Chapter 8 Gold Flecks
There’s no night in Troms?. This close to the Arctic, there’s just pure, unrelenting sunshine, from midnight to noon and back again, with light seeping in from every corner. And yet, despite the midnight sun, Tom sleeps. He sleeps and he sleeps and he sleeps, Ari held tight in his arms, her body a pleasant warm weight against his own. He can’t remember the last time he slept so well, or for so long. He can’t remember the last time he felt so light or free. He can’t remember ever being happier, or more content.
Because he is happy, he realises with a feeling akin to shock. He is happy. He is content. He, Tom Somerset, has found happiness at last. That restless hunger and almost violent need for something, anything, away from the stifling home of his youth and the family name that weighed him down has finally gone. At last — at long, long last — he is free.
He transfers all his money from the bank accounts his trust fund set up for him into an old one from his teenage years, which he suspects Marnie has probably forgotten about. He closes the others quickly and sits back with a sigh. It’s the first easy breath he’s taken in years.
He and Ari go hiking in the nearby hills. They drink coffee in the town cafes. They go whale watching and paragliding. They spend hours in their hotel room, learning the secrets of each other’s bodies. Tom loves every minute of these endless days and nights. He engraves them into his heart, brands them onto his soul and vows to remember them forever.
He sits for hours while Ari paints, and every canvas she discards, with a frown or a sigh, he secretly saves and posts to his New York home. What to Ari’s eyes seems imperfect, with colours or a texture unlike how she envisioned in her head, to him seems wonderful. He knows little about art, knows little about the creative process or artistic temperament, but he recognises beauty. After all, he’s with Ari, isn’t he? She’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, and to his mind her work is an extension of her. In the curves of her brushstrokes, he finds hints of her smile. She captures the colours of the ocean, but he sees only the blue of her eyes. In the rolling landscapes he recognises her soul. He can’t bear to see any of her work discarded, and so he saves them all.
They travel from Norway into Sweden before rolling into Finland. From there, they debate their next move. He wants to go west, towards Denmark, while Ari wants to go south, towards the Baltic states.
“It’s the Baltic,” he says, by way of an explanation for his reluctance. “Isn’t it cold there?”
“Says the man who just spent time in the Arctic.” She laughs. “I’d like to go to Riga, actually. There’s a special exhibition on there. About the eggs.”
“Eggs?” Tom raises his eyebrow.
“The Fabergé ones,” Ari explains, and then, at his continuing silence, looks aghast. “Oh, Tom... tell me you’ve heard of them?”
“The only eggs I know are the ones I have sunny-side-up in the morning,” he answers wryly, and Ari stares at him.
“How can you not know about the Fabergé eggs? That’s impossible.”
“I told you... art was never my thing. You want to talk about cars and planes? Great. But art?” Tom sighs. “Well, I’m just not your man.”
Ari rests her head on her hands, looking at him with those wide blue eyes that turn his insides to butter. “Tom,” she says firmly, “you’re my man regardless of whether or not you like art. You know that, right?”
He stares at her, his mouth suddenly dry. “Really?”
“Yes, of course,” she replies earnestly. “Besides, I kind of like that you don’t know about art. It means I get to teach you. Show you.”
He smiles at her. “And you want to start with eggs?”
“Not just any eggs,” Ari insists. “Fabergé ones.”
He grins at her, reaching for his coffee and taking a long sip. “Okay, so what’s so special about these Fabricate... Farber—”
“Fabergé,” Ari corrects him with a grin. “They’re surprise eggs. An outer layer with a surprise hidden within. They were made by Fabergé for the Tsars of Russia, who gifted them to their wives and mothers for Easter. They’re beautiful. Works of art, all of them. Made with diamonds and rubies and gold and silver. Each one tells a story. Each one is an adventure.”
Tom has to stop momentarily to take a breath, because when Ari talks about art, she glows with a happiness and passion that’s so vibrant it’s almost infectious. He reaches forward to brush his fingers down the pink blush to her cheek, and sighs.
