Chapter 22

After a lunch of scrambled eggs on toast made by Tom, we sit in the kitchen for a while. A morose mood has settled over both of us and neither of has said much. My eyes stray to the calendar and Tom's gaze follows mine. I study the page, coming back to the small square of Saturday that is tomorrow.

‘Maybe they'll let us off, if you get there by yourself, if I'm injured,' I suggest. ‘And anyone on the lookout would be looking for two people not one, so they'd ignore you.'

He gives me a kind but definitely an are-you-stupid look. ‘Lydia, I'm not leaving you on your own. Besides I reckon they'd use any and every excuse to stop us winning.'

‘You're not responsible for me, though.'

‘Don't I know it,' he says and there's a touch of humour in his words. ‘You're the most stubbornly independent woman I've ever met.'

‘I'll take that as a compliment.'

‘Actually, I think it is.'

‘Aw, that's nice,' I say in teasing voice and he smirks at me.

‘Behave.'

I'm smiling back at him and then I look at the calendar again and the cheesy photo above the dates, the big shiny blue cab with a grinning man standing beside it. It's hardly sexy firemen. Then I remember the blue lorries passing back and forth this morning.

I leap up, ignoring the searing pain that runs down my leg, and take the calendar from the wall, scrambling through the pages to find the back page.

‘They're in Sadgill,' I say and turn to Tom.

‘What?'

‘I know how we can get to London, tomorrow.'

‘You do?'

I point to the calendar. ‘Local haulage company. I've seen loads of their lorries go past. The depot can't be that far away. We could go and ask them if we could have a lift to the nearest town.'

‘What if they say no?'

‘I'll go all weak and feeble on them and show them my leg. And what if they say yes?'

He looks at me consideringly and a slow smile fills his face. ‘We've got nothing to lose. It's definitely worth a try. It's that or a mountain bike.'

‘No, it isn't. I can't ride a bike.'

‘What? You know the phrase "It's like riding a bike." It'll come back.'

‘I never learned.' Keen not to get into it, I continue. ‘We can rock up early tomorrow and ask. It's very difficult to say no face to face, if we put them on the spot. And we can exaggerate about my leg and needing to get home as needed.'

Tom considers my suggestion for a moment and then nods. ‘Okay. We have a plan,' he says, before adding, ‘Now I have a plan for the rest of the afternoon.'

* * *

We have a Star Wars marathon, watching the end of the first one and the whole of the second one and starting the third one. I'm so attuned to him now, I can tell that he's up to something. He keeps smiling to himself.

‘Now I'm going to cook dinner.'

‘Dinner?' That sounds grand. ‘What do you mean?'

‘I bought ingredients at the shop, I'm going to put them together.'

‘Does that mean I can have a break from death by Star Wars?'

‘Lydia Smith. You philistine.'

‘It's quite a lot to take in,' I whine and pout, which is so not like me but with Tom right now I feel I can get away with it. No one has ever looked after me like this and I'm rather enjoying it, even though I know it's a luxury I can't allow myself to get used to.

‘Because it's your birthday I'll allow that insult to the greatest film series ever. What would you like to watch?' He crosses to the DVD shelf. ‘Pretty Woman? Legally Blonde? Love Actually? Sleepless in Seattle?'

‘I love that you assume I'm going to want to watch a girly film.'

‘You could have more The Empire Strikes Back.'

‘Thank you –' I shoot him an impish grin, because he got it right first time ‘– but I'll stick with Pretty Woman. Have you seen it?'

He shrugs non-committally.

I'm not going to tell him it's my all-time favourite. The perfect Cinderella story. When I was younger, before I realised that I was the only person that was going to rescue me, it was my favourite feel-good fantasy, being rescued and taken away from my life.

For the next hour and half, I lie on the sofa, wrapped in the throw, happily absorbed in the story of Vivienne and Edward and a snotty shop assistant realising she's made a big mistake. No, hugemistake. It's my favourite line in the movie and reminds me of how far I've come from the anxious to please, always scared I'd be caught out, scruffy kid that everyone teased or ignored at school.

Tom joins me for ten minutes during the last half hour.

‘Something smells good. What are we having?'

‘It's a surprise.'

‘Can you cook?'

‘Of course I can cook,' he says, sitting next to me.

‘No funny stuff,' I say. ‘This is one of my favourites.'

‘But it was all right to disturb one of my favourites yesterday,' says Tom, kissing my neck.

I bat him away. ‘You started it.'

‘You shouldn't have been sitting there, sexy as hell.'

‘I was watching the film,' I protest but I'm secretly pleased by the ‘sexy as hell'.

‘Yeah, but you were all serious and it was cute.'

