Chapter 20
“A
re you ever going to tell Louisa no instead of just ignoring her?”
Tom’s phone has pinged approximately nine hundred and forty-seven times since we got off the plane at Heathrow a couple hours ago. Apparently, his unreasonably greedy ex-wife got wind he was coming to town and decided it would be the perfect opportunity for him to sign the French house over to her.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do yet,” he says, tapping his fob on the security box inside the elevator of his London apartment building.
“You mean you might actually give it to her? Just, like, give her a house? In France? Next door to Elton John? For no reason?”
The white-and-silver doors glide shut with a million-dollar bing-bong.
“There would be a reason. To shut her up.”
“Or you could get your lawyer to tell her lawyer to fuck off. And that, I believe, would be that.” His phone pings again. “And maybe change your number.”
“It’s not like your phone hasn’t been blowing up too.” He gestures to the device in my hand.
“I have a thirteen-year-old son who couldn’t find the only one of his nine hundred T-shirts that he wanted to wear today.”
It did give my heartstrings a good old twang, though. This is the first time I’ve ever left him overnight. Ever. In thirteen years. And it’s not like I’m just around the corner. I’m a whole ocean away.
Tom’s told me a thousand times Dylan’s in good hands. And I know that. I mean, it’s not like Maggie’s not experienced with strong-willed teenage boys.
But what kind of mother am I, drinking champagne with my pinky out on a first-class flight to London when there’s Hybrids v Aliens attire to locate?
Not all my texts have been from Dylan, though. A good two-thirds of them are from Rachel, and I’m sure as hell not telling him about those.
Since I filled her in on the whole back seat oral business and the spontaneous trip to England, she’s peppered me with messages bursting with excitement and advice. From “If you don’t christen every surface of his apartment, I’ll be very disappointed” to “I knew it. Didn’t I? I knew it!” to a string of kissy-face, tongue, eggplant, peach, and party popper emojis.
If the parents of the children whose lives this woman saves daily knew how much she’s encouraging someone to have short-term adventurous sex all over the London home of an international music mogul, it might affect their trust in her surgical skills.
Tom lets out a long, loud yawn. I slept way better than I expected on the plane. But I guess the flat bed-seats and complimentary cozy bamboo pajamas make all the difference. Well, them, and the fact that Tom held my hand while I slept. Just the thought of how lovely that was makes me a bit wobbly.
But despite the flight naps, the fog from overnight travel is real. Wednesday has disappeared into a black hole, and my brain feels like it’s slightly outside my head.
The elevator doors make their uber classy bing-bong again as they glide open.
For a second, it looks like we must be in a communal part of the building—a large area everyone passes through to get to their own apartments.
But as Tom takes the handle of my small wheelie case and tells me to come in, it dawns on me that the elevator’s opened directly into his apartment. I’ve seen that in movies but was never sure if it was an actual thing or just fantasy.
My attention’s immediately drawn to the windows along the opposite wall and their view. This really is something out of a movie. As I walk across the huge living room, it doesn’t seem real. The sky is bright blue, and there, right there out of Tom’s window, is the river Thames and Tower Bridge. “Oh my God.”
“Like it?” Tom asks, stepping up behind me, circling my waist, and easing me back against him.
“It’s like I’ve stepped into one of those real estate shows.” That sounds silly. “I mean, I never expected to see it in real life. And you never said this was right outside your window. This is…unreal.”
But then so is this whole situation. I’ve entered a temporary dream world.
My eyes trail from the amazing sight of the world’s most iconic bridge on the right, to the Tower of London directly across the water, to the modern skyscrapers of the city to the left. And in between, boats chug along the river.
“It is pretty cool.” He rests his chin on my head. “Even though I’ve had it a few years, this view never gets old. And the terrace is great in summer.”
Floor-to-ceiling doors integrated almost seamlessly with the windows lead to a deep brick terrace that spreads the full width of the place. The furniture out there is wrapped up for the winter.