“What is it?” Ari asks, looking at Tom with worry. “I’m talking too much, aren’t I? People are always telling me I talk too much, especially about art, and...”
“No, no, Ari,” Tom reassures her. “No, I was just thinking about you and me.”
“About you and me?”
“Yeah. About how lucky I am.”
She blushes again, and this time the pink to her cheek is deeper, though just as adorable. “You think it was luck that brought us together?”
“No,” Tom explains. “Not luck . . . Fate.”
“Fate?” Ari frowns. “You think it was fate?”
Tom nods, putting his coffee cup down and reaching for Ari’s hands. “Do you know how long it takes for a volcano to form, or how long it takes for them to erupt?”
She shakes her head. “No.”
“Hundreds of thousands of years,” Tom muses. “Hundreds of thousands of years for the earth to create the funnel, and hundreds of thousands of years for it to fill with magma. And that’s just to create the volcano... It then takes another ten thousand years for the pressure inside to cause it to erupt. Can you imagine that? You and me, Ari, we were half a million years in the making. Half a million years waiting to be in the same place at the same time, forced together through an act of nature.”
Ari looks at him with soft eyes. “So, if we were brought together by fate, why are you lucky?”
“Because someone or something up there, or out there or wherever, thought I was worthy enough of you to send millions of tonnes of ash into the sky at the exact right moment to bring us together.”
Ari squeezes his hand with her own. “I didn’t know you were so sentimental.”
“Neither did I,” Tom replies wryly. “I guess you bring it out in me.”
A slow smile creeps across her face. “With lines like that, you’re lucky we’re in a public place. If we were alone, I’d be all over you.”
“Feel free to be all over me later,” Tom grins, and Ari laughs back. The sound is like music to his ears. “Fuck it,” Tom decides. “Let’s go to Riga.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I want to see these eggs of yours. Take another adventure with you.”
“An egg is always an adventure,” Ari replies immediately, her tone suddenly parrot-like. “It may be different each time.”
“Right.” Tom grins, and Ari swats at his hands.
“It was a quote, Tom. Oscar Wilde.”
“I’m never going to remember that.”
Ari gives him a shrug so cheeky and playful he suddenly wishes they were alone. “Maybe one day you will.”
He can’t help himself. He bends forward to kiss her, pressing his lips to hers for a long moment, relishing once again in the shape of them against his own. “An egg is always an adventure,” he whispers.
“An egg is always an adventure,” Ari whispers back. “Let’s go and have some more of our own.”
* * *
Sasha was distraught when she turned up at Tom’s bedside, her face tear-stained and red.
“Your mother is such a bitch ,” she said viciously, plonking herself into the bucket-chair by his bed and crossing her arms. “I’m your fucking fiancée, but she got first visitation rights?”
“Well, once we’re married—”
“I mean, I’m going to be your wife ,” Sasha spat. “Does that mean nothing to her? For fuck’s sake, I’m your bride .”
“Yes, I know, but she’s my mom.”
“So?” Sasha asked. “You live with me, don’t you? Honestly, the whole system is ridiculous. And she was here for ages . I mean, what were the two of you talking about? You never talk to your mom for that long.”
Ari’s name and face briefly crossed Tom’s mind. Closing his eyes, he settled back on his pillows and took a deep breath.
“Nothing,” he lied. “We didn’t really talk about anything. She was just making sure I was okay. I am okay, by the way,” he added, suddenly realising Sasha hadn’t even asked. “They’re keeping me in overnight, just as a precaution.”
He saw her give him a quick, sharp glance. “Well of course you’re okay,” she said, matter-of-factly. “I have to say, I’m incredibly relieved you don’t have any visible wounds or scars, Tom. That would have fucked up our wedding pictures completely.”
He stared at her, a little shocked, and she blinked.
“And of course,” she added, her voice sweeter, “I’m so glad you’re okay. I was so worried about you. When they called and said the plane had crashed, my stomach just dropped. But you’re okay, and you don’t have any scars.”
“No,” Tom murmured quietly. “No scars.”
Sasha gave a satisfied nod. “Good. Oh, and that’s it, by the way. No more flying for you—”
Tom smiled at Sasha’s concern for him even as he opened his mouth to protest.
