29. JULES
JULES
LONDON
‘That was incredible,’ Tom enthuses, beaming as we leave the artists’ studio stroke reclaimed clothes shop. ‘I’d never heard of that indie band before but they were electric.’
‘They were great,’ I reply.
‘And when that gospel singer came out? I’ve never heard anything like it. What synthesis.’
‘For sure.’
‘So you never know which band are going to play ahead of the show?’ he asks as we step out into the bustling streets of Borough. ‘And it’s a ballot on the day to see if you’re going or not?’
‘Yes, unless you have connections…’ Not so hostile about Instagram now, are we.
‘I didn’t even know something like that existed.’
I steer him in the right direction, past yellow-bricked townhouses and glass-fronted offices, ribbons of bikes and drinkers circling pubs in the evening sun. It sure is good to be home.
Maltby Street Market is smaller, cheaper and less chockfull of tourists than its famous counterpart Borough Market a couple of streets away, and I have a feeling this is more Tom’s style.
Sheltered beneath nineteenth century railway arches, it’s a feast of flags, stalls and picnic benches.
Tables on old beer barrels; dogs zigzagging through feet.
A celebration of London’s diversity and local produce.
It’s the perfect place for our third date.
In public view, but not obviously. It’s the British Grand Prix weekend, after all, and the city’s swamped with F1 fans.
‘You sure know how to plan a date, Miss Butler,’ Tom says, gazing into my eyes in a way that makes my stomach curdle.
I just smile. His fingers brush mine and I pretend to find something interesting at the far stands.
When I get closer, a sign catches my eye for Brazilian steak tortillas and I immediately picture Tiago waiting in line.
I wonder if he’s landed in the UK yet. It’s been a month since the fireball in Spain and you’d never know it’d happened at all.
He didn’t skip a race (crazy boy); Leone are firing on all cylinders; they’re ahead of DFK and Alpha Prime in the Championship. And—
Why am I thinking about him? I should be thinking about the man appraising the sausage options at the sausage and mash stand. I’m here for business and only business.
It’s purely coincidental that I’m in the mood for a tortilla.
‘They’ve got a pork, apple and black pudding one!’ Tom says incredulously. ‘We have to try it.’
My smile falters. ‘I’m good thanks.’
‘You sure? It’s not a regular sausage, it’s a guest sausage.’
‘You go ahead. Get the full British experience.’
He takes my rejection with a polite dip of his head. ‘When in Old Blighty, ey?’
We commandeer a beer barrel and two primary-coloured high chairs.
‘After this,’ Tom says gently, unfurling cutlery from a napkin, ‘how about we head back to my hotel? I can’t offer you a nightcap because it’s quali tomorrow, but I could make it worth your while.’ His smile’s tentative and it makes me feel wretched.
Bless him. He has every right to want to sleep with the woman he’s dating, but he’s the polar opposite to what I want.
There’s no fire, no sass, no challenge, no impulsiveness, not even a dim flicker of temptation.
He’s just a beige man, and not even multiple World Championships can colour him interesting.
‘That’s a kind offer but I don’t think I’m quite ready,’ I say. Lord knows it’s the first honest thing I’ve said to him. ‘Intimacy’s something I take very seriously and reserve for someone I really trust.’
Panic ignites in his eyes. ‘I wasn’t suggesting….’
You totally were. ‘I’m just really old fashioned. Sorry, Tom.’
He shakes his head. ‘God, no, of course! More than happy to move at any pace you like.’
Glacial, preferably.
‘Thank you.’ I give him a bashful smile. ‘It’s nice to see you in that cream jumper again.’ I aim for semi-graceful as I take a bite of steak tortilla, but I fear it’s impossible.
‘Well,’ he shrugs, ‘you said you liked it.’
Operation Glow Tom Up is going quite well.
I’ve never done a covert makeover like this.
Normally my boyfriends know what I’m capable of and eagerly take my advice.
The blueprint is how I’m working with Tiago (stop thinking about him!) – social strategy and shopping trips, PR stories and brand meetings.