I shake my head and laugh. He's talking nonsense but it's fun and I'm enjoying this relaxed interlude after this morning's stress. Tomorrow we can worry about our next move.

‘Right. Dinner will be ready in ten minutes. But don't come through until I call you.'

‘Okay,' I say absently with a vague wave as he returns to the kitchen, pretending that I'm not all stirred up by his presence. My hormones seem hell bent on tying themselves in knots when he so much as touches me.

* * *

‘Would you like to come through?' There's a secretive smile on Tom's face as he beckons me into the kitchen. What is he up to? I'm not used to surprises … I stop dead in the doorway. I don't believe it.

‘Happy Birthday, Lydia.' Tom grins at me.

A row of tealights line the centre of the table, like runway lights beckoning me in, and there's a bunch of flowers arranged in a vase, which have obviously been picked from the garden. He's also gone to the trouble of covering the table with a tablecloth and each setting is beautifully arranged, complete with place mat, cutlery, wine glass, napkin and napkin holder. There's even a little pile of presents wrapped in newspaper.

Tears prick my eyes and I gape at him.

‘Tom, this is…' I sniff, which isn't terribly elegant, especially when he's made such an effort.

He looks completely nonplussed. ‘Sorry, I?—'

‘No, no. It's lovely. Really lovely. It's just no one has ever…' I have to bite back a sob but it's no good, I can't stop the tears spilling out of my eyes.

‘Hey, hey. You're not supposed to cry,' he says taking me in his arms and kissing my tear tracks.

It so beautifully romantic and sweet. I look up at him, my heart bursting. No one has ever done anything so lovely for me. There's a planet-sized lump in my throat and I really can't say a word.

He takes my hand and leads me to the chair, which is when I notice the bottle of wine in an icepack sleeve.

‘I'm afraid I've pretty much blown our budget,' he says apologetically. ‘But it's your birthday.'

I'd like to tell him I forgive him but I'll start blubbing again.

He hands over a folded sheet of A4 paper. On the front there's a drawing of two people. I study them for a second and realise it's me and Tom. It's really very good. Inside the folded sheet of paper, it reads, ‘Happy 30th Birthday Lydia'.

‘Sorry it's home-made, but I wanted to keep the budget for other things.'

He pours us each a glass of wine, handing one to me and then lifts his to chink against it. ‘To you. Happy Birthday, Lydia.'

My hands are shaking when I lift my glass. I think I might cry again. This is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.

‘Now open your presents,' he demands.

‘You didn't need to get me presents,' I say although I'm completely charmed. ‘But it's so sweet that you have.' I give him a starry, watery smile. ‘Oh Tom, thank you.'

His smile is so sweet. ‘It's really not that much. Don't get too excited. Honestly. Remember I didn't have much money.'

‘That doesn't matter,' I tell him, picking up the first parcel. ‘As they always say, it's the thought that counts.'

‘Mmm,' he mutters. ‘But they don't always mean it.'

‘Well, I do,' I say as severely as I can when I'm more excited than I can ever remember. Unable to savour the anticipation, I tear the newsprint wrapping paper from the first parcel, to reveal a large bar of Cadbury chocolate.

‘Chocolate!' I squeal, because who doesn't love a giant-sized bar. ‘Thank you.' I plant a smacking kiss on his mouth. ‘If you're good, I might share it with you later. Although you'll have to be very good,' I say playfully, ‘because I do love my chocolate.'

‘No!' he says with a teasing smile. ‘I'd never have guessed.'

‘What gave it away?' I ask, laughing.

‘It might have been the I'm-about-to-have-a-spiritual-experience-here look on your face before you tucked into your Nutella on toast, or maybe you were just constipated.'

‘Tom!' I remonstrate although I giggle at the face he pulls to demonstrate.

The next package is much smaller and he's watching me as I open it. This time I take more care, intrigued as to what it might be. A pair of purple hair bobbles with balls pop out, bouncing on to the table with a gentle clatter. ‘Cute,' I say, picking them up and smiling because they are cute and I'm so going to wear them tomorrow.

‘I notice sometimes you wear your hair in a ponytail. It suits you.'

Cute and thoughtful. My heart turns into a gooey mess as I vow I'm never going to part with them.

The last present is a small, oddly-shaped package that contains the ugliest fridge magnet I've ever seen, a slightly deformed woolly sheep standing on a tussock with the words ‘Lake District' in neon orange letters.

‘You always have to have a fridge magnet from wherever you've visited,' explains Tom earnestly, catching his lip between his teeth. ‘Sorry –' his eyes crinkle in apology ‘– I know it's a bit damaged but the woman in the gift shop section said I could have it for 50p.'

