Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

TOM

“ H e shook my hand,” I say in disbelief.

I look around the table, groaning under the weight of Christmas dinner, and then at my family, who are watching me with mixed amounts of concern and hilarity. Outside, the snow falls thickly onto the garden where our old climbing frame still sits. I look back at them.

“My hand ,” I repeat with emphasis.

“Was he supposed to grab your cock?” Arlo enquires. Jack nudges him, and Arlo spreads his hands. “What? Maybe it’s some sort of social convention I’m not aware of yet.”

“I think you’re fully aware of all cock conventions,” my sister says, pouring herself more wine with a great deal of concentration.

“Not this one, and that is a crime,” Arlo proclaims dramatically.

Jack laughs. He always seems lighter around my brother.

Baz, our resident rocker, snorts in his sleep. He’s staying with us while Dad writes him songs for his next album. He passed out around the tenth bottle of wine and the main course, and has been snoring face down on the table with a party hat stuck to his ear ever since. We all pause, but then he goes back to snoring.

My dad comes into the room, followed by my mum who’s carrying the Christmas pudding on a plate. Dad’s long grey hair has been pulled back in a ponytail, and his sleeves are rolled up, showing his many tattoos. When I was little, I used to like to outline them with a biro.

“What’s up?” he asks, moving slowly. His pupils are huge, so he’s obviously just smoked a joint with my mum. We could hear the giggles from the conservatory that scandalised my rather conservative great aunt. She arrived yesterday to spend Christmas and New Year with us, which came as a bit of a surprise because no one had invited her. My dad just laughed and welcomed her in.

“Bee,” Sal says, rolling her eyes. “And how he shook Tom’s hand when really he should have been shaking his penis.”

“I never said that ,” I say crossly, and she smirks at me.

My dad takes the pudding from my mum and sets it down as carefully as the crown jewels. “I like the sound of this boy.”

“Why?” I ask cautiously. It’s bound to be for some odd reason.

“He has manners. He slept with my boy but still managed to be civil the next day.”

My mum snorts, and Arlo and Jack burst into laughter. They got stuck into the eggnog before dinner and are well-oiled now. It’s lethal stuff. I remember my dad offering it to the vicar once, who’d called around for a donation. He left wearing a party hat, blowing one of Sal’s rave whistles, and minus any money.

“More eggnog?” Arlo offers our great-aunt Clara, his smile wicked and lopsided, and his face full of his usual charm.

She sniffs and moves her glass away, but Arlo’s so pissed he carries on pouring.

I look around the table, but no one else seems bothered, so I keep my mouth shut.

My dad grabs his lighter from his pocket. “Ready?” he asks, and we all nod, watching as he sets the lighter to the pudding.

“We wish you a Merry Christmas. Shiiiit ,” he mutters as the pudding goes up like something from Backdraft . “Fucker,” he breathes. He looks at my mum. “I think I put too much brandy on it, Shel.”

She wrinkles her nose. “At least we can turn the heating off now.”

“This family is completely barmy,” Clara hisses, pushing back her chair as the flames climb higher. The pudding is burning happily now.

My dad looks around. “Do we have a fire extinguisher?”

“I’m not eating it if you spray that on it,” my sister proclaims, rummaging in the wine rack for another bottle. “It’ll taste disgusting.”

“Ask not, and you shall receive,” Arlo intones, and he and Jack break into more giggles.

I look around at my family affectionately. They’re either pissed or stoned or both. Then, I reach forward and pour water over the burning dessert. There’s a crackle, a smell of burnt currants, and the pudding winks out. We all stare at the sodden mess.

“Cheese and crackers it is, then,” my dad says cheerily, banging into the doorframe as he walks back into the kitchen.

Arlo gazes at me meditatively, which is never a good thing. “Maybe you should talk to him,” he announces, his voice slurring around the edges.

“Who? Tom’s young man?” Clara asks warily.

“Yes.”

“But that’s ridiculous. Tom is far too drunk to court anyone.”

Arlo wrinkles his nose. “But that’s where the real poetry can come in. Byron was drunk for most of his life.”

“He also had an affair with his half-sister,” Clara says rather tartly, but I ignore that in the wave of excitement that rushes through me.

“That is an excellent idea,” I say, banging the table for emphasis.

Sal looks up from where she’s rooting through the mess on the table for the cracker gifts. “What’s a good idea, and did it really come from Arlo?”

My brother sticks his middle finger up at her. “Tom should speak to Bee.”

She blinks and then turns to examine me. “Hmm,” she finally says. She looks around. “Who got the teeny tiny tape measure in their cracker?” She goes back to sorting through napkins.

