Chapter 15
15
NADIA
Well.
I m still wondering what happened there – or rather did not happen – as I let myself in through my front door and plonk myself down onto my sofa.
Tom was totally thinking about kissing me. As much as I wanted him to. I could see it in his eyes. And feel it in the way things were definitely awkward afterwards.
I almost reached up and started the kiss, but – thank goodness – was massively inhibited by the memory of a hideous first date where I tried to initiate a kiss but completely misjudged the situation and he turned away just as I was going in, lips puckered, and I ended up planting one right in the middle of his ear, a place that no-one kisses anyone ever.
And clearly Tom did not want to kiss me because I m pretty sure I was looking embarrassingly keen, so he would have known that I d have been very happy for him to.
I undo my boot and rub my leg before going over to put the kettle on. When tormented, drink mint tea. I m not having coffee now because I do want to sleep tonight.
I turn the tap on viciously hard and water sprays everywhere.
As I m mopping it up, I tell myself that it does not matter that Tom didn t kiss me.
We re friends. He s a nice person.
I just need to act very normally, nothing-to-see-here around him the next few times I see him, and then he will hopefully think that he was mistaken and I was just gazing at the moon or something. I mean, who doesn t love a full moon? Or a crescent. Or whatever it was.
I don t know what it was because for me at that moment the whole world was about Tom.
Pathetic.
I finish clearing up the water and run the tap very gently to fill the kettle before deciding that actually I just want to crawl into bed and pretend the eager-for-a-kiss madness never happened.
* * *
Sometimes it s a blessing to be really busy with work, and today is one of those times. I still keep getting flashes of embarrassment, but they re really quite spaced out (I mean no more frequently than one every five to ten minutes rather than one long gaaaaah moment) and by the time I m having lunch with my university friend-client I ve felt a tiny moment of positivity, which is that, actually, these things do occasionally happen between people and in fact how would Tom know about my paranoia about initiating kisses on first dates? (It wasn t even an actual date.) For all he knows, I didn t really want to kiss him but was too polite to break the moment. Or was indeed staring at the moon.
What I need to do is act entirely normally so he ll think I was definitely cool about everything.
Maybe I d already decided that.
Nadia? Holly, my friend, is staring at me. Are you okay? Do you have Covid again? Is it your foot?
Sorry, no, nothing. Eek. I do not want to be rude to a good friend. Or anyone. I m behaving like a teenager. Tell me about your holiday.
* * *
My phone s stalking me, as they do, and articles about pies have been popping up all day in my feed. One of them – How many pies is too many? – which I see as I m lugging myself and my boot onto a train after a long day at work, makes me think of Tom, because, according to the writer, any number of pies is too many. I begin to forward it to him, before stopping and worrying that I m stalking him. And then I worry that uncharacteristic silence would be weird. And then I decide that I ve gone mad because I m overthinking everything to do with Tom.
And then I play a quick game of Brawl Stars to calm myself down and decide that I just need to act normally and the normal thing to do in this situation (if the non-kiss had never happened) would be to forward the article.
Tom comes straight back with his response:
Rude. And wrong.
Which makes me smile. And just like that I feel a little bit better. I ve been normal and now I can simply – very normally and totally relaxedly – not send any more messages for a bit, and all good. Even if he knows that in that moment I would have been up for a kiss (gigantic understatement) he ll probably think – from my extreme normality and relaxedness – that it was very much just in that moment and not at all what I usually think when I m with him.
It s all fine. Definitely.
* * *
By Saturday, I almost believe that I m over any stupid infatuation I had with Tom.
I could even see him again without feeling embarrassed.
I m on the bus on my way to meet friends at the cinema when I get a message from him:
My grandmother LOVED the video. Thank you again!
And then a second one a few seconds later:
Sorry, sorry, I should have asked – how s New Zealand?
Clearly your grandmother has excellent taste because there could not have BEEN a better video. New Zealand is beautiful. A big change after London but I m really enjoying it.
Ha.
I wait for a minute (okay, fine, probably – to my shame – quite a few minutes) but that s it.
* * *
And, it gradually turns out, that really is it. When I sent the pie article, Tom s reply was a conversation-closer. And our polite conversation about the video ended with another conversation-closer from him. So for my own self-respect I m not initiating any more text conversation.
And he doesn t either.
So… eventually I realise that my gorgeous, wonderful, kind, sexy, actual-man-of-my-dreams-despite-our-on-paper-differences fake-plus-one Tom is no longer really in my life.