I run my fingers over the shaggy edge of the sheep's back, studying the chip where one of its ears is missing. ‘It's beautiful,' I say, and I mean it. While it might be a bit battered, it will always remind me of being here. Tom didn't have to buy me anything, but he has, and also found things that have meaning. I'm so touched, I choke up and can hardly speak.

‘It's a bit crap, really,' he says, pulling another apologetic, slightly rueful face.

‘No! No, it isn't.' I give him a teary smile. ‘Don't you dare slag off Shaun. He's lovely. And thoughtful. And you didn't have to.'

‘Shaun, eh?'

‘I prefer Cyril – he looks like a Cyril – but Shaun is alliterative.' I'm babbling to hide my elation. I genuinely feel spoiled … loved, even. Although of course Tom doesn't love me … but he must like me to have bothered. Don't get carried away, Lydia, I tell myself. It doesn't mean anything.

‘Now are you ready for your Cordon Bleu extravaganza?' I'm intrigued as there are some seriously lovely smells coming from the oven but no sign of much cooking apart from the solitary pan on the stove.

He leaves the table and moves to the kitchen area, switches on the kettle and as soon as the water boils, pours it into the pan and switches on one of the electric burners on the hob.

I sip my wine and watch him as he moves around the kitchen, totally at ease. My hand brushes the birthday card on the table as I put my glass down and I study the well-drawn figures. It's another piece of who Tom Dereborn is. He's talented with a pencil, as he's managed to capture us perfectly. It's the two of us drinking coffee, leaning on the wall outside the derelict cottage. I remember that morning so clearly, the brilliance of the sunshine bringing light after a long, dark night. Being with Tom in this cottage feels a bit like that. Isolated from everyone else, it feels as if the two of us can be who we really are, without any outside constraints or expectations.

* * *

After the most delicious tray-baked chicken and potatoes with frozen peas, Tom clears up.

‘You need to close your eyes,' he says.

What more can he do to surprise me? I can hear him rustling about and then a match strike.

Then I hear the chink of china on the place mat as he sets a plate in front of me.

‘Okay, open them.'

I do. In front of me there's a pink fondant fancy with a solitary blue candle stuck in the top.

He starts to sing ‘Happy Birthday' and when he reaches the end, he says, ‘Make a wish.'

I blow out the candle and promptly burst into tears again but this time they're accompanied by full-on sobs. The last time I had my own cake with birthday candles was the year before my granny died. After she'd gone, everything in my life went to pot.

‘Hey, Lydie.' Tom immediately pulls me to my feet, to cradle me in his arms. ‘Shh, it's okay. Shh.' He looks down into my face with a worried expression. ‘I didn't mean to upset you.'

‘Sorry.' I sniff. ‘You didn't. It's just no one has gone to this much trouble for me … for a long time.'

A range of emotions cross his face and, for the briefest of moments, I think I see fear in there.

‘It was no trouble,' he says hurriedly. ‘In my family, birthdays are a big deal. This is what we do. It's habit, really.' His smile is quick and tight, the soothing hand on my back has stilled and now he's patting me in a much more impersonal style. ‘I thought it was a bit of fun, a way to while the time away before we leave tomorrow.'

Ah, yes. There it is, the reference to ‘fun' and that slight withdrawal. I need to remember how good he is at that. Maybe I should come right out and ask him about it, but now doesn't feel the right time. I don't want to spoil the moment of having a real birthday cake.

‘My granny always used to make me a birthday cake with candles,' I explain, with one of my trademark indifferent shrugs. ‘I miss her, that's all.'

‘Oh, right,' says Tom, looking ever so slightly relieved. ‘My gran's still around. Though she's not a cake-baking granny. More of a bridge and afternoon sherry grandmother.'

I nod as if I know what that means. ‘Right, let's tuck into this cake. Do I have to share it with you?' I paste an expression of mock horror on my face to lift the mood. I don't want Tom thinking that I think this anything more than an interlude. To make sure, I add a cheeky grin. ‘Or do I get it all because I'm the birthday girl?' I snatch up the pink iced cake to make my point.

Tom's shoulders relax. ‘Actually I had to buy a whole box, but they were marked down because the sell-by date is today.' With the balance regained and the status quo back – Tom and Lydie, working well as a team and nothing more – we eat our fondant fancies in silence.

‘You canny shopper, you,' I say approvingly, folding up the paper cake case. ‘That was bloody lovely. I'm impressed by your foraging skills. Knock-down magnets and cakes.'

‘Managing the budget,' he says.

‘Talking of which, are you going to tell me why you want to win the money? It must for a very good reason because…'

‘Because what?' he asks with a lift of his eyebrows.

