Perfect Timing

by Owen Nicholls

TOM: Are you still doing your Bucketful of Klostermans bit?

  JESS: We might have to explain that to the audience. I think about twenty people listened to my ill-fated podcast experiment of 2016. And I’d urge them not to revisit it.

  TOM: But “The Bucket” was a good bit.

  JESS: It was. To explain, there’s an American writer named Chuck Klosterman who likes to make up stupid hypotheticals, and I’d bring these questions out at various points—

  TOM: Like the famous “Would you rather fight a hundred duck-sized horses or one horse-sized duck?”—that sort of thing.

  JESS: I heard a great one the other day.

  TOM: Go on.

  JESS: If someone opened a restaurant called Karma where you’re only served what you deserve, what would arrive at your table?

  TOM: Great question. Just such a great question. OK! Moving on.

  JESS: Answer the question, Tom.

  TOM: Do I have to?

  JESS: I know what I’m getting but I think it best to keep things light. So, in your words, moving on.

  TOM: I think you’d get a better meal than you think.

  JESS: That’s a very nice thing for you to say. So, are you missing life on the road?

  TOM: Surprisingly not. Which is a weird thing to discover.

  JESS: What are the things you miss that you didn’t think you would? And vice versa?

  TOM: I knew I’d miss hanging out with my mates, so that’s not a surprise. Oh! I know! Tucked-in sheets in hotel beds.

  JESS: You’re a tucker-inner? I never would have guessed that.

  TOM: That’s the thing, though, I’m not. I hate the tucked-in sheets. But I miss that moment of rebellion where you kick them loose and shout, “Not today, ya quilty bastard!”

  JESS: Ha!

  TOM: We all do that, right? It’s not just me who talks to their linen?

  JESS: I had a pretty in-depth discussion with a toaster once, but we can blame a heroic dose of psilocybin mushrooms for that one. Any other hotel room stories you want to share in front of a roomful of strangers?

  TOM: Ha. No. I think I’m good there.

  JESS: What happens on the road…

  TOM: …is surprisingly boring.

  JESS: What about now you’re home? Is your liver in shock?

  TOM: It might be. I’ve stopped drinking.

  JESS: Completely?

  TOM: Yep. (pause) I know you want to ask, but you’re being awfully polite. It’s fine. I decided it would ruin me one day and I don’t want to be ruined.

  JESS: I am so sorry. I had no idea. We really don’t have to talk about it, if…

  TOM: It’s OK. Honestly. I’d like to. I think it’s good to talk about stuff. Maybe someone else is going through the same thing. With struggles like these, one of the worst things is the loneliness. Thinking that it’s just you suffering can make it ten times worse. I was in a bad place. Thought I’d figured myself out, which is a dangerous thing to assume. Someone, ah, someone close to me pointed out I might not be as together as I thought I was. She turned out to be very correct in that assumption.

  JESS: And now?

  TOM: I pay more attention to what people are telling me. People are smarter than you think.

  JESS: Right. That’s the half hour mark. But I’m having fun so let’s keep going. If that’s all right with you?

  TOM: Absolutely.

  JESS: Shall we take some questions from the audience?

  TOM: On your head be it.

  JESS: If you have any questions, just put your hand up and we’ll get you a mic. Yes. The lady in the yellow jumper.

  AUDIENCE MEMBER 1: You’ve both had quite famous partners…

  TOM: Oh, Christ. I knew this was a bad idea. The dreaded exes question.

  AUDIENCE MEMBER 1: …I just, I wondered how it was to date someone—

  TOM: Way more famous than you.

  JESS: We’re the rejects, aren’t we?

  TOM: I think so. Sorry, please finish your question.

  AUDIENCE MEMBER 1: I suppose I just wanted to know, is it tough dating another celebrity?

  TOM: Right, no more questions from the audience.

  JESS: Tom?

  TOM: Oh, I’ll go first, shall I? Thanks. Er. Yes, I suppose, is the short answer. But contrary to popular opinion, people in the public eye are actual people. They have the fun jobs that everyone wants. They get paid more than they should in comparison to people who actually do good—you know, doctors and nurses and the like. But underneath they’re all the same. They fart and belch and…

  JESS: Touch themselves.

  TOM: That, as we’ve learned, they do. So, no, I’ll completely reverse my previous answer. I don’t think it’s harder to date someone who is a quote unquote celebrity. Jess? Care to share your thoughts?

  JESS: I assume you’re referring to a certain Australian comic who’s making quite a name for himself of late telling stories about me. I probably wouldn’t date him again. But, Tom’s right. I’m lucky as anything to have this life, but I don’t consider myself a wholly different person from before I became a professional comedian. Or a quote unquote celebrity.

  TOM: God, I hate that word. Don’t you?

  JESS: Just a bit. Next question.

  AUDIENCE MEMBER 2: I’ve got one for Jess and one for Tom. Do you see yourself going back on the panel shows? Doing stand-up again? And Tom, have you seen Jess’s show?

  JESS: I don’t see myself doing a lot of TV, of any sort to be honest. I haven’t fully decided. I doubt it, though. Not the way I was, anyway. But I do have an idea for a TV show.