We do both participate in the ongoing Waterloo Five chat but that s it. Nothing that s only between the two of us.
When I go through Waterloo, I often wonder if I ll bump into him. I never do.
When I m wondering whether I ll bump into him, I occasionally wonder whether he ll give us a Lola update on the chat. He never does.
I stop mentioning him to my colleagues and eventually I tell Marisa and a couple of others that I felt that his extended stay in Vegas demonstrated that we weren t right for each other but it was good while it lasted (kind of almost true).
* * *
And eventually it s a good six weeks since I last saw him, which is longer than the time I knew him for, and I ve stopped looking out for him at Waterloo and I m busy enjoying my life and continuing with my date detox.
The date detox is a lot easier than it was before, actually, because currently – and truly pathetically – no-one else really appeals to me romantically. Because they aren t Tom.
Who I am probably never going to see again.
Which I think is a good thing.
* * *
Except one day Carole puts a message in our chat saying that she s having a divorce celebration party (she got a quickie divorce, which she said was only fair given the number of quickie- quickies it s emerged that Roger s had over the course of their marriage). And she wants the four of us there as guests of honour.
I don t know whether Tom s going but I very much like and admire Carole and if she wants a divorce party I m going.
Bea and Ruth are straight in there too with their acceptance.
Tom doesn t reply until the next day:
Sorry, sorry, sorry for the late reply – away for the weekend in the Brecon Beacons – not much signal. Love to come – congratulations again, Carole!
And there we go. I m going to – very normally and relaxedly – see Tom again, at Carole s party. Which is going to be very fancy and fun, and that s what I will focus on.
She s hired out a whole country pub near her house for a Saturday evening in a month s time. It s black tie, and the rooms have different themes, including a casino, and she s putting all her non-local guests up either at her house or in rooms at the pub.
So I have one month to decide on the perfect dress for in no way (obviously) trying or looking like I want to seduce Tom but at the same time making sure that were he to be seduceable my dress might help. And hair, make-up and shoes (I haven t had to use my boot for a couple of weeks now).
* * *
One month later, I m in wide-leg jeans, Adidas shoes and a jumper on the train to Carole s. This time, unlike before Bea and Ruth s wedding, Tom and I did not discuss in advance which train we d be on (because we haven t had any one-on-one contact since the my-grandmother-loved-the-video message). I have therefore been jumpy since I got to Waterloo, and have reapplied lip gloss at least ten times, so my lips are now extremely sticky and my hair keeps getting stuck to them. I d like to say that I didn t think about him at all when I was choosing which jeans to wear today but that would be a lie. So I m wearing my most flattering ones and my favourite jumper (pale pink, loose turtleneck, orange cuffs and hem).
* * *
Hey, says Tom s voice the second I get off the train. Unbelievably, given how exceptionally on possible-Tom-sighting edge I ve been for the past two full hours, I get a huge shock and drop my cross-body bag, which I unfortunately didn t put across my body when I stood up to get off. The bag was open, so stuff falls out all over the platform. Fortunately no-one else got out of my door so it isn t getting walked on.
Let me help. Tom s already joined me on the ground gathering up items. It s amazing, really, how much you can fit in a small bag, and how little of it you actually need on any given day.
He hands me some tampons (which I clearly do not want back now they ve been on the ground but do have to accept), a scrunchie (maybe I can put it in the washing machine), some plasters (I also do not want those back) and my purse.
Thank you. I stuff everything back in for the time being, close the bag and stand up. Tom stands up too. I should really remember to zip my bag up. In my defence I got a big shock when the train drew in.
Because you… didn t know that we were getting off here?
Because I might have been having a teensy snooze, I say with dignity. I had a wedding singer job yesterday evening and it was a big night.
Well, all good now, Tom says very jollily.
Exactly, I say, equally jollily.
You look like you re moving well on that ankle now.
Yep, fully better, thanks.
Great news. Hopefully this will be a foot-injury-free day for you. He slightly winces as he finishes speaking, as though he d thought he was going to make a joke but it didn t come out funny.
Hopefully, I agree.
Then we look at each other. It ll be weird if we don t get a cab together. It will also be twice as expensive for both of us. But… is either of us going to suggest sharing? I know already that I m not going to because Tom is the one who effectively stopped our text conversation and I m not going to risk further humiliation by setting myself up to be turned down now.
Share a cab? He says it a few seconds too late, like he doesn t want to but knows he has to.
I spend too many seconds trying to think of an answer, and eventually come up with the only possible one. Good idea.
Great, then. He s still jolly.
