‘Let me down, you nutcase!’ I hear myself laughing, but his hands glide up to my waist and he bounces us left and right as if we’re part of an imaginary conga line, out through the weights area, out through the front doors, into the busy Brixton side street and straight into George’s pub, where he lifts me from his shoulders and plops me on the bar counter.
‘That was incredible,’ he says as our eyes meet.
‘That was incredible,’ I agree.
George appears behind the bar and flutters a hand by his heart. ‘Whoa, you were cutting it very fine there, Tom: a second later and I’d have been talking to the Chief Constable. Anyway, all’s well that ends well. You stopping for a drink?’
Tom turns to me with a glint of mischief in his eyes. ‘Poppy, my beautiful saviour, would you do me the great honour of allowing me to buy you a drink?’
My beautiful saviour. Did he just call me that? Tom Jones thinks I’m beautiful? A surge of heat rushes from my chest to my neck. I need to compose myself. Take a minute before I start to gush and crumble and flake with sheer happiness and overwhelming surprise.
‘I’d love that. Large vodka and Coke, please,’ I tell him, and excuse myself to go to the loo.
Just so I can sit for a moment. Even if it is on a toilet. Just so I can think. Just so I can press my burning, flushed cheeks up against the cold white tiles and bring my temperature and my heart rate and my wildly inappropriate thoughts about Tom Jones right back down to earth.
I don’t know what lies ahead, and I don’t know if we have even the slightest chance of success – we’re a highly improbable combination, an uncommon pair – but, just like our seemingly elusive passcode, no matter what the odds, it’s always worth a try.
I stand up, smooth down my skirt and pat my cheeks. I’m going out there to have a drink with Tom Jones. Just the two of us. God, he is still divine. Divine and dimply and dashing and delicious. My stomach flipping, I breathe deeply, straighten my back and check myself in the mirror. Note to self: from now on, I, Poppy Bloom, promise not to be swayed or disheartened by the statistical probability of success. Instead, I’m going to give new things a try and I’m not going to give up until my heart, rather than my head, tells me to.
Chapter Eight
‘Thanks for helping me out, especially because Leanne had to bail. You could’ve easily just delivered her message and legged it, so I really appreciate it.’
‘It’s no problem, really.’
‘Are you hungry?’ Tom asks me.
‘Always,’ I answer.
‘Are you fussy?’
I shake my head. ‘Not at all. I’m easy.’
Tom nods approvingly, and we drain our drinks and set off side by side along the pavement. To anyone passing, we look like two friends out for a normal evening. Two friends looking forward to some good food, some cold drinks and some laughs thrown in. I sneak a sideways glance at him as we cross the road. His features are still boyish under a thin veil of stubble, but of course he’s all grown up. And he is mesmerising. My hand still tingles from his touch.
We walk through the Brixton Village food arcade, which used to be where people came to buy bags of chicken claws and ox tongues before it was transformed, Yuppified, gentrified and glorified as the foodie hub of south London. The inner arcade is lined with mismatched vintage chairs for the champagne bars and artisan charcuterie and cheese caves. Japanese cafés jostle alongside authentic Spanish, Mexican, Caribbean, Italian and Thai street-food stalls. Not an ox tongue in sight.
‘Oh wow, this place has changed,’ I say.
‘You better believe it. I’ve been here all my life and I still can’t keep up. How long since you were here last?’
‘About ten years.’
He starts laughing and stops in his tracks. ‘Where have you been all this time?’
‘Oh, studying …’
‘Just studying? For over ten years?’
‘Um, pretty much.’
He shrugs in a live-and-let-live kind of way. ‘Right, well in that case, we’ve got to get you up to speed. Follow me’
He leads me to a gourmet burger place on the corner called Dirty Dicks. I notice that they left out the apostrophe they need to show possession. Surely they mean Dirty Dick’s? I want to point it out to them. I lie. I want to grab a felt-tip marker and stencil it in myself.
‘The three-stack bacon burger with onion rings and slaw is immense. Half a cow in a bap,’ Tom tells me.