My mum stirs. “Do you like this boy, Tom?” she asks.

I look at her affectionately. Her long, dark hair is pulled up in a lopsided bun, and her blue eyes are shining.

“Yeah, I do.”

She and Clara share a smile, and Clara pats her hand affectionately. She loves my mum above everyone in the house. My dad comes in, setting a huge platter of biscuits and cheeses on the table. He nods at Jack. “Go and get the chutneys, babe.”

Jack disappears into the kitchen, and my dad settles back at the table. “What are we talking about?” he asks, slinging his arm over my mum’s shoulder. It always makes me smile. They never go anywhere without holding hands, and our childhood may have been eccentric and filled with rockers and drama, but we were surrounded by so much love and laughter, too.

“Tom’s young man,” my mum says. “He really likes him.”

“I do,” I say, staring at them. “He’s clever and funny and quirky.”

“Oh, that’s good. They’re the best sort of people,” my mum says, smiling at me.

“Is he kind?” my dad asks. It’s always his first question.

I think back to the holiday. “Yes, but he hides it.” An idea occurs to me, beautiful in its simplicity, and I stand up. “I’m going to get him.” They all stare at me, so I elaborate. “I’m going to turn up on his doorstep—” I stop to hiccup. “—his doorstep and bloody tell him how I feel.”

“Oh, good heavens,” Clara mutters.

Arlo starts to laugh. “ Yay ,” he shouts. “Go for it.”

I grin at them. “I feel so much better now I’ve got a plan.”

“Is this a plan or a drunken idea?” Clara enquires.

“Both,” I announce. “I’m pretty sure he likes me. He did shag me all holiday, after all.”

“Goodness, it’s like Barbara Cartland sat down at our table,” my sister says and exclaims in triumph, holding up the tiny tape measure from the cracker. “I got it. Now, who’s nabbed the little bookmark?”

“You don’t read physical books,” my mum offers.

Sal shakes her head. “It’s the principle of the thing.”

“Right, I’m off,” I announce, excitement fizzing through me at the thought of seeing Bee again.

My dad sits up straight. “Hang on. Let’s think about this.”

“Thank you,” Clara intones. “ Finally , a word of wisdom.”

“You’d better have another glass of eggnog,” my dad continues. “It’s cold out there. You’ll need it for the walk.”

Arlo rolls his eyes. “Dad, if Tom has any more of this he’ll be over the limit for walking, let alone driving.”

“Nonsense,” my dad says. “Good things happen when you drink this.” He winks at my mum who smiles happily back.

“Yes, like alcoholic comas,” my brother mutters.

I shake my head. “Well, I’m off. I may be some time,” I proclaim.

They all smile and wave at me with varying degrees of inebriation, and I grin back, pleased with my idea. I walk into the hallway, my dad following me, and pull my coat on. “Alright?” I ask.

“You’ll struggle to get a bus.”

I shake my head. “It’s only a couple of miles away. I’ll walk.”

“You’re serious about this lad, aren’t you?”

I stop in the middle of winding my scarf around my neck. “When I first saw him something inside me stopped and said, ‘ This one.’”

He stares at me. “Like me with your mum?” he says, awed.

I nod. “I know it’s ridiculous, Dad, but there’s something different about this one. There’s something about him that’s…”

I pause and he grins at me. “Yours?”

“I knew you’d get it.”

He comes closer, pulling me into a hug. “Then go for it,” he says. He steps back and gives me his crooked smile. “And then bring him home so he can meet us all.”

“He’ll love you,” I say with complete certainty. I can see Bee in the midst of us. He’ll fit in so well.

He kisses my forehead and then pulls my hat over my head, tucking in my hair the way he used to do when we were kids.

“Off you go then, Sir Galahad,” he says, opening the door. He blinks. “Man, it’s snowing hard.” He winks at me. “Christmas, eh?”

“Love you, Dad,” I call as I walk out into it.

“Ring when you get there,” he orders and shuts the door.

I stand looking at the snow tumbling heavily around the old, detached house on the quiet street. I pull a strand of mistletoe off the tree in the front garden and tuck it in my beanie for good luck. Then with hope and excitement filling me, along with a hefty dose of eggnog, I start walking.

London looks magical tonight. Snow falls over the houses and shops, making the mundane look suddenly beautiful. Cars are covered in white, windows glow bright with fairy lights, and I can hear snatches of Christmas music and laughter as I pass by houses. The wind blows and I nestle close into my coat, seeing my breath on the air.