  TOM: What’s it about?

  JESS: A boy and a girl.

  TOM: I’d watch it. And yes, I have seen Jess’s show. It’s really good. I was lucky enough to see her years and years ago. We were on the same bill for some crappy Edinburgh’s Got Talent thing that I really did not want to do. Jess was great then and, well, I think she’s great now.

  AUDIENCE MEMBER 3: Hi, Tom. Huge fan of your music. And I love your tattoos.

  TOM: They love you too.

  AUDIENCE MEMBER 3: Do you have any new ones?

  TOM: Ha! I do, as a matter of fact. I got a new one done a few days ago.

  JESS: Can we see it?

  TOM: It’s across my arm, so yes, you can. Just need to roll up my sleeve and…It’s three little words that bring me a lot of comfort when I’m feeling low or anxious or if I’m struggling in the darkness. Like we all do from time to time.

  JESS: (reading) And…That’s…OK.

  TOM: Those words mean a lot to me, so I thought I’d get them inked.

  JESS: OK! I think that’s a perfect place to end it. Edinburgh Festival, you have been wonderful. Please give a big hand to my guest, Tom Delaney of The Friedmann Equation. See you all next year!

  48

  Miles Davis

  Jess

  George Street, Edinburgh

  August 29, 2018

  The audience was hopefully far enough away to not see the tears in my eyes. But Tom saw them. This I know. I tried to shield them as I shook his hand on the stage. I tried and failed. And now I have to work out a way to tell him. To let him know this mascara-ruining mess is a good thing. That it’s the right thing.

  Our wranglers don’t notice the disloyalty from my tear ducts and a quick wipe gets rid of the evidence. Instead, they herd Tom and me back out into the arena for more smiling and photos and all the bits and pieces of the publicity game that nobody tells you about when you’re young and deluded enough to think fame is all that’s worth pursuing.

  Before he’s surrounded by fans wanting selfies, I whisper into Tom’s ear, “Can we go somewhere and talk?” He nods eagerly. I whisper into my publicist’
s ear too. Priming her to tell everyone we have five minutes before we need to go.

  The next five minutes might be the longest of my life. They’re not the worst. They give me time to watch Tom to see the parts of him that have changed. He’s still the shy, anxious person who barreled me to the floor and skinned my knee in the city we’re in now. His eyes still dart around the room, but now it doesn’t look so much like he’s searching for the nearest exit. I see him scratch his beard as another young man, possibly racked with the same self-doubt as him, manages to summon up the courage to ask for a photo of his idol. I can see Tom would rather not, but he balances the joy he’ll give with the discomfort that might put on himself. The equation isn’t weighted as much to one side as it once might have been.

  “Sorry, everyone,” the publicist announces gleefully. “Places to go. People to see. Thank you all for coming. A recording of the show will be online sometime next week. Check the Jess Henson website for details.”

  The three of us exit via the stage door and after some huge thanks and rushed goodbyes, Tom and I are alone. I can feel my hand ever so slightly trembling as we walk the warm streets of Scotland’s capital. We amble side by side. No words spoken. Until.

  “You know Miles Davis?” Tom asks.

  “The trumpet guy?” I reply, curious as to where the hell he’s going with this.

  “Yeah. He released fifty-one albums. And only four of them were puns around his first name. Milestones being the ultimate one. The rest never really live up to that in terms of punna—”

  “Tom!” I yell, stopping on the spot. He stops walking too and turns to me. “What are you talking about?”

  “Absolutely nothing,” he confesses. “I just wanted to talk to you. Are you OK? Your hand’s shaking.”

  “I know.”

  “Why is it doing that?”

  I take my eyes off the floor and look at his. They’re hopeful. But no longer desperate.

  “It’s shaking because I’m scared.”

  “Why are you scared?”

  “Because I like you. I like you so much. And I have for a very, very long time.”

  I hold out my hands and he takes them.

  “You’ve never shook before.”

  “That’s because we’ve never got to this point before. Not really. Not the point where this could really be something.”

  Despite us stopping in the middle of the throngs, Festival-goers pass around us without giving us a second look.

  “I haven’t always known how to behave when I’m around you,” Tom explains. “I’ve said the wrong thing a lot. And it wasn’t because I didn’t care or I didn’t think it through. It’s because I thought about it too much, until there were a million different lines in my head with a million different outcomes if I chose the wrong one. I’ve never been confident enough to say what I want.”

  “And now?” I prompt.

  Silence.

  “Tom, please. Just tell me if you still want me.”

  “Of course I do. I always have. And I don’t care if you say you don’t want me…I mean, I do care…of course I care.” Even now, I can see frustration at his own tongue and brain not working in tandem. But he perseveres. “Massively bollocking my words up is probably something I’ll always do.” He pauses and says, “I’ve been seeing someone…”

  My heart sinks and I instantly let go of his hands. He screams the word “No!” loud enough to warrant the attention of a few passersby, which, considering getting attention in Edinburgh is no small thing, seems like an achievement of sorts.