“—until after the wedding. You can crash all the planes you want once Stella Snow has finished taking our photos, but until that moment, you keep your feet on the ground.”
The smile dropped from Tom’s face. “Fine,” he agreed with a sigh. “Look, Sasha, I need to get out of this hospital. My mom has... Well, she’s made a mistake and I need to rectify it and—”
“We got Stella Snow, did I tell you?” Sasha carried on, as though Tom hadn’t even spoken. “Our new wedding planners — you’ll love one of them, by the way, he’s divine, I’m sure we’re going to be the best of friends—anyway, they pulled the rabbit out of the hat and not only managed to snag a Luis De León dress for me but a Stella Snow wedding shoot too. The wedding planners are miracle workers. I’m so lucky.”
“You mean we’re so lucky,” Tom corrected her tiredly, and Sasha gave a shrug.
“Well, obviously. We found each other, didn’t we?” she asked, sweet once more. “Fated to be together.”
Tom paused, wondering why Sasha’s words, still hanging in the air like her cloying perfume, suddenly sounded so ominous and vaguely threatening. He was probably tired, he decided. The crash and his mother’s visit were catching up with him, and his mind was done for the day.
“I think I need to sleep,” he announced, abruptly exhausted. “I was going to come home, talk to my mom... but I think I need to sleep first.”
“Oh.” Sasha looked slightly annoyed. “But I drove all this way.”
“Come and get me tomorrow morning,” he suggested, pulling a blanket over his legs. “I just need to sleep. I’d be no good to you tonight anyway, and—”
“I can’t come and get you tomorrow,” Sasha replied irritably. “Luis De León is arriving tomorrow, and I need to go over wedding ideas with... oh, what was her name, Ari something or other—”
“What did you say?” Tom snapped, sitting upright in his bed and staring at Sasha with dark eyes. “Who are you talking about? Who is Ari?”
Sasha looked at him sharply. “You are tired,” she decided. “Ari is the wedding planner, silly.”
Tom’s heart pounded hard in his chest, his hands felt damp and sweaty. “Ari...” he said, in utter disbelief. “Ari who?”
“I don’t know,” Sasha shook her head, an odd look in her eyes. “She’s from Queen and Country Weddings. Although now that I’m thinking about it, Ari might not even be her name. It might have been Carrie. Or maybe Sally. I don’t know, I didn’t pay much attention to her. She didn’t say anything of importance.”
Tom sat back, suddenly feeling like a fool.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “I shouldn’t have... it doesn’t matter.”
But Sasha was still looking at him oddly, sharp curiosity in her face. “You jumped at the name Ari. Who was she?” she asked, her voice syrup sweet. “An old girlfriend?”
Tom, sensing danger in her words, set his face into carefully bland lines. “No,” he shook his head. “She was just someone I, uh, worked with. Once upon a time. Besides, she’s married now. Happily married.”
“Oh,” Sasha looked bored again. “Well, this Ari, or Carrie or whatever... She wasn’t married. She’s never been married.”
Tom felt, once again, that sharp stab of disappointment. When will it end? he asked himself. When will I forget? But he shrugged to Sasha, trying his best to look nonchalant.
“Right,” he said. “I guess it can’t be her then. Look, Sasha, I really am tired—”
“Fine, fine.” Sasha stood, stretching up on two elegantly heeled legs. “Look, I can’t come and get you tomorrow. I’ll get your mom to come and pick you up—”
“She won’t come,” Tom said bluntly.
“Right.” Sasha nodded, without even asking Tom why. “Okay, so, rent a car then. Charge it to your mom though. I don’t want to pay for it.”
“I’ll pay for it,” Tom said, repressing a hot bolt of anger at Sasha. He needed to sleep before he said something he regretted. “It’s not like we can’t afford it, Sasha. And Mom is already paying for the wedding.”
Sasha must have sensed his frustration, because her face abruptly softened, and she leaned towards him. “Look, I don’t really care how you get back, just get back safely, okay?” She kissed him softly. “I don’t like being away from you. It’s an exciting time for us. We should be together.”
