Among a Thousand Stars

by Jo Bartlett

  ****

  Ashleigh, who had zero chance of rescuing Tom from her mother’s clutches until she’d finished with him, decided to leave him to his fate. If there were ever a woman who might challenge his business-like approach to giving unwanted introductions a quick brush-off, then it was her mother.

  Taking her mobile out of her bag, Ashleigh scrolled down to the number that she should really know by heart.

  ‘Honey!’ Stevie’s breathlessness suggested that he’d only just managed to grab the phone before the voicemail connected. ‘Everything okay?’

  ‘I’m fine.’ Ashleigh went hot at the thought of what she might have interrupted. Stevie normally leapt on the phone at the first ring, so he must have been otherwise engaged. ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have called, I’m just missing you a bit.’

  ‘Me too.’ Stevie’s tone was serious and she knew he meant what he said. He was happier than he’d been in years, which was great, but she still wished he could give her a hug. He was the only person in the world who understood how she’d be feeling tonight. He’d sat through countless nights with her, talking about her mum and dad’s messed up relationship and helping her get through it all.

  ‘So how’s it going with Zac?’ She hoped Stevie would spare her the lurid details, which he’d always been able to prise out of her in the past; but not this time, not with Tom.

  ‘Great!’ There was a smile in his voice and it made her grin too. ‘We were just in the pool when you called, synchronised swimming.’

  ‘What?’ Ashleigh laughed. Maybe that was a euphemism for something else, but now he mentioned it she could hear splashing in the background.

  ‘Yep, apparently Zac’s always loved it, right since he saw an old black and white movie when he was a kid.’ Stevie was laughing too, the splashing in the background growing more frantic. ‘Then he got completely hooked after the London Olympics and he’s been having lessons from that troupe who were on Britain’s Got Talent. So there you go, Zac does have some hidden depths after all. Pun intended!’

  ‘Oh my God. How did one of us not realise he was gay ages ago?’ A sudden mental picture of Zac and Stevie with nose clips and matching frilly bathing caps had Ashleigh on the verge of hysteria.

  ‘Less of the stereotyping there you!’

  ‘Sorry, I’m sure it’s all very macho.’ He was only teasing, but she went hot again all the same. There were probably plenty of straight guys who loved synchronised swimming, but it just didn’t go with Zac’s image as a player with seven fiancées in his wake.

  ‘Oh honey, I’m only kidding.’ Stevie’s tone was gentle and more than ever she wished he were there to give her a reassuring hug. ‘He’s like the underwater version of Louie Spence, I’ve never seen anything so camp!’

  ‘I’m glad you’re having a good time, you deserve it.’ She meant it. What she had with Tom might not even make it until the New Year, but there was every chance Zac and Stevie could make it all the way.

  ‘Hey, don’t go yet, I haven’t asked you how it’s going with Tom?’ He’d clearly heard the note of melancholy in her voice and this year it was more than just regret about her dad.

  ‘It’s great. We’re at Mum’s tonight though and she’s kidnapped him and taken him to meet the verger.’ Ashleigh paused as Stevie burst out laughing, only too aware what kind of social events Carol’s soirees were. ‘So I’d better go and rescue him, before he’s press-ganged into becoming a campanologist or the hymn book monitor!’

  ‘He’d better not be, she promised that job to me last year!’ Stevie blew her a kiss down the phone. ‘Happy Christmas, honey.’

  ‘You too, babe.’ Ashleigh slipped her phone back into her bag and headed into the house, still smiling at the image of those frilly bathing caps.

  ****

  ‘Tell me about you and Ashleigh then. She must be a bit of a departure from your usual girlfriends, being so… ordinary.’ The verger leant in towards Tom, so close that the red wine and cigarette smoke on her breath was inescapable.

  ‘She’s anything but ordinary, have you seen her work? She’s amazingly talented.’ The woman, who had no boundaries about personal space of any kind, was becoming increasingly irritating. At any other kind of party, Tom would have made his excuses and moved away from this overbearing, self-opinionated bore. He could walk away and never have to see these people again, but Ashleigh would have to live with the consequences of his actions. So he forced himself to remain polite, unsure how much longer he could keep it up.