I turn in his arms and plant a soft kiss against his lips. “Can I see the rest?”
He responds by pressing his mouth back against me, teasing my lips with his tongue until I open up to him. My first London kiss is deep and soft.
As he eases back, Tom dots kisses along my lower lip. “Of course. Wander around, settle in.” He pushes my hair off my face. “I have to go into work for a bit. But make yourself at home.”
“Okay, and I have the calls that start at two o’clock.” Yesterday, I set up a bunch of video calls with some of the candidates for Tom’s EA position. Even though they’re just casual chats to see which ones I think he’d get along with and should get a real interview, it’s still terrifying—my first real job responsibility.
“There should be a laptop in the home office for you for that. I had someone from IT drop one off.” Tom heads toward the enormous kitchen area at the back of the room. It’s all sleek black counters, shiny pale gray cabinets, and seamlessly built-in appliances. “And there’s an entry fob for you here.” He dangles a keychain with a gray plastic disc, identical to his own, hanging from it. “So you can go out for a stroll and check out the neighborhood if you like.”
“To be honest,” I say and turn back to face the window, “I might just stare at this all day.”
“Well, enjoy. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He jogs back across the room toward me, then tips my chin up to his. “I can’t bear to be away from this face longer than absolutely necessary.”
His words send a shiver from my heart to my belly. If only this were real life. But I can’t allow myself to think that. This is just temporary, and I need to enjoy it for what it is—a short burst of a romantic fantasy that will turn into nothing more than an amazing memory.
Tom kisses my forehead. It’s warm and affectionate, like something he’d do every day when he leaves for work if this fantasy were real. “Don’t forget we’re meeting Hugo this evening.”
“Ah yes, the reporter-punching soccer player.”
“Probably best not to call him that to his face.” He laughs and heads toward the door. “He’s a bit down and needs cheering up.”
“Okay.” And I should have thought to pack something that’s suitable to wear for drinks with a famous sports star who spends his life drifting from one showbiz party to another.
“Oh, and”—Tom stops with his hand on the door handle—“can you get the contact details for Katie from the chocolate penis thing?”
“The bride?”
“Yeah.”
That’s odd. “Why do you want to get hold of her?”
“Just a thought I had. Gotta run,” he says, stepping through the door. “But if you could track her down, that’d be great.”
I shrug, puzzled. “Sure.”
As the door closes behind him, I turn back to the window, snap a picture of the view, and send it to Rachel.
But this place is so much more than just the view. This is Tom’s home. It’s part of who he is. Part of the person he became after I waved him off at the airport all that time ago.
This room is huge. Near me, at the window is a giant sectional sofa facing a sleek wall-flush fireplace—one of those long, narrow ones, halfway up the wall, that looks like flaming pebbles. Above it is a huge TV.
Beyond that is an oval dark wood table surrounded by six deep green velvet-covered curved-back chairs. Then there’s that fabulous shiny kitchen that looks like it’s never seen a day’s cooking in its life, with six beaten-metal bar stools.
The wall opposite the dining table is lined with dark wood shelves and cabinets. It’s packed with vinyl records—singles and albums. There’s an amplifier on one shelf and a record deck on the one below. Tall speakers sit on either side, bookending the most beautiful shrine to music I’ve ever seen.
Drawn to it like a moth to the one flickering light in a dark sky, I find myself running my fingers along a row of records. Everything about this says the music is well-loved. From the worn edges of the album covers, to the fact that the amp, the deck, and the speakers are all different brands. Tom probably picked the best of each and put this together himself. It’s only the sound that matters—not appearances.
Flicking through the vinyl, it’s obvious this is a special collection. Many of them are signed—both by young bands currently on his books and by legends of the industry.
There’s an Elton John one that bears the words, “Welcome to the ’hood, neighbours! Elton.” Guess that was a housewarming gift when they bought the place the ex-wife now wants.