Tom kissed her back. “It is an exciting time,” he agreed, though his words sounded strangely flat.
“It really is. I can’t wait for you to meet the wedding planners.” Sasha straightened up. “And Luis De León is flying in... It’s so wonderful, he’s probably on his way right now, they said he was going to get the first flight he could.” She gave Tom a broad, genuine smile. “I can’t wait to meet him and start talking about my dream dress.”
Tom couldn’t help himself, returning Sasha’s smile, enjoying her obvious display of excitement. She was so blunt and to-the-point normally, hardly ever allowing herself to show her true feelings. It was probably why they got along so well, Tom thought, with a rise of bitterness that took him by surprise.
“Don’t worry about me,” he told her honestly. “I’ll get back somehow. You just make sure you enjoy yourself tomorrow with this wedding dress person—”
“Designer,” Sasha corrected him, picking up her bag.
“Right, designer,” Tom smiled at her. “It’s our wedding, Sasha. I want you to be happy. It should be exciting. It should be an adventure.”
Adventure. It was a word he associated with Ari, one that brought to his mind memories of sweet summer kisses and European cities and the smell of paint on slender fingertips. It was a word that made him both smile and sigh, a word that filled him with wistful longing and regret for times gone by. It was a word that he loved, but one that had been missing from his life for far too long.
Life with Sasha wasn’t an adventure, he suddenly realised. Life with Sasha was one long road of hard tarmac with no turn-offs. He swallowed, uncomfortable. He didn’t know where his mind was at today. Clearly the crash, and then his talk with his mother, had taken it out of him, or why else would he be like this?
“I need to sleep,” he said again. “It’s late.”
“Well, you can blame your mother for that,” Sasha shrugged. “I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah? Try to be a little... Well, better than you are right now. You need to meet the wedding planners and Luis De León tomorrow, and I want you to make a good impression.”
“Right,” he answered. “A good impression.”
Sasha stopped at the flat tone to his voice, and she gave him a worried glance. “You are excited too, aren’t you Tom?” she asked. “Look, I know I’ve been a nightmare recently. I know I’ve been preoccupied and distracted and probably not as nice to you as I can be. It’s just that this is my wedding and—”
“Hey,” Tom cut in softly, mollified by her conciliatory tone. “It’s okay. I get it.”
“Do you?” Sasha’s voice was small.
“Yes,” he said firmly. “It’s a wedding, and you’re a bride, and you’re entitled to be a little bit extra before it all.” He saw Sasha’s face relax. “I’ll try to be on my best behaviour tomorrow, okay?”
She nodded. “Great.” Now her tone was bright and breezy, the tense moment between them almost forgotten. “Try and be back at your mom’s place for lunch, okay? By all accounts Luis De León is a bit of a foodie, so I’ve asked the chef to prepare a quail egg salad.”
Tom grimaced.
“You and eggs,” Sasha rolled her eyes. “I’ll never understand why you don’t like them.”
“It’s not that I don’t like them, it’s just that I choose not to eat them.”
“Well, you’ll just have to put up with them tomorrow. I want Luis De León to see how cultured we are. We need to serve an adventurous dish.”
“Like eggs?” Tom asked wryly.
“Exactly,” Sasha answered, clearly missing the sarcasm in his voice. He watched as she applied a thick layer of lipstick.
“Well,” he added, “I guess an egg is always an adventure — it may be different each time.”
He’d spoken the words without even thinking, and the moment they left his lips he sat back, stunned. Ari’s face, her satin skin dusted pink and her beautiful smile immediately crossed his mind. Longing, painful and hot, struck him hard.
He missed her so much.
Next to him, Sasha rolled her eyes. “You and eggs,” she said again. “Get some sleep and I’ll see you tomorrow.”
* * *
After a restless night, Tom discharged himself as early as he could from the hospital, before the sun had even begun to rise. He gathered his things and took an Uber to the nearest Avis. He rented a small car for the rest of the week, figuring it was probably a good idea to have two vehicles. He knew that if Sasha’s dress design session didn’t go well, she would refuse to leave until it did. For Tom, that was an unpalatable thought. He didn’t want to linger at his mother’s house, didn’t want to have time to wallow in the past when he could bury himself in work and the grime of the city.