  ‘Oh, I’m sure she is, if you like that sort of thing.’ The verger was dismissive and spoke with her mouth half-full of pork pie, flakes of pastry crumbling on to her button-down top, which strained across an ample bosom and even more fulsome stomach. ‘I meant her looks really. She’s pretty enough in an understated sort of way, but you must meet some absolutely stunners. I can never understand why Ashleigh hasn’t got a bit more about her. After all, look how vivacious Carol is! I know it frustrates her mother that she doesn’t follow in her footsteps more.’

  ‘Well, there’s no accounting for taste I suppose.’ Tom wanted to tell the verger to go forth and multiply and he couldn’t keep the edge out of his voice. Anyone with an ounce of emotional intelligence would have picked up on his meaning, but he hammered the point home any way. ‘I’ve always preferred elegance to brash, but that’s just me I suppose.’

  ‘You’re right, there is no accounting for taste!’ The verger guffawed loudly and Tom suspected she had one of those really loud singing voices that members of the clergy often seemed to possess.

  ‘Well, it’s lovely to meet you, but I must make sure I have a chat with Ashleigh’s step-dad before we head off.’ He shook the verger’s sweaty hand, barely resisting the urge to wipe his palm on his trouser leg.

  ‘Ooh, going to pop the question are you?’ Her flushed face grew redder still at the prospect.

  ‘I’m afraid she’s far too good for me.’ Tom was already moving away from her, his only chance to escape. If the verger responded he didn’t hear it. Thankful for the throng of people to disappear into, he let the crowd swallow him up. He was glad Ashleigh had brought him here. It explained a lot about the way she was and he liked her even more because of it.

  ****

  Ashleigh headed back into the kitchen, which was practically wall-to-wall corduroy on one side. Her stepfather Geoffrey’s friends discussed the double-dip recession and their latest golf scores with the sort of passion that other men reserved for debating the merits of their favourite football team. Reliable but dull, that was Geoffrey and his ilk. How he’d got together with her mother, Ashleigh would never know.

  Unlike her stepfather, Carol didn’t collect friends who were clones of herself, in fact quite the opposite. This was possibly because there was no one else quite like her mother, but mostly because she didn’t like sharing the limelight. Every time Ashleigh or her brother had been in danger of glimpsing it for themselves, their mother was there in some ridiculous outfit or, worse still, in nothing at all.

  Carol’s friends, who were thronged in the hallway and sitting room, were a far more eclectic bunch. There was the ‘God Squad’ as she affectionately called them, from St Mary the Virgin, the church perched high on the cliff-side only a few hundred feet from her mother’s front door. Carol wasn’t actually a believer. In fact, for a long time she’d been a die-hard Atheist, but she loved the social side and had told Ashleigh that there was nothing quite like the church get-togethers for a good gossip. Then there were the activists. Carol liked nothing better than a cause and it didn’t really matter what it was; at least that was how it had seemed to Ashleigh over the years. There were friends of her mother’s from the latest anti high-speed rail-link group, and families whose livelihoods were threatened by EU fishing laws, in support of whom her mother had posed wearing a ridiculous mermaid’s outfit on Sandgate beach. She’d worn a hideous synthe
tic blonde wig to hide her exposed nipples and given everyone within a ten-metre radius a static electric shock. There was also a group from the Countryside Alliance who were pro hunting and with whom her mother had got involved after her third lot of chickens had succumbed to Freddie the Fox. It was typical of her mother, who’d previously been firmly in the hunt protestors’ camp, to switch allegiance when the mood suited her. Back in her hunt protesting days, she’d been known to hide in hedgerows dressed like the lovechild of a ninja and a tramp, ready to jump out and hopefully unseat one of the ‘blood thirsty murderers’. That all changed when she’d found half of Betsy, her favourite hen, on the doorstep one morning and the rest of the chickens slaughtered indiscriminately in the upturned coop. Within a week, Ashleigh got a text from Jamie, to tell her that their mother was going to be on the evening news. Carol, having joined the Countryside Alliance march in London dressed as a chicken, had ended up being arrested for brawling in the street with a man dressed as a fox, who turned out to be the leader of her former anti-hunting posse.

