Belinda Missen - One Week ’Til Christmas

‘I should explain that, usually, on a good day, I’m a travel writer. I go to health spas and restaurants, climb rope bridges and cram myself onto overstuffed bus tours. I don’t do interviews per se.’

Tom crossed one knee over the other. ‘Can I make a suggestion?’

‘Will it help?’ I let out a deep breath. ‘Because I’d really appreciate that.’

‘Why don’t you let me fill you in on what we’re doing here?’ he said, lacing his fingers together and crossing his legs at the knees. ‘That way, I toe the company line, you get all the important bits, and neither of us have to deal with any of the arbitrary garbage.’

It was the permission I needed to let go and relax. Lifting my eyes to his, I felt my body unravel. Blood stopped bellowing through my ears, and I was sure my teeth stopped doing their impression of a mortar and pestle.

He opened with a few brief sentences about his play, which was about a couple in the throes of a marriage crisis during World War II. That led to a discussion of how he’d indulged in books about wartime history, the psychological impacts of it.

His ability to correlate past events into minor details of the present, even extended to the fictional worlds he inhabited. This was especially pertinent to his role on Countershock , a role that saw him play a lieutenant caught in the middle of a modern-day war. His openness and intelligence made it so much easier to volley questions.

From then to now, and to what the future might hold, he had a studious eye, discerning taste, and was every bit in command of his own ship. Listening to him talk about roles and how he picked them, I wished I had more time to indulge in life, like normal people who binge-watched television over pizza and wine.

When somebody appeared to tell us our time was up, I felt a deep sense of deflation. Our time may have been short, but I’d found him to be utterly fascinating. He was handsome, whip smart, wryly funny, and wasn’t so tall he’d trip and hit his head on the moon. All I wanted was to listen to him talk about his world view a little more; it was deliciously addictive. Alas, it was over.

‘I guess that’s us?’

‘I guess so.’ He nodded once.

Tom’s eyes did not leave me as I watched his assistant walk away. Always with a phone to her ear, she looked to be holding four conversations at once. It made me grateful I’d only had to manage one with Tom. My gaze drifted back to him to find a whimsical smile set upon his face.

I 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.