With a sigh, he started on the long road to his mother’s place, watching as the small town near where she lived turned into long and winding country roads. About twenty minutes from home, a car ahead stood stationary on the road, hazards flashing, and Tom slowed. A man waved him down, a cell phone clutched in his hand, but Tom carried on past him. Sasha would kill him if he was late for the wedding planners, would kill him if he missed playing the happy groom for the wedding designer, and he couldn’t afford to invoke any more of her ire. He felt a momentary flash of guilt, because under normal circumstances he would stop and assist, but right now he was tired and feeling more than a little blue, and he didn’t want another fight with Sasha to pull him down further.
Tom glanced in the rearview mirror and abruptly swore, pulling his car to a sudden stop. Behind the stationary vehicle, sitting on the grass verge with her head resting on her knees, was a little girl. She was small and tired-looking, and Tom swore again before he opened his door, stepping out onto the grass.
A lone traveller he was happy to ignore, but not a kid. Tom knew that in this part of the world they might be by the side of that road for hours waiting for roadside services, and, at heart, he was a good guy. He didn’t like to see children suffer.
He plastered a fake smile on his face and headed to the man he’d passed earlier. “Can I help at all?” he asked.
“Oh, thank God,” the man replied, grinning at him. “I thought you were gonna drive right past us, to be honest.”
“No, not me,” Tom lied, feeling more than a little ashamed. “What’s up?”
“The car stopped, and my phone doesn’t work here,” the man explained. “Any chance I can use yours to call the rental office?”
“It’s a rental?” Tom asked.
“Yeah, we just got into town,” the man said, scratching his head tiredly. “It’s been a long journey, and we’re exhausted. Do you mind if I use your phone? I can pay you for the call and...”
“No, that won’t be necessary. Here.” He handed over his cell.
The man grinned again, and something about his smile, something about his face and the handsome curves to his cheek, made Tom stop.
“Have we met before?” Tom asked slowly, but the man shook his head.
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Oh,” Tom said, rubbing his eyes. “It’s just... you look familiar to me. I don’t know where to place you though.”
The man gave him another smile. “Well, I am kind of, well, famous, in my field.”
“Oh. That must be it.”
He must be an actor, Tom decided. A man that handsome, that ruggedly well-built, with a megawatt smile like he had, was made for the screen. He’d probably seen him on one of those terrible Netflix shows Sasha liked to watch.
Tom watched as the man punched in a number and held the phone to his ear. When he started to speak, giving details about his journey and the problem with the car, Tom remembered the little girl behind the vehicle and turned to her.
Surprisingly, she was looking up at him, and something about her eyes, about the curve of her face, made him pause again.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hello,” she replied, in a soft voice, a voice that was childlike and silky and British, of all things.
“You’re English,” Tom remarked, thoroughly confused. Because the man she was with, a man who Tom could now hear speaking rapidly in Spanish, had all the markings of an American accent.
“Yes,” she replied, still staring up at him with those eyes. They were unnervingly familiar to him, so big and wide, the brown of her irises flecked with gold. Her hair hung in honey-coloured waves around her face, and faint freckles dotted her nose. Tom’s stomach felt tight, his skin inexplicably hot, and he stared at her.
“Are you all right?” the girl asked him suddenly. “You look pale.”
“I was, uh, in an accident yesterday.”
“Oh.”
“I crashed a plane,” Tom added, even though there was no need to say anything further.
“Did it break?”
“What?”
“The plane,” she clarified, giving him a wary look.
“Uh, no, well... nothing I can’t fix. I’m good with planes,” he told her, and she crossed her arms over her legs.
“I thought you just said you crashed one?” she queried, and Tom’s stomach flipped again. Something about her face, about the way she spoke, was familiar to him, in the same way her father had been. Was she an actress too? he wondered. A child one? With a famous father, that sounded right.