  ****

  Geoffrey and his brother Cliff had performed a pincer movement and trapped Tom in the corner of the conservatory that led out from the sitting room. Set out along one wall, partially obscured by the overgrown vines that snaked their way across the brickwork and dangled from the roof of the conservatory, was a table groaning with food. There was a surprisingly good selection, which could only mean that Carol and Geoffrey’s friends had brought a plate of food each.

  Ashleigh smiled, her mum was right, Tom really was gorgeous and it was hard not to keep looking at him. His clothing was casual, but screamed quality. The midnight blue shirt a marked contrast to the tie-died T-Shirt that Geoffrey was sporting, with his trade-mark cords, probably under the misapprehension that it made him look younger, rather than slightly deranged.

  ‘So, you’re a boob man then?’ Ashleigh’s stepfather, who was enthusiastically interrogating Tom about his passion for breasts, clearly hadn’t seen her approach.

  ‘He must be!’ Cliff, his creepy older brother, sprayed chewed-up cashew nuts into the air, laughing like it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. ‘I mean Ashleigh’s are huge, but the rack on that Summers girl is to die for.’ Cliff was actually drooling at the thought.

  ‘I can’t say it’s my main priority.’ Tom spotted her and gave her a look of amused exasperation, not bothering to explain to Cliff that his attraction to Ashleigh wasn’t based on the size of her breasts. At least she hoped not, she’d never compete with Susie-Anne on that basis. Cliff had made that perfectly clear.

  ‘I love tits.’ Geoffrey’s announcement was emphatic. This had to be the most embarrassing thing ever to happen to anyone in the history of the world. Horror flooded her body as Carol placed her hand on the small of her back and propelled her into the group.

  ‘Mum!’ Ashleigh protested to no avail. Carol was determined to join the conversation.

  ‘He certainly does, can’t leave them alone!’ Her mother laughed merrily. Carol had always called herself a feminist, but had never been the sort to burn her bra and was much too proud of her double D cup to risk them descending too far south. As far as she was concerned, feminism wasn’t about acting the same as a man and if you could use what nature had given you to your advantage, then why not? Puberty had been a nightmare for Ashleigh.

  ‘For God’s sake, do we have to have this conversation?’ She could only imagine what Tom must be thinking. She hadn’t met his mother, but she was almost certain that Mrs Rushworth wouldn’t be the sort to discuss anyone’s passionate desire for her boobs.

  ‘Oh loosen up, darling!’ Carol grabbed the underwire of Ashleigh’s bra and yanked it up until her breasts almost spilled over the top of her grey woollen dress. ‘You should make more of your assets and let someone enjoy them.’ Carol looked pointedly at Tom and Ashleigh officially wanted to die.

  ‘I think she looks great as she is.’ Tom manoeuvred himself so that he could slip an arm around her waist and he must have felt her shaking. ‘It’s been lovely to meet you all.’ He smiled warmly, practised as he no doubt was at disguising his emotions. ‘But we’ve got an early start in the morning and I think perhaps we ought to head home.’

  ****

  After the inevitable embraces from her mother and half the guests at the cottage, with assurances that they would pop in before heading back to London, they finally managed to escape into the crisp, still night just after ten p.m. Midnight Mass might even make the news, given that the vicar, the verger and a number of other key church members were, at that point, doing a conga in her mum’s back garden.

  ‘I’m sorry about my mother, well all of them really.’ As she spoke the cold night air stung her throat.

  ‘Don’t be sorry.’ His fingers entwined with hers and he squeezed her hand. ‘She’s just as you said she would be. Although Geoffrey and his brother were somewhat of a revelation!’

  ‘Oh God, I know, so embarrassing. I never thought I’d hear either of them use the word rack.’ She shuddered at the thought.

  ‘Does your mum always try to…’ Tom stumbled for the words, as if trying hard not to make her feel worse than she already did, ‘…um, encourage you like that.’

  ‘I think I’m a constant disappointment to her in lots of ways.’ Ashleigh hated coming across as a victim, but she might as well be honest. He’d already met her mum and there was no hiding the fact that their relationship was what all the self-help books called ‘dysfunctional’.

  ‘But surely she sees your success and is proud of that?’ Tom’s voice was unfamiliar, almost defensive.

  ‘I suppose she is, in her own way.’ She smiled ruefully. Tom’s mum was probably beside herself with pride at her boy’s achievements and she had every reason to be. ‘But she’d rather I was photographing meaningful stuff, like the latest protest march for whatever cause she’s adopted.’

