27. Chapter 27
27
‘ T o endings and beginnings,’ Martin said, raising his paper cup. ‘Can’t have one without the other.’
They were standing in the offices of Tom’s new business, less than a mile from the old firm. The offices, in an old seventeenth-century townhouse, now home to several businesses, were modest in size, as befitted his young company. Sash windows opened onto a sleepy side street, and a soft autumn breeze wafted in, the new bright white blinds swaying gently. A weekend painting party with some friends had ensured the rooms were freshly painted, clean, and neat.
The reception area was light and colourful—for an accountants—with comfortable waiting chairs and a large, impressive-looking old oak desk for Ciara, his new receptionist and assistant, to welcome clients and guests. Besides his office, a second office was ready for his very first accountant employee to start in a couple of weeks’ time, an enthusiastic young woman called Tilly. She had nearly as much passion for helping people manage their finances and accounts as Tom. He felt sure they would get along fine.
A selection of pleasant but suitably forgettable prints that Tom had chosen for their uncontroversial nature hung on the walls. After all, this was Barnsford not New York. No one was choosing their accountant or financial advisor because of an impressive modern art display.
Tom breathed in a lungful of the smell of the fresh paint, the new carpets, and the crisp autumn air. It all smelt of new beginnings. But he felt that while one foot was trying to move forwards, the other refused to budge, stuck in something that wasn’t yet finished.
Tom forced himself to raise his glass in response to Martin’s toast, wishing there could indeed be a neat ending and a tidy new beginning to all areas of his life.
It had been two weeks since Ryan showed up at Katie’s house late that night. Two weeks since she had let him in to talk and Tom had seen the writing on the wall and gone home, leaving them there together. Two weeks since they had spoken.
‘I can’t believe you’re really doing it,’ Martin was saying, ‘I mean, I knew you’d do it, knew you’d manage it, but now…’ He swept an arm to take in the offices of Bellden and Associates Chartered Accountants. Out in the reception area, Ciara was unpacking. ‘It’s really happening!’ Martin smiled broadly at Tom. ‘I’m pleased for you, mate. You’ll be employing me, soon enough!’
Tom laughed. ‘I don’t think I can afford you. I’ll have to be more than just another start-up accountancy firm to take you on!’
Martin raised his paper cup again. ‘To another accounting firm!’
‘Wow! That’s actually what I was gonna call it. Just Another Accounting Firm. ‘
‘Great name.’ Martin nodded, mock-serious. ‘Or what about Accountants Near Me? You’ll be at the top of every Google search.’
‘You know,’ Tom said thoughtfully, ‘you should write for a living. You’ve got a knack with words.’
He sipped the slightly warm wine Martin had brought—he didn’t have a fridge yet—and looked around the room. It was somehow less exciting than he had imagined it would feel. Perhaps, he thought, he had thought about this moment so much that when it finally came, he had already sucked all the joy and excitement from it in his imaginings. Katie’s face flashed up in his mind. Or maybe it was something else. Maybe this moment felt less momentous than it should because he had been distracted by other things. Or rather, by one person.
His phone had gone quiet in the past week, the initial messages and phone calls from Katie in the days following the business awards dying down to a trickle, then stopping altogether.
‘Earth to Tom,’ Martin was saying, waving the wine bottle at him. ‘You okay?’
Tom grinned, but it felt like an effort. ‘Yes, course. Just tired. Been a busy few weeks.’
‘How did Carly and Steve take it?’
‘They were pretty understanding. I gave notice as soon as I got the start-up grant. I had talked in previous performance review meetings about wanting to start my own firm one day, and Carly knew I was taking on some small clients in my own time, clients who were too small for them. So, I don’t think they were surprised. The non-compete clause means I can’t poach any of their existing clients anyway, so they’re fine. Steve is just sorry to lose a tennis partner.’
‘And Brian?’
Tom sighed and leaned back against his new desk. ‘Brian,’ he rubbed his jaw, ‘was an emotional wreck, completely inappropriate and…’ he smiled. ‘Incredibly supportive. He said he’d be happy to consult—for free—on client services to get me started. Said he was, uh, proud of me.’