I pass the odd worker heading home, but by and large, I’m on my own, and I think of that moment on Circus Lane when Bee and I had danced in the snow. It had felt like magic, but the ordinary kind that makes life better.

I wonder what he’s doing. I know he was going to be on his own on Christmas Day and was then going to see his dad on Boxing Day. For the first time it occurs to me that he might not be alone. I remember the way he’d sacked off that bloke, and then I recall the handshake he’d given me, and I stop dead in the middle of the street. Has he gone out and pulled today?

My stomach turns and then I remember other things. The way he seemed to come alive under my attention. The shy smile that he only gave to me. The way we confided in each other. I remember all of that and then I start to run, my feet slipping on the snow and splashing my legs in coldness. I need to see him.

A man reels up the road towards me, clearly pissed. “Oi, where’s the… Where’s the fire?” he slurs.

I give him a wave. “I’m off to get my bloke,” I call.

He snorts and gives me a theatrical bow that sets his balance off, so he lurches into a bush. “Off with you then, Sir Lancelot,” he calls from the depths. “Good luck.”

“Thank you.” I pick up speed. “Merry Christmas to you,” I shout. He echoes the sentiment.

When I finally get to Bee’s flat, I stop to catch my breath and bless the fact that I keep fit. Even though I’m used to running, I’m hot. I raise my head, the cold air striking my face. The snow is falling thickly now and gives everything that heavy, muffled sound.

My phone rings, and I fumble for it with cold fingers. “Yes?” I say breathlessly.

There’s a pause and then Arlo says, “Are you already with him?”

“What? No.” I look up at Bee’s balcony window. I remember Ivy waving from it at the start of our holiday. Now, it glows bright, with fairy lights sending spangly shadows over the snow on his balcony. “I’m outside his flat.”

“Oh, that’s a relief. I thought you’d answered the phone while shagging. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“That was a complete accident,” I say huffily. “I put my foot on the phone.”

“Well, it was definitely one for the family memory books.”

“What do you want?”

“We just wanted to know you’d got there safely. The added bonus was listening to you swear and breathe heavily. Rather like an old boyfriend I used to have.”

“That’s just wrong , Arlo.”

“I love these little chats we have.”

“I think he’s home. His light is on.”

“Why are you whispering?”

“Because I don’t want to wake people up.”

“Why don’t you ever think that about me?”

“You don’t count.”

“I’m truly wounded.” He pauses and I hear Jack saying something in the background. “So, we want to know if you’re going to do something? Ring a bell maybe?”

“No.” I look around and a brilliant idea occurs to me. “I’m going to throw snowballs at his window.”

“What the fuck ? Why?”

“It’s romantic.”

“Whanging shit at people’s windows is not romantic. It’s asking for a trip in a policeman’s car.”

“No, it’s romantic,” I insist. “He’s got this Juliet balcony and when he looks down, it’ll be like Romeo and Juliet.”

“Did Romeo throw shit at his bird? I must have fallen asleep at school and missed that bit. Anyway, Romeo and Juliet is not a romance, Tom. They both die.”

I pause in scooping up some snow. “So why does everyone say it’s a romance?”

“I don’t know. Why does everyone say that eating broccoli is good for you? The world is a strange place.”

I cradle the phone under my chin as I gather more snow and roll it into a compact ball. “Well, here goes nothing,” I say.

I throw the snowball at Bee’s window. It lands with a soft thunk right on target.

“Woo-hoo,” I crow far too loudly.

“Has he come out?” Arlo asks.

“No, but you missed a spectacular throw. It was like when I played cricket for the under elevens.”

“Unlike my attempt at cricket, where Dad attended and said I ran like the Bionic Man after drinking five tons of Campari. I still don’t know who that bloke was, but Dad kept shouting, ‘Don’t panic. We can rebuild him.’”

“I remember him finding that hilarious,” I say fondly. “The cricket teacher, not so much.” I shake my head. “No movement from the flat so far. Let’s go for another one.”

“Oh, by all means.”

I gather another handful of snow and roll it into a ball and pull my arm back.

Then two things happen. Bee’s window opens, and he looks out over the balcony, his hair ruffled and his eyes bleary. Unfortunately, my arm jerks and I let go of the snowball. I watch, horrified, as it spins through the air and hits Bee in the face with the force of a missile. He promptly gives a squawk and falls backwards into his flat. There’s a loud crash and the light goes out.

“Oh, that’s not good,” I whisper into the phone.

“Why? What’s happened?”

“I hit him in the face with my snowball and he fell backwards. I might have knocked him out and he’s definitely broken his lamp.”