Yes! So am I. Looking forward to the party!
I m just wondering whether to pull a sickie or tell him I can t actually talk to him when I hear Bea hollering down the platform.
Nadia. Tom. Taxi?
Thank fuck for that. I want to be alone with Tom even less than I thought I did.
Perfect, Tom and I call as one, and then, still as one, and without looking at each other (well, more accurately, I m trying not to look at him but I do sneak a glance out of the corner of my eye and see him not looking at me while also slightly looking at me) we begin to walk along the platform to meet Bea and Ruth.
You re both looking very well, Ruth tells us.
So are you. Tom and I are still speaking as one.
We all share hugs (well, Tom and I each hug both Bea and Ruth; we do not hug each other) and then we set off towards where it says exit.
Soon, we re in a taxi together, with Tom in the front next to the driver, and me in the middle of the back squished between Bea and Ruth.
This is lovely, isn t it, Ruth says. It s so nice to see each other again.
And it s wonderful that Carole s throwing this party, Bea says. You have to be positive about the future rather than having bitterness or regrets about the past.
Exactly, Ruth agrees. Your past is just a journey to where you are now, and the future is yours to mould and we all have to let go of previous disappointments and view them as development.
I love the way they re such a couple in the way they speak, like they re taking it in turns to express the same thought. Even if that thought is a little irritating in the very specific circumstance of me and Tom right now. Because I do regret that evening and that moment where, if I m honest, I was sending out the biggest kiss-me-now signals in the entire history of signalling. And I am disappointed that it s clear that Tom has no interest in me and I am also embarrassed and I am also quite sad that after we had so much fun together being fake partners we ve got to the point where we politely go fake jolly about even a small thing like sharing a taxi.
Yes. And also , Bea says, I m really looking forward to the party.
We all chuckle a little bit and then somehow, with Bea and Ruth there, helped by the fact that we can t see each other s faces, I think, Tom and I join in the gentle chat.
The taxi gets slightly lost (Bea instructs the driver very strictly on where he should have gone and then Ruth asks very gently whether he was trying to stitch us up and overcharge us – he blatantly was – and he apologises and says that his dad always taught him to do that with rich-looking out-of-towners, and Ruth, still very gently, tells him that that s appalling and he should stop, and he practically bursts into tears) and the journey takes a good half hour.
By the time we pull up at the pub, it s feeling (from my side anyway) surprisingly normal with Tom.
Once we re out of the car, we all exclaim how beautiful the building is. It s very ancient-looking, stone-built, with a huge timber door, and is surrounded by trees and shrubs.
Inside, it s a warren of little rooms (already decorated for this evening), beautiful oak floors and stone steps, cosy seating round huge fireplaces, lots of nooks and crannies, your basic dream country pub.
The four of us are all staying upstairs overnight.
Two people escort us up the stairs, which rise from the middle of the ground floor. At the top, a man directs Bea and Ruth left, telling them that their room is at the far end, and a woman indicates that Tom and I should follow her to the right.
Our rooms are the last two along the corridor and are opposite each other.
They re both en-suite, the woman tells us, which I am extremely happy about; I don t want to be bumping into Tom on the way to the bathroom in my pyjamas.
I purposely avoid looking inside Tom s room when she opens the door for him and he goes in, because it is definitely nothing to do with me what his room s like.
My room has a white ceiling with timbered joists, a polished oak floor covered in a big Persian-style rug, huge antique mahogany wardrobe and chests, and a very impressive four-poster, complete with curtains. It s all decorated in pale blues and jade greens, which go beautifully together. The shower room is lovely in a different way – very modern and angular, with jade-green floor tiles and white walls and pale blue towels.
It s utterly gorgeous.
I just wish Tom wasn t opposite.
I m glad I brought my favourite (and most flattering) pyjamas.
Although I will certainly not be seeing him during the night, obviously.
* * *
I ve just finished washing my hands and face and sorting my stuff out when there s a little tap on the door.
It must be Tom.
I check my reflection in the mirror above the fireplace and adjust my hair slightly, before arranging my features into a nonchalant smile and opening the door to… Ruth.
Over her shoulder I see Bea at Tom s door.
We thought it might be nice to have a little walk around the village before we re due downstairs. I think we have an hour before we re meeting for drinks? Ruth says.
Perfect, I say. Infinitely better than sitting in my room annoyed with myself for feeling awkward about Tom.
Tom also agrees to their suggestion and the four of us troop downstairs and begin to walk up the road.
Bea and Ruth set an extremely fast pace.