‘That man,’ Martin shook his head. ‘Can’t work with him—’
‘Can’t work without him!’
They laughed.
‘So after you steal me away to a fabulous new role, are you going to give Brian a job?’
‘He’s going to be my COO,’ Tom said, quirking an eyebrow. ‘In all seriousness, I wouldn’t rule it out entirely. Katie pointed out that—’
He stopped suddenly. Her name had rolled off his tongue so easily for a moment, but he didn’t know where to go next. He didn’t want to invoke her into this space, this new venture. He swallowed and glugged back a mouthful of warm wine.
Martin placed the half-empty bottle on the desk, brows knitting together. ‘Mate, what happened?’ he asked in a quiet voice. ‘I know you said you didn’t want to talk at the time, but this isn’t healthy. We saw you together at the awards dinner. You looked great together. Really happy.’ Tom picked at the rim of the paper cup. ‘You thanked her in your speech.’
‘You remember that?’ Tom looked up in surprise.
‘Sure,’ Martin grinned. ‘Or maybe Gemma told me all about what we both said once my hangover had cleared.’
Tom gave a wry smile and took a gulp of the wine.
‘Uh…it seemed…’ He sighed heavily, feeling suddenly exhausted. ‘Maybe things weren’t completely over with her ex.’
‘What?’ Martin sounded taken aback. ‘That smarmy estate agent that went off with Melissa?’
‘Yup, the very same.’ Tom dragged a hand down his face. ‘After the awards event, we went back to Katie’s house, and things were…’ His cheeks heated as he thought about what happened in Katie’s kitchen. ‘Going well. Then the doorbell went, and it was…him. He wanted to talk and walked into the place like he had every right to be there. Which I suppose he sort of did, he used to live there. Called me ‘mate’ and said he and Katie needed to talk. And Katie…’ Tom rubbed at an eyebrow, ‘she didn’t ask him to leave. So I left.’
‘Oh,’ Martin said. ‘Oh, mate, sorry about that.’
Ciara knocked on the door, the sharp sound breaking into the reverent stillness of the conversation. ‘Sorry to interrupt, there’s a man here with a printer. Is that for the second office?’
‘Yes, please.’ Tom nodded, and Ciara ducked back out to direct the printer set up.
Martin was looking confused. ‘You said Katie didn’t ask him to leave, so you left?’
‘Yes, it was a bit crowded all of a sudden,’ Tom said tersely.
‘So.’ Martin’s brows were furrowed. ‘This guy walks in and says he and Katie need to talk and just stands there. Did you ask her if she wanted you to stay?’
‘One of us clearly needed to leave,’ he snapped. ‘And she said nothing.’
Martin looked pained. ‘Forgive me if I am overstepping here, mate, but it sounds like there was a lot happening there. Maybe she was trying to get her head around it all and work out what to do.’
‘It was a simple choice,’ Tom said.
Martin stepped back and put his half-empty cup on a shelving unit opposite Tom’s desk.
‘Which it sounds like you made for her,’ Martin said evenly.
Tom stared out of the window, a muscle ticking in his jaw.
‘Have you talked to her?’
‘She’s called but I don’t imagine there can be much to say,’ Tom replied, without turning around.
Martin was quiet for a moment and Tom watched two pigeons tussle over a half-eaten sandwich that had been dropped.
‘Tom,’ Martin said.
Tom turned back from the window and looked at Martin. Martin took a step towards him.
‘We’ve been friends a long time now, and I think I know you better than a lot of people. Would you say that’s fair?’
Tom shrugged. ‘Probably.’ He wondered where Martin was going with this.
‘So trust me, Tom, when I tell you you’re being a real dick about this.’
Tom’s mouth fell open, but Martin carried on.
‘I know you’ve got baggage—we all have. But you’re letting it take over now and frankly, ruin your life. You’ve always had a tendency to be pretty black and white and inflexible about things, and the thing with Melissa, giving her a second chance and then feeling like you never should have… I know that must make you feel like the right thing to do is get even tougher with people.’
