Belinda Missen - One Week ’Til Christmas

‘I don’t know what that is, but it sounds delicious,’ I said. My mouth was already watering at the idea of parmesan cheese. And pasta. All the carbs and fat.

‘Shall we?’ he asked.

‘Please.’ I gestured ahead of us. ‘Lead the way.’

We might have decided on dinner there and then, but we still spent another hour browsing quietly before we did anything about it. Wines were refilled as we passed drink carts, and we marvelled at the charm of the micro-village vibe, complete with the occasional trinket stall. Tom navigated like someone who’d memorised the floor map before arriving, dodging crowds, fire pits and buggies in the process.

We arrived at the Pasta Wheel to a small queue and the biggest wheel of cheese I’d ever seen. In fact, the last time I’d seen a wheel that big, I’d had a flat tyre in the middle of the freeway and had to wait for roadside assist to come and scuttle me out of the way of traffic.

I watched on in glee as a chef tossed steaming fettuccini into the hollowed centre of the wheel of cheese, stirring it until the edges melted and it looked like one great big mess of dairy and cholesterol. It was topped with fresh goat’s cheese, cooked sausage and chives – and then handed over the counter to me. Delicious!

With plates piled high with pasta so cheesy we’d kill the lactose-intolerant, we made our way to the nearest dining hall. A tent full of heaters, ambient lighting, and a loop track of carols that played a tad too loud. Tom led the way to a back corner and an empty pair of seats.

‘Okay, now, Isobel.’ He threw a leg over the bench seat and wriggled about to get comfortable, fork and napkin placed carefully to the side, dinner container opened for the obligatory oh-God-let-me-eat-it sniff.

‘Hmm?’ I dumped everything in a pile, fork tinkling down on the table and dangling precariously in a gap between two slats.

‘Given you’ve had the opportunity to interview me today, is this the part where I interview you?’

‘Oooh.’ I frowned. ‘No, I need to apologise for today.’

‘Apologise?’ Tom frowned. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘My interview. It was awful.’ I stuffed the first bit of food in my mouth. It was so much better than I could have imagined.

‘It wasn’t awful, I promise you. I’ve had worse,’ he said, shaking his head and prodding at his dinner.

‘It’s just … I should have been more prepared.’

‘Really? Because the impression I got was that your boss hung you out to dry. Last-minute invite and all that,’ Tom reasoned.

I sat back and thought for a moment. It was a little from column A, and a little from column B. ‘Maybe, but I said to him last year that I wanted to do more interviews, wanted to get my experience up. Purely selfish reasons though.’

‘What reasons are they?’ he asked.

‘Honestly? I want to move away from travel writing and on to something else, something I have more control over.’

‘You don’t like the travel?’ he asked.

My eyes popped. ‘Don’t like it? I love it. I have seen so much of this world, but I want more from this job. I want to write things that matter. I want to interview people on deeper topics. I want to be in control of when I’m away.’

‘Now you’re hitting on a sore point.’ Tom’s fork dangled in the air in agreement. ‘The uncertainty of time away.’

‘You know what I mean?’ I asked. ‘What am I talking about? Of course you would.’

‘Absolutely.’ He nodded. ‘I miss so many family events because I’m away on set. People have this idea that I have this astounding jetsetting life. I mean, for the most part, it is. It’s the best. Like you, I see all these great places, and I have my dream job, but there’s the built-in guilt at not being there for things. I get the phone calls asking if I’ll come to birthdays, weddings, even funerals , and sometimes I just can’t.’

‘See?’ I held my hands out. ‘You get it.’

‘I promise you, I do.’

‘See, I figure that if I can create my own blog that’s, I don’t know, part travel, part feature articles, maybe I can create something with a bit more clout, something that’s a bit more in line with me and who I am. I can write about more than the temperature of the water in the hot springs, or—’

‘—what’s your favourite cheese?’ Tom broke in.

‘Please don’t tell me someone asked you that?’ I cringed, embarrassed that someone could ask something so arbitrary.

‘The reporter after you,’ Tom nodded. ‘Apparently, they thought it would be a great idea to open up their Twitter feed for questions.’

I buried my face in my hands. ‘I am so sorry.’

‘Pfft. Don’t be. Just don’t be so hard on yourself.’ He stirred his dinner. ‘Just know that, when you interview me for your blog, you can ask me way better questions.’

‘Interview you for … wait, are you saying you would do that?’

‘Absolutely, I would,’ he nodded. ‘You know, if I told anyone else this, they would tell me to shut up and be grateful. In fact, I had that conversation with a friend recently. I bemoaned wanting to see a band play in town, but I was going to miss them because I was away, and I got the old—’

‘—I don’t know why you’re so ungrateful,’ I mocked my sister. ‘You just got back from Disneyland.’

‘And I am grateful. I’m so humbled by everything I have right now. My life is amazing, but there is more to me than photoshoots with puppies, fan fiction, favourite cheeses, and asking me whether I would date a fan.’

I screwed my face up. ‘I cringe because I would have eaten that stuff up at fourteen.’

‘I know,’ he chuckled. ‘And I get it, but …’

‘But there’s more to Tom?’ I asked.

‘Yes. So, let’s do this. You want to launch your site and do this interview over again? Let’s do it.’

I bumbled around a bit. ‘I mean, we could.’

‘Don’t back out on me now,’ he said. ‘What else have you got planned this week? Let’s set a time. We’ll make it way better than this afternoon’s effort.’

‘Plans for this week?’ I raised my cup. ‘I am going to stuff myself with mulled wine—’

Tom nodded in the direction of my cup. ‘Good start.’

‘—and eat all the Christmas food, and just generally be Christmassy. It’s the first chance I’ve had to spend time in London over Christmas, so I’m feeling especially festive with bells on! I need to go ice skating and get my photo taken with Santa.’

‘Hold up.’ Tom poked the air with his fork. ‘Your first Christmas in London?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘And where, pray tell, do you usually spend your Christmases?’

‘Usually?’ I looked up from my dinner. ‘Melbourne.’

‘I love Melbourne,’ Tom gushed. ‘I was there, oh, about six months ago. It was only for three weeks, filming this godawful straight to DVD film, but I loved every minute of my time there.’

‘Excuse me?’ I feigned my disgust. ‘You were in Melbourne and didn’t call? Tom, how very dare you. If it’s not bad enough that you body slammed me into a gutter, you don’t call the next day? What are you?’

‘I am but an awful man, a husk of a gentleman,’ he teased with a laugh.

‘Tell me all about Melbourne,’ I said. ‘I want to hear your version.’

Wherever I travelled, I adored talking to people who’d been tourists in Melbourne. Because I lived there, I often felt that the city had lost some of its wonder in the rush of everyday life. As much as I tried to see the city through a tourist’s eyes, I’d been there, done it, seen it a million times. Sometimes, that caused some of the finer, more beautiful details to fade into obscurity. So it was refreshing to hear about our restaurants and zoos, shopping strips and tourist traps from people who’d only ever had fleeting visits.