One Week ’Til Christmas. Belinda Missen
stood and readied myself to leave. Stuffing my belongings into my bag was the only thing keeping my brain and my mouth from running away with me. My feet felt like lead knowing that I’d be heading out the door in the next minute or two.
When I’d done, I smiled and offered my hand. ‘Tom, thank you for being an insightful, intelligent interview.’
‘Yeah, well, you get me talking about my favourite topics and you’ll be stuck with me for hours.’ As he smiled, a tight dimple pulled at his left cheek.
‘That would not be the world’s worst way to spend a night,’ I threw him a look over my shoulder as I stepped off the stage.
‘So, let’s do that then.’
‘Sorry?’ I turned back to him.
‘It’s almost two. I finish here at four o’clock tonight. Meet me out by the foyer if you like. We can grab dinner and drinks and continue the conversation. Maybe compare Oyster balances, favourite bus routes and the like.’
Running into him at the bus stop may have been a simple accident of the universe. But this? This felt like … fate. It had to be. Simon Van Booy said coincidences were the universe’s way of letting you know you were on the right track. And, if that were even partly true, then there had to be a reason why all of this had happened.
Tom had been dropped into my lap twice, once quite literally. Despite the jelly legs and tunnel vision, I took one look at the exit and another at Tom. Curiosity may have killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back, and here I was with a flickering tail and rubbing myself against the furniture.
‘Four o’clock?’ I searched his eyes. Please, don’t let this be a joke.
‘On the dot,’ he said.
‘Okay.’ I smiled. ‘Sure. I’d like that.’
‘Out in the foyer, where you came in.’
‘In the foyer,’ I repeated. There went my heart again, tripping and stumbling and sending papers into the breeze and eggnog down my pants.
‘I’m looking forward to it.’ His eyes crinkled as his lips turned up into a smile. With a spring in his step, he raced backstage like he’d done it a thousand times before. I turned and left, my stomach blooming with spring butterflies and the fizz of excitement. Security gave me a knowing look as I passed, and I scuttled out the door.
Four o’clock. Two hours and thirty minutes. Not that anyone was counting. I checked my watch and stepped outside.
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,