‘I see.’ Everyone in this place looks like a trucker. There’s food everywhere. Fine dining this ain’t. Bread in their beards, cheese being sucked off their big hairy fingers; one old biker is even licking barbecue sauce off his forearm. I don’t think they made a mistake, actually. I think they knew exactly what they were doing when they called it Dirty Dicks. Build it and they will come.
‘This is … was my best friend Gav’s favourite place. He moved to Australia. Haven’t been here since he left.’
‘I think it’s great. Let’s do it,’ I tell him. Because after all, it’s worth a try.
We wait by the door to be seated, and eventually the red-faced hipster owner shakes his beardy head at us: full and there’s a waiting list. No apology.
Unfazed, we go to the Italian; also full. I peer inside; there’s not even a tiny space on the long communal wooden bench for us to squeeze into. And then the same again from the rosebud-lipped waitress at the Colombian and the smiley gold-toothed jerk-chicken guy too. I spot that Mr Sushi has an empty table and nod towards it.
‘That looks good – you okay with Japanese?’ I ask.
I notice Tom take a deep breath and rub his eyes. ‘Yeah, I guess.’
‘What’s wrong? They’ve got a free seat by the window. We can just have something quick,’ I say.
He sighs and looks up and down the arcade. My stomach rumbles loudly; I feel hollow. I need to eat something in the next ten minutes or I’ll get despondent. Or full of rage – it could go either way.
He shakes his head, a shy frown playing on his lips. ‘It’s not the food. It’s this place. I used to come here with my ex, Tammy.’ He pulls a reluctant face and scratches his neck.
I can tell he is still raw. This is about moving away, moving on, creating distance between what was and what is. So who is this Tammy who has left such a deep impression on him? Why is she his ex? Clearly he must have ended it with her. Who would possibly end things with him? But if he ended it, then why is he still so affected? I puzzle a moment. And then it hits me: she must be DEAD! Oh, poor Tom! He is grieving! He is grieving and I’ve just steered him towards a high-trigger emotional site and now he could experience a full-on emotional avalanche.
I grab him by the forearm. ‘Oh Tom, I’m really sorry. This was clearly a bad idea … a good idea, but too soon … a good idea at a bad time, is what I mean. Why don’t we head home, eh? Call it a night?’ Another rumble from my stomach. A cluster of other people have spotted our table.
Tom looks at my hand resting on his jacket sleeve and then at me. Then he claps his hands together. ‘Nah. Let’s go in. I’m starving. And I need a beer. Tammy’s off living her own life now, so why shouldn’t I? It’s been a long day, we should definitely be having a nice ice-cold beer by now.’
I agree with him. Wholeheartedly. And I breathe a massive sigh of relief that Tammy is in fact STILL ALIVE.
Tom swings open the door in front of us just before the other group make their move. Teamwork. Mr Sushi happily waves us to the table by the window, and we order two beers and a mixed platter to share. As we sip our drinks, we watch all the other would-be diners bounce from crammed restaurant to crammed restaurant. Crowds of people start flooding through the door only to be refused and redirected outside. Tom smacks his hands down on the table.
‘So, you’ve been away for more than a decade, and now you’re back and you’re … married?’
I shake my head.
‘In a relationship?’
I shake it again.
‘It’s complicated?’
‘Warmer.’
‘Well, I’m all ears. Tell me everything. And start from the beginning.’
It’s like he’s unlocked something. Because once I start, I just can’t seem to stop. He doesn’t interrupt me or compare my situation to his own or ask me intrusive questions or tell me what I should’ve done or what I should do next. He just listens. Really listens. And I do tell him everything.
I tell him all about my dad and my studies and Banbridge and Harriet and Gregory and moving back home and not having a job and feeling a complete failure and at a total loss about what I should do next. And he listens to every word I say, and the funny thing is, the way he listens makes me listen to myself. Stuff pours out of my mouth that I’ve never really said aloud to anyone before; that I never even knew was there. I never realised that what hurt me more than losing the fellowship was feeling so betrayed by the people I thought cared about me. But I also understand that they are not the only ones who care. I have Mum and Frank and Leanne, and even my dad in his own messed-up way.
