Chapter Six Tom
Chapter Six
Tom
Hey mate. Fancy brekky? I’m in your hood, Tom messaged Ralph. He’d found himself at a bit of a loss once he and Daisy had reached Goodge Street and when he kept walking
and saw signs for Paddington he thought of his best mate, who lived in nearby Warwick Avenue.
Why are you in my hood at this hour? Meet me at Bondi Green in t-minus 30 minutes.
Ralph was a sergeant in the London Metropolitan Police and used language that regularly caused Tom to roll his eyes.
Walking along the canal, he wondered how long it might take Daisy to figure out what Sophie saw in Orlando. Could she, a virtual stranger, really get to the bottom of what caused Sophie to end things before he could figure it out
himself—him being one of the two people who were actually in the relationship? Surely not, but it felt good to have someone
offering to help after he’d gotten nowhere. And it was a relief, actually, to not have to read it again. Not that he could
anyway, now that half the pages were making their way around London in the wind.
He just didn’t understand why that book?
Why the breakup at all? What had changed amongst it all?
He picked up speed toward the restaurant, flooding his mind with memories.
Camping trips where they’d climb into the same sleeping bag for warmth and laugh at how little space there was.
Where they’d both suggest a European city for a weekend trip and then play rock, paper, scissors to decide which one they’d visit.
The laughing so hard as they ran across Waterloo Bridge that Sophie had to shout loudly, “Stop, I’m going to pee myself.
No seriously, Tom, I think I just did,” as a passerby smirked at them, only making them laugh harder.
Sophie beside Tom at his computer, seriously looking at the miniscule differences between fifteen photographs of supermodel Kiki Lawrence to decide which she thought was the best, before pulling him toward her and kissing him, whispering, “You’re so talented. ”
Did Orlando change her, or was it their relationship that had changed? Could he really have been about to propose to a woman who was no
longer in love with him, and he hadn’t even noticed?
Glancing across the canal, he watched as streams of people tore their way down the footpath toward the station and pulled
out his phone. He went into his camera roll and clicked on the album called “Sophie.” There it was. The last photo he took
of her that he’d printed as part of his proposal. Sophie, in bed reading Orlando. He scrolled back two or three frames and stopped dead on the pavement, zooming in. He hadn’t noticed at the time. Hadn’t
given it any attention. He was just trying to find the right picture to print. The one where the sunlight caught her face
just so. The perfect ruffle of the white duvet against her. He’d stared at that final photo so many times, but not this one.
Not the one where the book lay flat against the bed and she ran a hand through her hair, head tilted slightly toward the window,
tears glistening in her eyes.
It was the very next afternoon that she’d just blurted it out in their living room. “I can’t do this anymore, Tom. I’m so sorry. This just isn’t right.”
“Can’t do what?” Tom had asked. “What isn’t right?”
“This. You and me. I just . . . I don’t know how to explain it, but I just know I need to be on my own. I really am so sorry. It’s this book I’ve been reading . . .”
Fuck. It was all there in that photo, and he’d missed it. Tom used to pride himself on capturing the in-between moments when his
subjects stopped posing. They were always his favorite images, when the mask slipped and the rawness shone through. The vulnerability.
The honesty. The more he got into editorial work, the more he forgot to look for those snapshots, and yet here one was, screaming
at him, and he’d ignored it. He was so focused on the right frame that he didn’t see the truth staring back at him from his
own photos. That Sophie was unhappy. That when she thought she was alone, she had cried in their bed.
By the time Tom arrived at Bondi Green he’d regressed about four months, back in the headspace he’d been in for weeks after
she ended things. After she said how sorry she was. Come to think of it, maybe that was why he hated those words so much.
“You look gloomy,” Ralph said, pulling Tom out of the past as he appeared in front of him at the entrance to the restaurant.
“You look . . .” Tom scanned Ralph, squinting as he took in what looked different. Same short dark hair. Same light stubble.
“Buff,” he said, realizing what it was.
He was in the short-sleeved version of his navy work shirt and his arm muscles were definitely more prominent than Tom had
seen before. Given Tom had known Ralph since he was a scrawny twelve-year-old, he’d seen his arms enough times to know when
they’d changed shape.
“Thanks for noticing.” Ralph raised his arm.
“Please don’t. Don’t flex.”
“Got to.” He pulled his forearm toward his head, bicep bulging.
Tom rolled his eyes and walked into the restaurant, grabbing a table in the window.