  He clarifies. “A counselor. I’ve been seeing a counselor. Jesus. Why is this so hard?”

  “Things that are worth it usually are.”

  At this, he smiles. “I’ve been seeing a counselor and we’re working on my ability to express myself. I’m teaching myself to try not to panic, to keep the doubt away for long enough so I can say what I mean. It still takes me a little while to get there. I need to be with someone who can let me get there.”

  I know exactly what he’s talking about.

  “To be with someone who doesn’t attack?” I ask. “Someone who doesn’t bite your head off?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “I suppose so.”

  “I can be that person,” I reply. Before adding in a disclaimer. “Probably.”

  He furrows his brow. I think it’s as angry as he can get, and he looks pretty damn endearing when he does it. He asks me again. “Jess?”

  “I can. I can do that. But there are plenty of things about me that won’t change.”

  His eyes go wide and he yells “Good!” to more stares. “Because as I may have mumbled before, I like you. I like you being you. I think you’re the best when you’re you.”

  He looks at me and he sees me. Really sees me, like no one I’ve met before. This man has been near me at my best and at my worst, and he’s still here. It’s been a long and winding road but we’re here. Together.

  “I want to kiss you,” he tells me.

  “I am not angry with you for wanting that.”

  “Good,” he says.

  “Good,” I say.

  And then he does. He holds me close and his lips touch mine, and my hands are on his face and it feels right. After years, actual years, of missed opportunities and messed-up moments, it feels better than right. Like the waiting has given it more value.

  Finally, the time is right.

  49

  Perfect Timing

  Tom

  George Street, Edinburgh

  August 29, 2018

  A few roads over is the curry house where I first met Jess. There’s a version of our story in which the men who jumped me on that same night left us alone. There’s a version where I came clean about my made-up girlfriend early on. There’s another where she listened to the words in between the words I spoke. Where she was slower to anger. More forgiving. A version where she didn’t put her guard up and I didn’t fluff my lines. But I don’t want any of those. Because none of those versions end with this moment, timed to perfection, right now.

  We’re back in the same place we started. We’re the same people. Just with slightly different outlooks. Who’s to say any other version of Tom and Jess would have been able to make a go of it if circumstances had fallen in their lap. Who’s to say this Tom and Jess will.

  Watching Jess on stage, and then being on stage with her myself, I could see Julia was right all those years ago when she said Jess would do something amazing. Something to blow us all away. I’m proud to know her. And proud I saw I could be a better person for knowing her. Not that there isn’t room for improvement. Kissing her—here and now—I have absolute certainty that perfect timing isn’t about circumstance. It’s about who you are. There’s a reason couples who get together at a certain point in their lives make it work. And a reason others don’t. Jess and I have ironed out some of our worst creases. We’ve another gazillion to work on, but with confidence, patience, and kindness on our side, I have hope. She steps back and looks at me with love.

  I am no longer afraid.

  No longer afraid of who I am and whether I’m good enough. No longer afraid of the what-ifs.

  Jess kisses me again. This time with passion and desire and longing. It doesn’t take long before we’re back in her flat, in her room, and in her bed. After, we stare up at the speckled ceiling, our hearts beating frantically, but in time. I’m short of breath. I was the first time I met Jess Henson.

  “That was exceptionally good timing,” she notes.

  She lies naked across my chest, in the groove of my neck and shoulder, burying herself deep.

  “What are you up to now?” I ask.

  “I had a thing,” she replies. “But I don’t really want to do the thing.”

  “So, you’re free?”

  “As a bird.” />
  “And what about next week?”

  “No plans.”

  “You want to hang out then?”

  “Sounds perfect to me.”

  Epilogue

  Tom and Jess sit across from each other in a café they both feel they know but can’t quite place. To their credit, the location has changed a lot over the past four years. New staff, new décor, bold experiments with the menu that have failed and triumphed in equal measure. Everything old is new again.

  Tom likes it. He likes this part of Sheffield. He likes that it reminds him of his grandfather, and he likes that it’s the place where Jess feels most at home. Where she can be herself. He has a feeling that, if he’s able to give enough time over to it, he could one day call it home too.

  In their shared flat they work on their own projects, sharing ideas, seeking advice, supporting one another. She still teases him, of course. Only now the teasing centers around his weird sleeping habits and domestic peculiarities. Over food and drink, they often discuss his strange theory that the two of them have lived out these moments an infinite number of times (and will live them out an infinite number more). They are both content that, to their senses, this world, and everything in it, is fresh and new and surprising.

  They both know they have big decisions to make, but now is not the time. Plans are for tomorrow. Today is for living. There is no distance between them anymore. From above, you can see they are exactly when, where, and who they both should be.

  To Mum and Dad

  For everything

  Acknowledgments

  This book has been—as many books are—a battle against self-doubt, fear, and more than a few interruptions. I didn’t fight this alone, and it was only won with the help of the following people.

  First, always, Nina. Your support and love make everything possible. Eleven (11!) years and counting. Thanks for all the encouragement, the time, and, especially, the “pick-me-ups.”

  Oscar and Isaac: “How you doing boat!”