There’s a moment of stunned silence on the other end of the line, and then Arlo starts to laugh. “Oh fuck,” he wheezes. “Tell me that again. Please .”

“My romantic life is not the subject of humour,” I say sniffily.

He laughs harder. “It is when you knocked your beloved out with a sixer.”

BEE

The festive Strictly Come Dancing is playing on the TV and the lights on the Christmas tree twinkle. The flat is tidy and warm for once, and I’m full from the Chinese takeaway I ordered earlier. So why does everything feel so horribly empty since I got back from Edinburgh?

I snuggle further into the sofa and under my nest of blankets. I know the reason. I miss Tom.

I huff. “Fuck off,” I say out loud. It sounds good, so I say it again. “Fuck off. It was just a holiday shag. Nothing more.”

I pop my head out of the blanket. It was different, and I know it and no amount of swearing will stop that I managed to go on holiday and catch fucking feelings.

“ Fuck my life,” I breathe.

I miss him. I miss seeing his smile. I miss our adventures. I miss smelling his cologne and feeling the heat of his big body against me. I miss the way he seemed to look at me and really see me. He saw Beethoven Amadeus Bannister, because that’s who he got, unlike anyone else. I showed him the real me that’s buried under the years of academia and rejections. I showed him me, and he actually liked me.

And then I shook his hand .

I groan. “Why did I do that?”

I wanted to kiss him and ask to see him again. But then my usual caution reared its head, and I protected myself from rejection by donning my mask of indifference.

I turn on my side and stare at the fire, the false flames flickering merrily, unlike my mood. I reach for the Lindt selection box. Maybe chocolate will help. After all, dark chocolate can improve blood flow and lower blood pressure. It’s also said to improve brain function, and I need all the help I can get with that at the moment.

But ten truffles later, I have a neat pile of pretty foiled wrappers, I feel sick, and I still miss him.

I pick up my phone for the fiftieth time this hour and check the screen. Nothing. He hasn’t tried to contact me.

Tears sting my eyes. Why would he? He’s probably midway to hooking up with someone else. After all, he’s handsome, funny, and clever. The perfect trifecta. The next bloke might not be such a twat as me, and they’ll end up together, living in a big old house with dogs and decorating projects. They’ll go away with friends and have more adventures.

I blink. Since when has that become my dream? I consider the images in my head and have to concede that it’s since Tom. We have Before Tom, Currently Tom, and now I sadly have After Tom.

I cuddle back down into my blankets, feeling tiredness tug at my brain. I didn’t sleep well last night, and I need to be up and out the house early tomorrow to get the train to Oxford to see my dad.

My blinks get longer and longer and then sleep takes me under.

I come awake with a start, a dream about Tom still tugging at my head. I want to go back to sleep. What woke me? The fire is still burning merrily, and the TV is now showing what looks like The Omen . I roll my eyes. Because nothing says Christmas more than dramatizing the birth of the antichrist.

I’m about to lie down when I hear it. A soft thump. I sit up in a rush. Someone’s throwing something at the window.

Crossly, I get up and then squeak when the blanket wrapped around my legs trips me and I thud onto the floor. “Motherfucker,” I hiss. I manage to stand again, and then I march to the French windows. I throw them open and lean out to shout. And then I freeze when I see Tom standing under my window.

He’s wrapped up in his parka, and his angular face is bright under his woolly hat. I hardly have time to register this when something cold and wet hits me in the face. I fall backwards into the flat. As I go down, I hear a tinkle of glass and a pop as the lamp falls off the table and smashes.

For a few seconds, I lie stunned, staring up at the ceiling. Did that just happen?

“Bee?”

Tom’s bellow brings me to myself, and I sit up so quickly that my head reels. “ Tom ?”

I clamber up and lean out the window again. He’s pacing in the glow of the streetlamp.

“I’m so sorry,” he shouts, seemingly unable to regulate his voice. I gesture frantically for him to talk quieter, and he nods. “I’m so sorry.” He attempts a whisper, but it isn’t much lower in volume.

I cast a look at the next-door window. Mr Jenkins will be out in a second complaining about the noise. “You just twatted me with a snowball. What are you doing here?” I hiss. My heart is pounding with excitement and pure joy at seeing him.

“I had to see you,” he shouts up. “I couldn’t let you go.”

“Oh my god ,” I breathe, putting a hand to my chest. “What is going on?”

“I had to come.”

“You’re covered in snow.”

“I walked here.” He stops. “No, I ran ,” he proclaims loudly. “There aren’t any buses at this time.”