Another says, “The fish and chips are on me next time, Bruce,” right next to a close-up of Bruce Springsteen’s face with snow falling around it.
Those two might be giant stars, but the next one makes me gasp. Four Thousand Medicines’ first album, from ten years ago. Written across the iconic cover of a wide-open landscape dotted with shiny Airstream trailers are the words, “It’s all down to you, Tom. We’d be nothing without you, mate,” and the four band members’ names scrawled below.
I trace the words with my fingers. Tom hasn’t made an amazing life only for himself, he’s made amazing lives for others.
I tip the sleeve till the white inner cover holding the record slides out. For some reason I find myself sniffing it and inhale the aroma of old paper and vinyl that resembles sugary almonds. Kind of like the scent that fills a secondhand bookstore.
The temptation to play it is too much to resist. Running my fingers along the front of the amp, I find the power button and press. The loud pop out of the speakers makes me jump, and I clutch the record to my chest to prevent it from tumbling to the floor and scratching or breaking.
The level meters on the amp light up, the needles bouncing to life, and my heart thuds like I’m a child about to be caught secretly touching the thing I was told not to touch.
I lift the clear lid covering the record deck and slide the vinyl out of the inner sleeve with as much care as if I’m handling a priceless Ming vase. Give me an original Four Thousand Medicines record over old pottery any day.
The central hole of the record slots over the spindle with a click and drops softly to the deck. The On/Off switch makes a satisfying clunk when I turn it to On. There’s a large square button next to it marked Start. I trace the ridges of the letters, tickling my fingertips on them, before giving it a firm press. And with a gentle whir, the deck starts to spin.
My teeth sink into my lip as I hold my breath and reach for the arm. I ease it out of its cradle, and my trembling fingers swing it to the edge of the spinning vinyl.
The sense of anticipation couldn’t be higher if Tom were on his knees in front of me about to rip off my pants.
I drop the needle onto the record and smile at the first thrilling crackles of sound.
Then it starts.
The strum of guitars fills the room, the backbeat of the drums, then the magical voice of Dominique Sebastian, the lead singer.
This might be a bluesy rock song, but when Dylan went through a phase of being stressed out after he’d just started school and couldn’t sleep, I switched it up a bit and sang it to him as a lullaby. He loved it, and it exercised my musical muscles. Although, why I’ve bothered trying to keep them toned for all these years, I’ll never know. It’s not like there’ll ever be any call for them to be used.
I close my eyes as I drift back toward the center of the room and join in with the backing harmonies. Although I loved being a lead vocalist when I was a teenager, since then it’s the backing that’s fascinated me more. It can make or break a song. The background vocals are what give the richness, the depth, the nuance.
Like a kid in a fairy tale, I twirl around the room, arms outstretched, letting the music wash over me, immersing myself in Tom’s life that surrounds me. Is this what it would be like to be with him? To live in this fabulous place? To be able to jet off at the drop of a hat to one of our other houses in some other glamorous part of the world? To have a record collection to die for?
As I hit the crescendo of the harmonic final note, I flop onto the sofa, sinking into the huge pile of pillows. This has to be the most glorious place on earth.
The soft opening strains of the next track, a ballad, wrap around me, and I close my eyes to soak it all in.
I come around to the vibration in my back pocket. Where am…oh yeah, Tom’s place. London. On the world’s most comfortable pile of cushions on the world’s most comfortable sofa. I must have nodded off. And now I feel like I’ve just woken from a general anesthetic. Or a night of too many cocktails. Or a lump of concrete to the head. Christ, jet lag is a bitch.
There’s a soft clicking noise in the background. A sound I haven’t heard in forever. The sound of a needle having reached the end of the record and click-crackling in and out of the center.
I pull the phone from my back pocket. Texts from Dylan and Rachel. My finger hovers over Dylan’s name when the time catches my eye.
Two-thirty-four.
Holy fucking shit.
My first of the pre-interview calls was scheduled for two o’clock.
The second for two-thirty.