I’ll be home. It’s got that bad I’ve had to send her a photo of me holding my return booking like some kind of proof of life event.’

  ‘Sounds familiar.’ Estelle snorted into her coffee cup. ‘“Have you booked your train ticket yet, Estelle? Are you sure? Can I book one for you?”’

  As one of seven kids, any of Estelle’s family get-togethers (and I’d been to several) were over-the-top, loud, and had more food than a Waitrose. Her last birthday involved booking out half a restaurant as siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces and nephews all piled through the doors. And that wasn’t even with all her siblings present. With so many people spread about the country, getting all her family together involved military precision and coordinated watches.