Tom folded his arms across his chest and clenched his jaw. Martin took another step closer.
‘But you’re holding Katie accountable without even the courtesy of a conversation to get the full story and talk, outside of some,’ he swept his hand out in front of him, ‘drunken, stressful night. You’ve jumped to some pretty big conclusions here. I don’t know exactly what’s going on any more than you do. But I do think, if you’re not careful, you’ll be the one to lose the most in all of this.’
Tom stood in the middle of his new office, the smell of paint in his nostrils, Martin’s words ringing in his ears, and was speechless.
Martin picked up his jacket and slung it over his shoulder. ‘This place looks great, mate. You’ve done a great job.’ He smiled at Tom, who was still pinned to the spot. ‘As soon as you’re making enough money, give me a call.’
Then Martin stepped out into the reception area, gently closing the door behind him. Tom could hear him saying goodbye and giving all good wishes to Ciara, who responded in cheery tones. Tom knocked back the last of his wine, marched across the room, and upended the bottle into his cup.
Martin’s little speech had riled him. Katie had made her choice, letting Ryan in and saying nothing. She had chosen not to tell him that Ryan had sought her out at the awards dinner, wanting to talk to her. If Katie had wanted him and not Ryan, she should have said so—shouldn’t she? Had he been too hasty, walking out like that?
There was a tapping on the door and Ciara opened it and stuck her head in. ‘Only me!’ she said brightly. ‘Someone is here to connect the internet. Is it the phone sockets in my office behind the desk?’
Tom was still grappling with how starting his own business had also turned him into a project manager, recruitment specialist, painter and decorator, services procurer, and health and safety overlord. Inwardly, he longed for the day when he could focus on clients and accounts and not printers and the internet. Outwardly, he smiled and said, ‘Yep, that’s the one, thank you!’
Ciara disappeared once more. He could hear voices from the outer office, and the front door opened and closed once more.
Ciara appeared again, tippy-tapping on the door with long acrylic nails.
‘Only me,’ she chirped. ‘Parcel delivery for you.’
Tom waved his hand for her to take it away. ‘You can open it,’ he said. ‘It’s probably toner or copy paper or something.’
Ciara wrinkled her nose. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘The address is handwritten.’ She blinked her cow-like lashes and held out a large brown-paper-wrapped parcel.
Tom sat up and reached out his hands. ‘Okay, thanks, leave it with me.’
Ciara passed it over, then sashayed back into the front office, pulling the door closed behind her.
Tom looked at the box now on his desk. The address was written in large black loopy handwriting he didn’t recognise. Multiple ‘Fragile!’ warning stickers were stuck on every side, and a large one that said, ‘This way up.’
He pushed the wine bottle to the side. Using his car key to slice through the parcel tape—scissors were somewhere in boxes awaiting unpacking—he carefully pulled open the lid. Inside was a sea of cardboard wadding. He tore the packaging carefully, pulling it back at the sides. The shredded cardboard piled up on every side, and he had to stand to look down into the box.
There, golden lines glinting brightly amongst the dull brown packaging, was the kintsugi dish. Shades of glazed cerulean blue and turquoise shone from the box, the colours bleeding into one another, shot through with lines of gold. The dish was vibrant, alive, compelling. Tucked into the side of the box was a small cream card. Tom could feel his heart start to race as he stared at it, feelings of anger, sadness, hope, and excitement searing through him in a heady cocktail that left him not knowing how he felt. He dipped his fingers into the box and plucked out the card.
Dear Tom,
Is there any way we can repair things?
Love from Katie.
xxx
Pushing back the wrapping, he reached in and gently lifted out the dish. In the evening sunlight casting through the old sash windows, the gold flashed fiercely, and the blues and teals of the pottery had a depth and richness he hadn’t appreciated when he had first seen this in Katie’s workshop. He lay the dish gently on his desk, the bright, rich colours in stark contrast to the dark wood.
He looked at the dish. Different from when it was new, but no less beautiful.
Tom picked up the card, reading the words once more. ‘Is there any way we can repair things?’