“What happened?”
Ralph grimaced. “Sounds bad if I say it. Thanks, mate,” he said to the waiter, taking a menu and handing one over to Tom.
“Bad, how?”
“Well, I don’t want Tina to leave me, do I.” He rubbed at his jaw, something he did when he was uncomfortable, and Tom stared
at him, trying to understand. Eventually he realized what he was saying.
“The way Sophie left me, you mean?”
“Told you it sounded bad.”
Tom threw his menu down on the table. “Jesus, mate, way to kick a man when he’s down.” He paused, frowning. “Why the arm muscles?”
“We’re watching Celebrity SAS and Tina’s hot for that Foxy guy and, mate, he’s ripped. So I’ve been sneaking in a few sessions before work. I’ve become part of the cross-fit collective.” He raised his eyebrows
up and down, twice.
“You despise the cross-fit collective. You used to say it was like a cult.”
“Turns out cults are fun when you’re actually in them.”
Tom nodded thoughtfully. “Scientologists do tend to look pretty happy.”
“Exactly. So, what are you doing here? Got a job?” Ralph asked, after calling the waiter back to order.
“Not until later. Shooting Clive Owen for some cologne ad. No, I—”
“What the fuck’s happened to your cheek?” Ralph squinted, leaning closer.
Tom reached up to his jaw, the pain momentarily forgotten. “I got punched by someone on the bus this morning.”
He was a good friend, Ralph. Tom watched as he forced away a smirk and, while it took a couple of seconds too long for it to be his genuine reaction, his forehead creased with concern. “You okay?”
As they waited for their food to arrive, Tom told Ralph about his bizarre morning on, and off, the bus.
“Only you,” he said, shaking his head when Tom was done. “Of all the reasons to get hit for the first time, it’s a good one,
I guess. Sounds like those guys needed putting in their place.”
“I think if I’d actually achieved that, I wouldn’t have this,” Tom said, pointing at his cheek.
Ralph shrugged. “Sometimes you have to take a hit to land a hit.”
“Is that what you say when you arrest people?”
“Pretty much.”
“She just . . . she looked sad. Sad and afraid,” Tom explained, thinking back to why he’d stepped in to stand up for a stranger.
It absolutely wasn’t his usual style. You didn’t get to his age having never been hit without being a true master of avoiding
conflict. He got lost, for a second, thinking about the fights Sophie used to try to pick with him and how quickly he’d diffuse
them. He wasn’t enjoying this, the way things he’d never noticed at the time kept rising up in him.
“No wonder you were drawn to her. The Daisy woman. A fellow sad person to match Mister Gray Cloud over here.”
“Look at this,” Tom said, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out his phone, unlocking it to the photo of Sophie.
His mind was still on what he’d missed.
“What?” Ralph asked, running his eyes over the image. “That’s a beautiful shot.”
“Zoom in.”
Tom watched as Ralph stretched his thumb and forefinger across the screen. “Shit.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
“You didn’t notice that when you were taking it?”
“I noticed it . . . today.”
Ralph stared at it a moment longer before handing it back. “Isn’t it sort of your job to be observant?”
“Isn’t it sort of your job to detect things, such as my girlfriend’s unhappiness?”
“Fair.”
“We hung out enough. Most Friday nights in fact. A heads-up would have been great if either of you had noticed anything. It’s
frightening.” The waiter put down two matching plates—omelets and salad. “Like, if I missed that, what else did I miss? How
long was I walking around oblivious to it all? Assuming we were going to spend the rest of our lives together?”
“I don’t think it was just you. Tina was shocked. We all were.” He cut up a giant slice of omelet, forcing it in.
Tom was glad to hear it, even if it didn’t fix his current state. “Just the weekend before we’d all gone for that lunch in
Hampstead.”
“We said the same thing. She seemed great then. Loving life. Although . . .”
“What?”
“Well she’s an actress, isn’t she? I guess if anyone’s going to be able to play a convincingly happy girlfriend, it’s her.
I won’t give up the arms though. Just in case.” He paused, staring at the salt in the center of the table. “I honestly don’t
know what I’d do without Tina,” he added, and his eyes filled with tears. “Sorry. I know that’s really insensitive; it’s just
all this . . . it got me thinking about what I’d do if she . . . She’s everything to me. I think I’d sort of forgotten that,
until you guys.” He continued staring, and then shook his head, returning his focus to Tom, whose own eyes were moist.