I hope I m half as fit as them at their age, I say to Tom as we match their strides.
I know. We re literally going to be out of breath and need serious showers at this rate.
We continue our speedy march until Bea tells us that it s time to go back to the pub and get changed.
We ll see you downstairs in the main bar at six, Ruth says as we part at the top of the stairs.
Which means, I think, as I nod, that I will maybe have to walk downstairs with Tom.
I really don t know why I m making such a big deal of seeing Tom in my head. It s actually all very easy and simple and there is no need to be like this; I m being very silly.
Except… he s basically drop-dead gorgeous. In every way – right now I m remembering the way his forearms flexed under his rolled-up shirt sleeves when he pushed open the very heavy pub door and how he carried all our bags upstairs without appearing to even notice – and I don t want to allow my thoughts to even get started on the way his thighs are filling out his jeans. And the gorgeousness of his face.
And also he s very funny and very kind and very nice and very good company.
It s really almost impossible not to love him.
And that is a problem for me because it is not fun loving people who don t love you back. I mean, I m sure he quite likes me, as a person. But he definitely doesn t love me, and he never will. And I think he might suspect that I like him more than I should. And therefore I do feel awkward around him.
I shouldn t, though. He s nice and he wouldn t think less of me, and also, he must be used to it. A lot of people must find him very attractive.
Tom interrupts my thoughts to say, See you later, then.
I nod.
Want to go down together? he asks.
Yes, sure, I say, like you would when a fully platonic friend makes a sensible suggestion. Not at all like you would when the hottest boy you ve ever met asks you out. Because he is not asking me out and never will .
* * *
I take a lot of care over preparing for the evening and I m also careful to be done in good time (I m pretty sure that Carole doesn t suffer fools, or late people, gladly), so when Tom knocks on my door I ve been ready for several minutes, and am playing a game on my phone to distract myself from thoughts of the evening ahead.
Sorry, I say, a few seconds later when I make it to the door. I was deep in a Brawl Stars game and didn t want to die.
No sorries necessary; I m there with you. I d practically miss a plane rather than go back a level. He takes a step back and says, You look… lovely.
Thank you. I am pleased with my dress (dark green, satiny, halter neck, tight on the top half and flared out from the waist into a long skirt) and my hair is – currently – under control following a lot of effort with heated tongs. I take the legitimate opportunity to study him hard, and have to make a big effort not to allow my eyes to widen. So do you.
His black dinner suit, white shirt and matching turquoise cummerbund and bow tie really suit him. Like really, really suit him.
Ha. Thank you. Shall we? He sticks his arm out as though we re in Bridgerton , and I take it (hoping that I m not doing too Bridgerton -esque a bosom-heave), and off we go.
I m grateful for Tom s arm on the stairs, because I actually do stumble slightly a few steps down, although chicken and egg – it happens a second after I look down at where our arms are locked together and think about how we re kind of pressed up against each other and momentarily forget how to work my legs – and he effortlessly clamps me to his side until I ve regained my balance.
Okay? he asks, sounding a little odd. Probably due to internal laughter about how I just cannot stay upright.
Yes, thank you, I say breathlessly.
I can t decide whether I think it s incredibly likely or statistically incredibly unlikely that you re going to be unable to walk properly by the end of the evening.
Well. My inner maths nerd emerges. Statistically you might say that it s incredibly likely, because the only statistics you have are that every time you see me I get a foot-area injury. On a micro level. But then on a macro level statistically it s incredibly unlikely because most people don t most of the time. But then again on a micro level my feet and ankle might be weakened by past mishaps.
Tom s staring at me as though I m slightly mad. So if you were going to make odds on yourself what odds would you give me?
Literally a billion to one. I will not be injuring myself in any way this evening, I say, very haughtily.
Not tempted to touch some of this inn s fine wood now to prevent tempting fate?
No need, I say airily, while with the hand that isn t holding his arm I reach surreptitiously for the edge of the wooden banister.
Ha. Come on, let s go and find the others.
* * *
Bea and Ruth – dressed respectively in a very sophisticated fitted navy velvet trouser suit and killer navy patent heels and a long wine-red dress with a matching bolero jacket – greet us in the tap room, which has been turned into a cocktail bar for the evening.
You have to try this, Ruth splutters, pointing at her glass. Catches you in the back of the throat, but it s delicious.
She s already squiffy, Bea says, but that s ideal because I ll be able to have my way with her later.
Bea. Shhh. Ruth beams at her wife and Tom and I exchange an aww look.