Mr Sushi starts to sweep the floor underneath the neighbouring tables and we realise that we are the last ones in the restaurant. The kitchen staff zip up their hoodies and wave their goodbyes and we realise that we’re probably the last ones in the entire arcade.
‘I’m sorry. I’ve talked your ear off,’ I say. ‘We’d better go.’
We thank Mr Sushi and step out of Brixton Village into the yellow glow of the street lamps.
‘Thanks for tonight. I enjoyed it,’ Tom says, bracing himself against the wind.
‘Really, you enjoyed it? You might need to pick up some Nurofen on the way home; your head must be ringing after this evening.’
‘No need for Nurofen at all. In fact, I feel better than I have done in ages.’
He shuffles on the spot and for a second I’m actually afraid that he is going to lean in and kiss me. Really. I think Tom Jones is about to kiss me and I’m afraid. God, my teenage self would smack me across the back of the head right now.
I’m watching him. His eyes have drifted down towards my lips. It’s not in my imagination, I’m certain of it. He has this half-smile and his lips are slightly parted and he’s breathing through his nose and I can read the big bold lettering of his thoughts … He’s thinking about it, but no, I can’t. I’m not ready.
I thrust my hand forward. ‘I enjoyed it too,’ I tell him.
Which is the truth. The honest-to-God truth. I’ve had a great time.
But kissing him. I need to prepare for that. As in mentally prepare for that. I’ve dreamt of kissing him, and I admit to even practising on the back of my hand when I was younger, but it’s different now, I’m different, we’re older, I need to … I need more time. I slip my hand into his and he curls his warm, strong fingers around mine. But he doesn’t let go straight away. And neither do I. We linger like this a beat too long, our hands locked together against the fading light, two virtual strangers in the middle of a swarming street waiting for the other to let go.
It’s me who steps back first. I’m overwhelmed, my hand hot and sweaty from the intensity, the contact. ‘I’d better go now,’ I say.
We wave our goodbyes and I watch Tom walk towards the gym. Then I take five steps backwards before I turn and let the full breadth of my smile spread across my face.
All the fruit sellers have packed up for the night and Starbucks is closed, but I need to get this clue for Frank before I go home. I stop at the newspaper vendor outside the tube station.
‘Excuse me, any chance you heard the clue for today? “You Do the Maps” on 105 FM?’
He pulls his chin into his neck, like I’ve just asked him to lift the lid on a matter of national secrecy. ‘It doesn’t work like that, love, that’s not how you play the game. You really think I’m just going to help you out when I’ve done all the graft, and watch you scoop the ten grand from under my nose?’
‘Sorry, but I just missed it tonight because—’
‘If you want to know the clue, you’ll have to listen in to the morning show with Jake Jackson and see if he repeats it for you – some days he does, but some days he doesn’t.’
I buy a paper and thank him for his help, however hard-won, and the next thing I know, I’m back at home. Frank is in the living room, his face barely visible in the flicker of television light. He’s tucking into a bowl of crisps, laughing heartily at the top ten funniest pet moments. My mum is stretched out asleep across his lap. The empty cava bottle is on the coffee table beside her feet.
‘You’re home early. How’d it go?’ asks Frank.
‘Great, thanks.’ I touch my hand and think of Tom. ‘Amazingly great.’
Frank shuffles up in his seat and gently lifts my mum’s snoring head onto a cushion. I pull a blanket over her. I pause for a moment and let the realisation of how lucky I am wash over me.
‘Thank you, Frank.’
‘For what, love?’ he asks, confused.
‘For everything.’
He chuckles, probably thinking I’m a bit tipsy and getting overly sentimental. But I want him to know how much he means to me. How much he’s given to my mum and how he shows me every day what small, ordinary love looks like. And this small, ordinary love is the truest sort of all, made up of unprompted acts of kindness and incidental smiles and hugs and winks and kisses.
I kiss him goodnight and set my alarm for 6.30, because I have a small and ordinary act of love that I need to accomplish tomorrow. I need to be wide awake for the morning radio programme so that I can get Frank’s clue.