How did I find myself handing out positive reinforcement like I’m training a dog?
Tom’s already looking much better. He’s ditched the loud shirts, the cargo shorts, the old jeans, the white tube socks, that awful deep V-neck, and most importantly, the brown.
I’ve taught him how to drape a jumper over his shoulders in a way that says Italian chic, not East Coast establishment.
He now knows you can’t pair casual trousers with a dress shirt, and there is a thing as too many patterns.
‘I do like it,’ I say, taking a swig of Diet Coke. ‘It’d also go well with those chinos you wore during the factory visit with étienne.’
He pulls a face. ‘You saw that video?’
‘I did. Your hair was shorter then. Have you ever cut it properly short?’
‘Not since I was young.’
‘It’d be interesting to see what it’d look like now. Nothing drastic – a two on the sides and three on top.’
His eyebrows rise. ‘Since when were you an expert on men’s hair?’
Since I dated men who wash with a combined shampoo, soap, and car de-icer. ‘I used to cut my dad’s hair.’
He nods slowly. ‘You mention your dad a lot. Is there a mum on the scene?’
Not one you’re going to find out about. I give him a coy smile. ‘Everyone has a mum, Tom.’
‘Not me,’ he says, carefully wiping the sides of his mouth with his napkin. ‘Not anymore.’
I stop eating. The bustle of the market falls away as he shifts uneasily on his stool.
‘Did… something happen?’ I ask, not sure I want an answer.
‘My mum died of sepsis when I was a teenager.’
I can’t hold in a gasp. Holy shit.
How did this not come up in my research? Not that it would change much, but at least I wouldn’t be blindsided.
‘I’m so s-sorry for your loss,’ I utter.
‘She had cancer – breast cancer. Stage two. She was undergoing chemo when she got whacked by a cold. My dad had it too and it was mild, but in her it was like flu.
‘On the third day she had this soaring temperature, and by the time my dad got her to hospital, it was too late. Organ failure, septic shock, and within a couple of hours, she was gone.’
I don’t have a clue what I look like but inside I’m reeling.
I remember getting colds and praying I wasn’t transmissible; poring over the thermometer, willing it to read under thirty-eight degrees; stuffing my mum in the immune-compromised section of A&E, only for it to be full of other patients’ families with their feet on the chairs.
‘My mum had cancer too,’ I hear myself blurt out. ‘Bowel cancer. Stage two. Surgery, stoma, chemo, remission.’ I take a deep breath. This isn’t something I dive into every day, let alone with some man I’m fake dating. ‘Three years later, it was back, and it was stage four.’
Tom’s steady hand closes over my shaking one on the table, and I leave it. ‘That’s horrendous, Jules.’
‘It was in her bones, her liver, her lungs. Her CT scan lit up like a Christmas tree,’ I whisper.
Honestly, sepsis sounds kinder. At the very least there’s no hospice involved. I slide my hand away and look down at my nails, unwilling or unable to meet the sadness in his eyes.
‘I get what it’s like,’ I continue. ‘The pills, the cannulas, the hair loss, the weight loss, the fatigue. Appointment after appointment after appointment.’
‘I didn’t do much, to my shame,’ Tom confesses. ‘I was based in Italy, competing in Formula BMW, so my dad and sister did the heavy lifting. It killed me, Jules. I couldn’t even talk to her sometimes because of the time difference.’
‘You were a kid. You did what you could.’
At least your dad stepped up.
‘Sometimes I think… it could’ve been different,’ he says.
‘I don’t find hindsight helpful. You do what you can with what you have at the time. No regrets.’
He gives me a cheerless smile.
This is messing with my head. The man’s lost his mum exactly like mine. How can I play him like this? What kind of person does that make me?
I have no choice but to keep moving forward.
There are five months until the season ends, that’s nothing in the great scheme of things.
I gave up sugar for five months. I mastered tennis stroke mechanics in five months.
I dated Brennan for five months. I can do anything, even if it makes my insides crawl.