Waterloo Five! Carole s hurtling towards us across the room, her arms outstretched. Hello, hello. I m so pleased to have you here. She hugs us all in turn and then says, Tom and Nadia, you both need drinks. You ll be pleased to hear that I m on the mocktails, because I m determined to enjoy and remember every moment of this party, so I m not going to allow myself to drink anything alcoholic before midnight, but let me encourage you to try any cocktail you like. I have it on the authority of everyone else – half of whom are, frankly, already fairly sloshed – that they re all good. She pauses for breath and waves at one of the servers behind the bar, who scoots straight over. Lily here will sort you out with drinks. Thank you so much, Lily. I m going to go and say hello to everyone else now, but just to warn you, you ll be heavily mentioned in my little speech in a minute.
I look at Ruth s drink and then at some of the other already-unsteady-on-their-feet guests and decide that a mocktail would be a very good idea to start off with.
Tom asks for one too.
We chat to Bea and Ruth, and then we all find ourselves talking to different people and it s all very nice, because everyone here is a friend or relative of Carole s, and they re all great in different ways, and everyone wants the best for Carole, which is lovely.
I ve just got myself a second mocktail (despite some serious encouragement from the little group I ve just been chatting to to try a fierce Blackberry Mule), when we all hear the clinking of cutlery against glass and turn to see Carole standing on a chair in the corner.
Don t worry, she tells us all. I m still sober. And I ve taken my shoes off so I m not going to break an ankle. She directs a pantomime wink in my direction. So. Time for a little speech from me.
You re all here as my guests because you re very important to me and I ve been through what can only be described as a very shitty experience followed by the realisation that I have wonderful people in my life who I m very grateful for and who make me very happy. I d like to thank all of you for being you , and I d also like to make some specific thank yous.
Firstly, our wonderful Waterloo Five group. Guests of honour. Four strangers who were there when I found out what a dick Roger was, and who could have turned their backs on the screeching, blubbering wreck that I immediately became, but who instead helped me when I needed help the most, and basically adopted me and we became a kind of family. Bea and Ruth— she points at them and we all clap (and yes I do try out the wolf whistle that I have finally just learnt to do courtesy of my nephew and yes it is satisfying) —had just got engaged and might have been expected to want some privacy. But not only did they look after me in that moment, they also insisted on the five of us going out for dinner. And they hosted me overnight – the night they got engaged.
Everyone claps again, and then Carole moves on.
And then there s Nadia. She points at me and, even though this is her party and I absolutely want her to have a good time and say anything she likes, I don t really, if I m honest, want everyone here to know about my unfortunate dating history. And Carole is great, she really is, but you never entirely know what she s going to say at any given moment. She d been stood up by the most stupid blind date ever because he hooked up with someone else the night before and forgot to tell her. Oh, okay, well there you go, yes, everyone knows now, but it could be worse, at least she didn t say it was my seventh dating disaster in six months. Oh, God, I hope she isn t going to.
Tom s looking at me quite wide-eyed, and mouths Sorry in my direction. I nod a thank you.
Look at Nadia, Carole continues. Everyone was already looking at me. She s wonderful, beautiful, kind, funny. She pretended all the way through Bea and Ruth s wedding not to have a broken ankle and sang angelic karaoke while in terrible pain. She seems entirely unaware that Bea and Ruth are now looking quite shocked. That blind date was an idiot . But I m very grateful to him because his failure to turn up was our gain.
I think she s done. Thank goodness for that.
Everyone claps and I decide to laugh because it s my best option.
And finally Tom, Carole says when the claps have died down. Eek. I feel very selfish that I was concentrating on my own discomfort, because I m guessing Tom isn t going to enjoy this. I see him shift his weight between his feet and try to send him sympathy vibes. Like Nadia, Tom was supposed to be meeting someone, a woman he made a ten-year pact with. As Carole smiles around the room, I glance at Tom, who s standing motionless. Mentioning his pact with Lola is so embarrassing for him.
And again, Carole plunges on, his date s failure to turn up was our gain. Tom s just as wonderful as Nadia, and we re all the richer for knowing him. And I d just like to say, for the record, that Tom and Nadia seem to get on very well, so watch this space. Perhaps their dating disappointments will lead to future joy. Personally, I m hoping for an invitation to their future wedding. She holds her glass up high, apparently oblivious to how Tom and I might feel right now. A big toast to my four wonderful new friends, our Waterloo Five, and I hope we ll remain friends forever.
Tom s smiling and toasting but his back is very rigid.
I m not sure that he and I will in fact be remaining friends forever.