  ‘What about you, is that what you want?’ He sounded genuinely interested, not just wondering if he needed to find a replacement photographer.

  ‘Sometimes.’ She didn’t tell him about the ‘street life’ photographs that she’d begun to compile; that was something she hadn’t told anyone but Stevie. The idea of putting a book together might seem laughable to Tom and she wasn’t really up for anyone laughing at her dreams tonight. ‘I know I’m lucky to have the breaks I’ve had though. Mum loves the whole celebrity thing too, don’t get me wrong, but she just thinks I don’t do that properly either.’

  ‘What do you mean? Your shots are always the best thing about Glitz.’ Tom’s unexpected praise, genuine since he definitely wasn’t the sort to offer false flattery, almost made her cry. It was a good job there was only a weak glow from the streetlight illuminating the inky night.

  ‘She thinks I should get more involved, make the most of it, if that’s the world I’ve chosen to live in.’ She smiled, back in control of her emotions. Her mother certainly practised what she preached. ‘When mum moved to the cottage she joined the church, even though she was an atheist, and suddenly she’s non-stop socialising with them and they’re happily conga-ing around her back garden.’ They were so different. Ashleigh faded to grey in her mother’s shadow, envious of her relentless confidence, even though her eccentricities were a constant source of embarrassment.

  ‘Don’t try to be like your mum. You’re perfect as you are.’ The last part was barely audible and what he said next surprised her even more. ‘I know what it’s like to have a parent who wants you to be something you’re not.’

  ‘Really? I assumed your mum would delight in everything you do.’ If it sounded bitter Ashleigh hadn’t meant it to, but Tom’s openness had shocked her.

  ‘Not Mum, my father. Before he died, I could never live up to his expectations, almost from the day I was born.’ He was matter of fact about it, as though the emotion it evoked had long since been dealt with, or locked away in a metaphor
ical box. ‘Anyway, that’s the past, but don’t let your mum change who you are.’

  ‘Ooh, this is like the Jeremy Kyle Show, you giving out sage advice and lifestyle coaching!’ There was no point probing further about his father, he’d probably already told her more than he’d planned to.

  ‘Jeremy bloody Kyle!’ Tom feigned indignation, as though glad of a chance to change the subject. ‘I thought I was a cut above that and might at least get Oprah.’

  ‘Nope, you’ll need to work on that.’ Ashleigh grinned, the lightened atmosphere taking some of the weight from her shoulders. ‘You need a tag-line to close your statement if you’re going Oprah-style, something like “You have to know what it is you want to be true to, before you can be true to yourself”. You know, deep and meaningful!’

  ‘I’ll work on it!’ Tom was still laughing as they reached Ashleigh’s road, no doubt thankful that their own deep and meaningful conversation was over.

  ****

  When they got to the flat, Tom wanted to check on Chloe and her mother. Leaving him to make the call Ashleigh disappeared into the spare room, which doubled as her office. She’d been struck with an idea about what to give Tom’s mum for Christmas – that was if any of the photos she’d taken the day before were good enough. She scrolled through the uploaded photos of Zac’s shoot and allowed herself a moment of satisfaction at how well they’d turned out. Amongst the shots were some of Stevie and Zac together, the chemistry between them as obvious as her instinct had told her it would be. There were also a few of Tom that she’d taken when he wasn’t aware and one of them stood out from the rest. He’d been laughing in the studio, at some silly remark Stevie or Zac had made and he looked gorgeous. As much as Tom’s mum would adore it, it was a moment she didn’t want to share.

  Switching the computer off, she opened the wardrobe and pulled out a small stack of paintings from the back. She selected one of the back-view of a child on the beach at Hythe, near to where Tom’s mum lived. Ashleigh had painted it a few years before and been pleased enough with it to get it framed, but she’d decided it was narcissistic to hang it up and perhaps it wasn’t that good after all. So she’d stuck it back in the wardrobe with the rest. Still, there were much worse paintings for sale in the gallery where she’d bought Tom’s Christmas present. Hastily wrapping the painting, which she wasn’t planning to confess was one of her own, in the same paper as Tom’s, she leant it against the wall beside his. Satisfied that Christmas was finally sorted, she smiled to herself and went to find Tom.