‘You don't strike me as particularly materialistic. I mean you have good quality stuff.' I think of his rucksack, his walking trousers, his waterproofs and walking shoes – all probably expensive but also practical. I can tell he belongs to the get-what-you-pay-for tribe. ‘But it's not flash or show-offy.'

‘Thank you.'

‘I'm not complimenting you,' I say sternly. ‘I'm observating.'

‘Observating? Is that a word?'

‘My granny used to say it. It's a cross between observing and deducting,' I say with a snooty sniff that makes him smile.

‘I'll tell you, if you tell me.'

‘Deal. You go first.'

He picks up his wine glass and takes a sip before setting it down very precisely and lining the drink's coaster perfectly parallel to the place mat.

‘Will it be any surprise to you that I don't really love insurance?'

‘Are we supposed to love it?' I think about the work. I enjoy it because I'm good at it, really good at it, but I'm not passionate about it. Admittedly I've worked very hard and been determined to be as good as I possibly can but that's more about gaining status and securing my independence. I wanted to become a someone in the workplace because where else could I become a someone? No matter what career I'd fallen into, my motivation would have been the same. Work is a very important means to an end.

Tom shrugs and despite the desolation in his face, it makes me smile. I think it's something he's picked up from me.

‘My dad seems to think so. My brother, sister and me all went into the industry. Dad's a bigwig – people are always impressed that we're related to him. I went into insurance because I felt I had to. And that sounds bloody pathetic but … my folks are the traditional type and when you're twenty-one and they're calling the shots, it's not that easy to rebel, especially when you're told that you'll break your father's heart, or upset him or disappoint him or all of the above.' His half-muffled laugh is bitter. ‘It took me far too long to realise that the only thing that upsets Dad is when he doesn't get his own way.'

‘What do you want to do?'

He looks at me, direct and unflinching. ‘I want to make films. Always have. As you might have gathered, I love them. I've got a screenplay that's been accepted by a small independent production company to make full-length feature film – it's the most amazing opportunity. They can finance most of the costs but not all and if I can't raise some cash, they'll move onto the next project.'

I look at him in a new light. Tom is bold and exciting. He has a proper dream. A real passion. It shines in his voice. ‘Wow,' I say. ‘That's awesome.'

‘It will be,' he says. ‘If I can get the finances together.'

‘What's the screenplay about?'

He shakes his head. ‘Not yet. Why do you want the money? You don't strike me as someone who wants money for money's sake. What's your big dream?'

‘It's not a big dream. It sounds very prosaic, next to what you want.'

‘Spill, Lydia.'

‘I grew up in my gran's house until I was five. Then she died. I inherited it but of course I wasn't legally an adult so my parents administered it on my behalf.' My gran wasn't stupid. She knew if it were left to my mum and dad, they'd have sold it and drunk the proceeds before the year was out. ‘I want to restore it.'

‘Has it been empty all this time?' asks Tom.

I close my eyes for a second. ‘No, my parents lived there for a while.' I pause. ‘They trashed the place.' I grimace, thinking of the neglect of the once beautiful home.

Tom stares at me, uncomprehendingly. ‘Your parents trashed your house?'

‘Yeah, like I said, they like a drink or two. They moved out when I was twenty-one and stopped paying the electricity and water bills. And I've been spending what I can to keep the place watertight and secure but this would make it habitable again.'

‘You never wanted to sell it?' There's sympathy on Tom's face.

I shake my head. ‘No. Stupid really but it's the last link with my gran and she wanted me to have a home. She knew it would be bad when she'd gone, and unfortunately she died very quickly.' I don't want to think about that time. I change the subject.

‘Right, as you cooked, I'll wash up.' I stand up and pick up my plate, but he jumps up and takes it from me.

‘Uh uh. No. The birthday girl is excused from washing up. You go take a glass of wine and cue up the next Star Wars film.'

‘If it's my birthday, shouldn't I get to choose?' I pout, not believing for one minute that he's going to fall for it.

He sighs. ‘Go on then but you might never get this chance to catch up on the Star Wars universe.'

‘I'll risk it,' I say and turn to take my wine back to the lounge with a cocky grin. What he doesn't know is that I have every intention of watching the next Lucas extravaganza with him.

‘Big mistake, huge,' he teases.

‘You have watched it.'

‘Might have done.'

The light-hearted smile on his face as I walk away fills me with sadness. This is our last evening together. Our interlude is about to end. I don't for a minute think that back in the real world there'll be a happy ever after. This domestic bliss is as make-believe as one of his films. It's not real life, certainly not as I've ever experienced it, but we've got tonight and I'm going to enjoy it while I can.