So, Jake Jackson, if you can tune in and pick up my vibe, please, please, please, feel the love and repeat the clue tomorrow, because I can’t afford to miss it again, no matter what.
Chapter Nine
I hear the cold, whistling wind rattle against my bedroom window, so I do as I do every morning and pull the duvet over my head. One thing I’ve discovered about myself is that I always wake up about four minutes before the alarm goes off. And these four minutes are the only time I feel like I’m truly living in the moment, savouring every second, not remembering the unconscious past, effectively shutting down thoughts of the future. I love these gorgeous pre-alarm minutes; I want to stay in them forever.
But then the alarm actually does go off and I press snooze and the protective seal is broken. That’s when the thought goons start to surface: Why am I still here? Am I ever going to have enough money to move out? Should I go to the gym? Why is everything so heavy at the gym? Does Tom like me? Why did Gregory dump me? Tom only likes me because he doesn’t really know me … but what if he’s different? What if this is different? What if … My brain is on rotation.
These snooze moments are fraught. I know I should get up, but I don’t want to. I know I’m getting closer to the stage where it’s best to move, to seize the day, to make waves. But I’ll just stay here in the snuggly warmth one more minute and think about Tom … imagine, just imagine that … Tom and me … and then BEEEP! BEEEP! the bastardy alarm goes again. Already? A whole three minutes of snooze time gone already? I give the clock the evil eye and then slap it on its annoying flashing head.
Fine. Have it your way. I’m getting up.
I check out my new hairdo in the mirror. Good God. Mum wasn’t wrong about the rat’s nest analogy. Except this rat’s nest looks as if it’s been soaked in peroxide and scorched dry by a blowtorch. This must be similar to what Britney saw in the mirror that time, and it triggered such an existential breakdown that she had to shave it all off.
I step into the shower. The water is freezing cold, but I thrust myself underneath the shower head anyway. Slowly it warms to tepid. I scrub my face and let the water run down my body. For a warm, fluid moment, the world is beautiful again, bursting with possibility, and nothing hurts. I think about Tom touching my hand, nudging me at the table, smiling at me with his cheeky half-smile. But then the pipes make a clanging sound and the water glugs to a halt before the shower h
ead suddenly sprays out absolutely boiling-hot water with ferocious pressure. I jump out, half scalded. If this morning has taught me anything, it’s that timing is everything: don’t hold out, don’t be greedy, take what you need and go. I look to my hand. Be grateful for the tingle.
As I dress, I pinch some soft skin on my tummy and think about going to the gym. Two birds with one stone there, and I get to support Leanne’s business. Plus I might actually enjoy it. I’ve certainly got the time. As yet, I still have no job. I’ll check my emails this morning and see if Markus has come up with anything suitable. I’m not holding out much hope, though.
I am holding out hope that Dr Burley will call me back and say that he has charmed his devoted secretary Margot into taking early retirement so that he can slip me seamlessly into her position. I can return to Banbridge quickly and efficiently and stay there until I’m ancient. Perfect.
But today I might give the gym a go. Maybe I’ll even bump into Tom.
Downstairs, I twist the dial on Frank’s battered transistor radio. As my parents don’t come into any contact with technology via their jobs, they haven’t really boarded the spacecraft of the digital era. 105 FM is already tuned in and The Jake Jackson Morning Show will begin at seven o’clock. I start the coffee machine. ‘Today is the first day of the rest of my life,’ I sing to myself, and today it feels like it could be.
‘Good morning, Britain!’
I turn up the radio. I haven’t heard this guy before. He sounds youngish, maybe late thirties? There’s laughter in his voice, like we’ve just caught him in the middle of something really witty or really rude. ‘It’s Friday! And wow, have we got a jam-packed line-up for you this morning, so stay tuned, people, this is a show you simply cannot afford to miss.’
He’s right there. I can’t afford to let Frank down. I need this clue as a gesture of thanks, to show how aware I am of how well he takes care of Mum and me.
Don't Stop Me Now: The perfect laugh out loud romantic comedy Page 9