Chapter 7 #2
But it was his piercing, ice-blue, almost silver eyes that had always entranced me the most. Constantly glinting with humour and ideas, if I happened to make eye contact with him my stomach would fizz with a high that I’d enjoy for the rest of that day, as if his energy was contagious.
Double English had always been the highlight of my week as it meant I got to sit opposite Tom Brinton for two entire hours – the most direct contact I ever had with him since neither our friendship groups nor any of our other lessons crossed over at all.
It also happened to be the only class I didn’t share with Elle.
Back then, I’d manage to convince myself that, sometimes, it felt as if he was looking in my direction. And, while we didn’t have much in common on the surface, quite often we’d quietly chuckle at each other’s witticisms.
Despite his rebellious streak – which often saw him in detention – I’d always sensed this underlying essence of niceness. He was the kind of person who could make anyone feel at ease, even people like me who he’d never even had a single conversation with.
But the very idea of him ever being interested in yours truly was frankly hilarious – even to me.
Because you probably couldn’t have chosen two people who were any less likely to fit together as friends, let alone anything more.
There I was: short, clumsy and sat at the front of the coach on school trips thanks to my history of travel sickness.
And there he was: tall, effortlessly confident and right at the back of the coach thanks to his innate popularity and cheekiness.
Yet, he’d appeared to glide through any situation or academic challenge with an ease and self-assurance I could only dream of – until he left suddenly a term or so into sixth form, when we were seventeen.
Because I’d kept my secret infatuation to myself – with the exception of confiding in Livvie, who knew everything about me – I couldn’t ask anyone where he’d disappeared to. So that was that – he’d instantly vanished from my life like an elusive bubble suddenly popping mid-air.
As we bagged up our respective groceries – his into one of those expandable, colour-coded shopping trolley bags – there was that undeniable fizz once more, as his eyes caught mine for the second time.
For a moment, I forgot that the only thing that was likely to make me memorable to Tom Brinton was the stuff that had gone down with my family two decades ago.
I attempted to coax my hair to hang over my face to cloak the ever-deepening shade of crimson it was turning as all these memories swirled around my head.
Meanwhile, Tom finished his transaction ahead of me – he was exceedingly nice to the chap on the checkout, of course – and turned to give me a gentle wave.
In my attempt to casually wave in return, I managed to fling my debit card out of my hand and towards Tom Brinton’s face.
In a display of characteristic competence, he somehow caught it and handed it to me in one swift motion.
‘And for your next trick?’ What was I even saying?
I inattentively passed the card to the checkout lady as Tom chuckled and said, ‘Trying to fit this lot in my car,’ gesturing towards his overflowing concertina bags.
‘Ha, good luck with that!’
‘I’ll need it!’
And he walked out of my life once more.
I sighed and turned back to my own conveyor belt, packing my groceries into my raggedy canvas bags.
The checkout lady passed me back my card. ‘It’s contactless, love.’
‘Oh right, of course.’
As the receipt tumbled out of the till, she looked at me with kind eyes and smiled.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t know if I should say anything, but I’m Dawn, Gemma’s mum – she was in your class at school?’
Oh God, bumping into Tom Brinton like that had completely distracted me from my plan to avoid this kind of encounter and resulting conversation.
I swallowed and smiled blandly as she continued to talk, most of her words not registering. ‘And how are your parents? We still miss them at Supper Club! Completely understandable, of course.’
‘Ah, the Supper Club’s still running?’
‘Oh yes, but we had to relocate it to The Star after they turned the village hall into flats.’
How tragic. My parents had had their first snog in that village hall, as Dad had once told us after a few too many limoncellos one Majorcan holiday.
‘Well, here’s your receipt, sweetheart. Do pass them my love, won’t you?’
‘Of course. Thanks, Dawn. And say hi to Gemma from me.’
I pushed my trolley towards the exit, gripping the handle extra-tight to try and stop my hands from trembling. The news that I’d returned would now fly around the WhatsApp groups of Scarnbrook, I was sure of it. There was no hiding now.
I was still shaking as I pulled up to the pump in the supermarket’s own-brand petrol station. As the fuel flowed into the vehicle, I tried to regulate my breath, inhaling the flammable yet soothing fumes as I did so.
The sudden judder of the nozzle jolted me back to the present. I paid at the pump and settled back into the driver’s seat, relieved that the supermarket ordeal was finally over.
As I was about to put my key in the ignition, there was a sudden hammering on my window. It was Tom Brinton. And he was shouting, frantically.