“You ran all the way here?” I sound as breathless as I feel.

He nods. “I missed you as soon as I left you.”

“Oh my god ,” I say again.

“The thing is—you’re like a gingerbread man.”

I blink. “Sweet and spicy?”

“No. If anyone gets too close, you run, run as fast as you can, and nobody can catch you.”

“It must be the only time I actually do run.”

He ignores that. “But I would very much like to catch you.”

The next-door balcony door is flung open and Mr Jenkins steps out. “What is this noise?” he snaps. “Decent folk are trying to spend Christmas in here. Are you both drunk ?”

“Sorry,” Tom calls, his handsome face creased in concern.

I glare at my neighbour. “No, we’re not,” I snap. “Go back inside.”

Mr Jenkins stares at me. “I beg your pardon?”

“If we’re distracting you, go inside.”

“Erm, Bee,” Tom starts.

I ignore him and focus on the idiot who just interrupted us. “Do you know what is happening now?” I proclaim.

Mr Jenkins edges back a bit. “No?”

“That man is proclaiming his feelings to me.” I pause. “That is what you’re doing, isn’t it?” I call down.

Tom nods enthusiastically. “I certainly am. All the feelings.”

I look back in time to see Mr Jenkins’s lip twitch and I point a finger at him. “This is my moment,” I say, sounding a little too much like Martine McCutcheon for my liking. “And you are not going to spoil it.”

“Understood,” he says quickly. His eyes are twinkling, so Christmas miracles do come true because the only time I’ve ever seen him look like this was when he successfully sued the bin company. “Merry Christmas,” he says and vanishes indoors, locking his balcony doors with a decisive click.

Silence falls and I turn to lean over my balcony. “Do you want to come up?” I ask.

Tom nods. “I do,” he says.

We snort at the same time. I look down at him, feeling excitement and heat run through me. Then I gesture to him and race to press the buzzer to open the building’s front door.

The next few minutes are spent pacing at my door wondering what’s taking him so fucking long. I’m just considering whether he’s been abducted by aliens when the knock comes. I stare at the door, feeling my heart hammer. I wipe damp hands down my jeans and throw the door open. At the sight of him, I lean heavily against the jamb.

He looks warm and rumpled and maybe a little drunk, but seeing him immediately fills me with excitement, heat, and peace. I shake my head. How can that be?

He watches me with dark eyes. Finally, he stirs. “I missed you.”

“So…” I stop and clear my throat. “So you said.”

He raises one eyebrow, his grey eyes twinkling. “And?”

The silence stretches between us, as thick as golden syrup and twice as sweet. “And I missed you too,” I say. His eyes flare, and I step back. “Do you want to come in?”

Those simple words don’t sum up what I’m actually saying.

Do you want to get to know me? Do you want to fall in love with me?

Then, in that spooky way he has of following my thoughts when others can’t, he smiles and says, “I’m not interested in just coming into your flat, Beethoven. What about your life?”

“Is that something you’d like?” I whisper, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my ears.

The coloured fairy lights reflect on his face, making him look magical. And he is, in fact, magical to me. “I think it really is,” he says solemnly.

“Not just for the festive season?” I check.

He shakes his head. “ Never just for that.”

I eye him, and then raise one eyebrow. “You stuck mistletoe in your woolly hat.” I suppress a smile.

He grins and it’s wide and white and beautiful. “You can’t blame a boy for trying.”

“Why are you trying?” I say, still bewildered by this. “Why me, Tom? I’m intense and a little too preoccupied with academia. I’m difficult and not easy to know. I can also be forgetful and very crotchety.”

Something about what I just said seems to relax him. “Because you’re sweet as sugar. You’re fiercely loyal to the small group of people you consider to be important, and I want to be amongst that number so much. You guard that heart of yours like the crown jewels, but it’s right you do that, because it’s very precious. Because you make me laugh, you make me talk to you and tell you things I wouldn’t tell anyone else, and just waking up to see your face on the next pillow makes me happy. The first time I saw you, I knew you were different somehow. That’s because now I know you’re the one for me. I know it’s sudden, but eventually you’re going to see I’m right. We’re going to stay together, and I’m going to fall in love with you and stay that way forever.” He pauses and grimaces. “Tell me the truth. Was that a bit stalkery? I feel like it might have edged that way towards the end.”

“Maybe a teeny bit, but I happen to like that.” I stare at his earnest expression, and I feel my heart expand like I’m the Grinch in Whoville. Then I throw the door open fully. “Come inside then, Tom Wright.”