He lay the card on the desk, colours reflected from the bowl playing across it. His head was swimming, and he leaned both hands on his desk. He imagined her making it new, turning and shaping it with her hands, her red head bent over the wheel, and her bottom lip caught between her teeth as she concentrated. He imagined her choosing the colours, her love of colour leading her to deep, bright blues and sea blue-greens that swam over the dish. He thought of her pride and pleasure when it was done, when she had managed to realise the vision in her head. Then he thought of her sorrow when it broke and how she couldn’t bring herself to throw the pieces away. Until one day, she found a way to make it whole but different. His chest rose as he drew in a long, unsteady breath, and the colours of the dish swam before his eyes.
The tippy-tappy of nails on the door punctured his daze, and Ciara popped her head in again.
‘Only me, boss!’ She slipped inside. ‘Here’s the post and the installation receipt from the printers—do I keep that, or do you?’ She tipped her head to one side, contemplating. ‘And today’s paper. You said you wanted to check the advert.’
Tom took the pile of proffered paperwork—he’d talk to Ciara next week about what she needed to do with basic day-to-day filing—and smiled his thanks as she bounced back out of the room. Faint strains of Taylor Swift rolled back from the front office.
He rifled through the post, most of it bills, and some junk mail, and set it to one side. Opening the paper, he idly turned the pages, looking for the advert he had placed for his new company.
He passed an article about people protesting new housing developments on green belt land, photos of the Young Farmer winners, an article about a previous resident who now had a big job in Bristol—it really was a slow news week—and a two-page spread on the cast for the local am-dram Christmas production of Aladdin , then he suddenly stopped.
It was an article about a local county art show, accompanied by a picture of some of the exhibitors. And there was Katie’s beautiful face smiling back at him.
The article headline was, ‘Artisan showcase of local talents’. There was a list of names under the photo, including Katie’s.
He started to read the article. ‘A Gloucestershire county art show is gathering together a mix of incredible local talent. Painters, craftspeople, makers, and artisans…’ Tom struggled to focus on the words.
The article went on. ‘This author spoke to some of the artists exhibiting this year, including Katie Matheson, who is exhibiting her pottery for the first time ever. Katie said, I am so excited to be a part of this show. I have often admired the work of the artists who exhibit here—they really are some of the best artists from the West Country , Katie said she wasn’t supposed to be exhibiting this year, but a late cancellation meant a spot opened up. I had expressed interest for future years, but then when another maker pulled out, I got a phone call. I was very nervous, but a remarkable friend had encouraged me to do this, so I knew I needed to give it a go. The last few months have been difficult, and he’s probably the only person who knows what that’s been like for me. I am grateful he’s been in my life. I wouldn’t be doing this if it weren’t for him.
Tom’s mouth went dry as he read the last words—a paraphrase of the words he had spoken to Katie at the business dinner only a few weeks before.
He tried to read the rest of the article, but it was a blur. Someone called Sheila, who was a member of the Royal Art Society, was exhibiting her watercolours—prices from ￡1200 and up—and a chap called Bill was hoping to do a roaring trade in turned wooden bowls with decorative resin trim and edging. There was more, but Tom’s eyes were skimming now, skipping over names and art forms, tripping towards the end of the article. There it was, the show dates. ‘The exhibition is open from Monday 17 October to Saturday 12 November with a special opening gala event on Saturday 15 October from 8pm.’
Tom lowered the paper slowly, his fingers feeling numb. She had done it. She had done what he had encouraged her to do. Katie was showing her work. And she had mentioned him. Not by name, but it was surely him. He gripped the paper once more and re-read the quote - was she referring to Ryan? Was Ryan the one who finally said to go for it? He re-read the words—no, that was a paraphrase of what he had said to her, barely two weeks back. And Ryan had never, in five years, encouraged Katie to pursue her dream.
He lowered the paper again, feeling like everything was moving in slow motion, including his breathing. Looking at the kintsugi dish, the jagged gold lines glinting in the evening light.
‘Can we repair things?’ echoed in his head.
He glanced down at Katie’s face, smiling up at him from the paper, and his heart turned over in his chest.