Relieved without knowing why, he nodded sagely. “The weather was against me yesterday. I flew into a storm.”
She nodded. “We flew in this morning. There were no storms though.”
“You flew in?” Tom asked her.
“From London,” she explained, before peering at him. “Have you been?”
“To London? No. Not for a long time, anyway.” He swallowed, staring at her eyes once more, wondering where he’d seen them previously. “That’s a big journey for a girl like you.”
“Yes,” she said, and there was a hint of ruefulness to her voice that made Tom sit up. “I’m really hungry now. I haven’t eaten since the plane. We were supposed to get breakfast but then the car stopped working.”
“I’m sorry,” Tom replied.
“Do you have anything to eat?” she asked him curiously. “I like chocolate biscuits.”
“I don’t have anything. I was on my way home when I saw your dad’s car and—”
“He’s not my dad,” the girl interjected. “He’s my uncle.”
Ah, thought Tom. That explained the difference, not only in their accents but also their looks.
“Right,” he said. “Well, I don’t have any food, I’m sorry.”
The girl sighed, shifting her head and trailing her hand over the grass. “I guess I’ll just have to be hungry then.”
There it was again, that odd flash of recognition running through him. Tom stopped, staring at the girl before him. She was achingly familiar, and not just her eyes, and the shape of her face, but the way she spoke too. The way she turned her head and moved her hands and wrinkled her nose.
“Hey,” Tom said, shifting his feet. “About ten miles down this road there’s a diner. They serve the best waffles in the state. Get your uncle to take you there as soon as the car is fixed, okay?”
“Waffles?”
“They’re really good,” Tom continued. “You can have them with strawberries, or caramel, or cinnamon, or chocolate. Any way you choose.”
She seemed to think about that. “I’m not supposed to have too much sugar. Mummy says it rots your teeth. I’m supposed to eat healthy things only.”
“Like spinach?”
“Or broccoli, or cabbage, or boiled eggs.” The girl wrinkled her nose again. “But I don’t like any of them.”
“I hate eggs as well,” Tom replied. “They’re horrible.”
The girl nodded. “Mummy says they’re an adventure, that each one might be different, but I don’t think adventure is supposed to taste like old socks or—”
“What did you say?” Tom’s heart suddenly pounded hard in his chest. He stared at the girl again, at the gold flecks in her eyes, and his chest grew tight.
But the girl abruptly seemed cowed by his burst of energy. “I’m not supposed to talk to strangers,” she said primly, standing and walking away from him.
“You said an egg is an adventure, right?” he asked her, and he couldn’t keep the edge from his voice. “What’s your mom’s name? Where is she?”
“ Tío, ” the girl said, moving towards the man from earlier. “ Tío, este hombre me está asustando. ”
Spanish, Tom thought hurriedly. She was speaking in Spanish. The man looked up from Tom’s phone sharply, quickly taking the girl’s hand and pulling her to him.
“ Qué te pasa , Sunshine? Te está molestando? ”
“ Si. Está preguntando por mamá. Aprendimos sobre el peligro de los extra?os en la escuela. Es un extra?o y percibo el peligro .”
The man shot Tom a filthy look. “Look, I’m glad you’re helping us out, but you’re scaring my girl here. Keep your distance, hey?”
“I just want to know about her mom, okay? Look, the two of you...” Tom shook his head. “You both seem really familiar to me. If I could just know about her mom, then I...”
“Then what? I told you, I’m a little bit famous. You’ve seen me in a magazine or something.”
“Yeah, fine,” Tom snapped. “But I recognise your niece too. Something about her eyes and face and the way she talks and—”
Tom stopped, as realisation dawned on him. His mouth gaped open, and his heart seemed to stop within his chest.
“Oh my God,” he breathed out. “Oh my God.”
The girl was looking up at him from the safe confines of her uncle’s arms, and Tom stared back at her. Suddenly, he knew exactly where he’d seen her eyes before — those brown eyes flecked with gold.
It had been in every mirror he’d ever looked at.
They were his eyes, he suddenly realised. This girl had his eyes.