Chapter Twenty-Four Tom
Chapter Twenty-Four
Tom
It was at some point in the weeks after he and Sophie got back together that Tom realized he was doing exactly what Barbie
advised against. He was trying too hard. He wasn’t sure if it was his anxiety around Sophie, the fact that Christmas had been
thrust upon them so soon after their reunion, giving a forced urgency to everything and causing Tom to buy up half of London
to be sure he got something good for her, or the fact Sophie seemed to find everything so easy and didn’t really seem to be
trying at all.
Tom was jumping the moment Sophie’s feet wriggled their way onto his lap as they sat side by side on the sofa, his heart leaping
into his chest as he raced to pick up a foot and start massaging before she had to ask him to do it the way she used to. That
was the first time he heard Martha’s voice. No one should try hard to love someone. Was panicking about a foot massage trying too hard?
He noticed it again when they went for dinner and the waitress came to take their drinks order when Sophie was in the toilet.
Would she want red wine or white? He could only choose one and the decision was crippling him.
He got one of each even though he knew he wanted red and when she sat back down she thanked him with a big smile, taking the red and leaving him with the white.
In the Uber on the way back that night she’d fallen asleep with her head resting on his shoulder and he felt absolutely paralyzed from moving in case he woke her. Sophie took her sleep very seriously.
“Put some tunes on,” she’d shouted from the bathroom one morning while she was getting ready and he took so long deciding
what to play that she poked her head out of the door to check he’d heard.
He wasn’t trying to love her, he decided. He already loved her. He was trying too hard to please her, because he didn’t trust that she was going to stay. And at some point, that
might become a problem, but for now he needed to focus on the two of them.
They were at a small Christmas market in Beckenham Place Park, picking up presents for his family when Tom had tried on a
hat at one of the stalls and turned to Sophie, hoping to make her laugh.
“I don’t think so,” she said, screwing her face up. “I think the rim would get in the way of the lens when you’re taking photos.”
The memory had appeared before Tom could even make the link as to why something felt different. It was him coming out of the
dressing room to be greeted by the beaming faces of Martha and Daisy, cheering encouragement or an amused expression of dismay
plastered across the two of their faces. Martha leaping off the chair onto the ground making monkey noises and Daisy laughing
so hard she had to cover her mouth. The way she walked away from the door and then turned back, telling him that while he
shouldn’t care whether the outfit made Sophie love him or not, he should buy it anyway. Because it suited him. A shiver had
run through his body when she said it, but he’d ignored it. His mind hadn’t been on Daisy then; it was on Sophie. Sophie,
who had handed him a beanie and said something about it being more practical.
He hadn’t been in touch with Daisy again and he’d wanted to message, but the last time all she’d sent was a thumbs-up.
He waited days in case anything else came, but it never did.
Maybe that was all it was for her. Just a challenge to be completed, and now that they’d done it, no further contact was required.
What else did they have to say to each other, really?
Except, he found that he had a lot he’d still like to say to her.
He wanted to ask whether she’d thought any more about going for a similar job if one came up.
How her brother was, and if he’d ever come back.
What her thoughts were on him and Sophie.
He wanted to ask her about his exhibition in more detail because he genuinely cared about what she thought and he never got to hear whatever it was she was going to say next.
Daisy would have really considered it. She’d have given him feedback, including intricate details even he may not have noticed.
He’d been excited, he remembered now, to see her on the bus again so he could sit beside her and really listen to what she had to say.
He never got to do that, and now it was too late.
He was reminded of all that as he lay on the top bunk on Christmas Eve, staring up at the glow-in-the-dark stars as Martha
lay beneath him, wide-awake because she was “so desperately excited about Santa coming”—her words. She was getting scarily grown up.
“Are you sad again, Tom?” she’d whispered from beneath him. “You can’t be sad at Christmas.”
“Of course I’m not sad, Mar. Why would I be?”
“Because you’re in my bunk again.”
He turned onto his side, leaning closer to the edge. “That’s because I wanted to be here for Christmas,” he replied, which
was almost the whole truth.
The next day she’d woken up eye-wateringly early, stocking retrieved and presents unwrapped all before 6:00 a.m. Later, after they’d all exchanged gifts, Laura had cooked a roast and the four of them had eaten it around the table, pulling crackers and wearing their hats and telling jokes.
Tom thought of his mum, as he often did at Christmas.
Thought about how different life would be with her here, and then he caught sight of Martha, laughing at a joke about a penguin.
He smiled warmly at her, remembering the gift his mum had left him in her absence.
Someone to love in a completely different way to the way he loved his mum, but just as much.
In the early afternoon the bell rang, and Tom jumped up. “That’ll be Soph,” he said, moving to answer the door, and when they
returned to the kitchen, it was as though they were all strangers again. Laura greeted Sophie with a wave rather than the
big hug she used to give, and asked in a very formal voice whether Sophie wanted bubbles or if she was driving. Tom’s dad
brought a bowl of crisps to the kitchen table even though they’d just eaten a massive roast, only removing them when Martha
proudly announced she’d been sick into that bowl a few days earlier. They then insisted on cleaning up and sent Tom and Sophie
through to the lounge, where Martha was desperate (her new favorite word) for a game of Hungry Hungry Hippos—a surprise hit
gift from Tom.
“How are you, Martha?” Sophie asked, her voice formal, once they’d gathered around the board. “Did Santa come?”
“Boy did he!” Martha replied, eyes wide like saucers. “I got the biggest stocking ever.” She shouted the last word.
“That must mean you’ve been a very good girl,” Sophie said as Tom watched her, smiling.
“I have been.” She nodded. “But I also made a wish and that hasn’t come true. So maybe only half good.”
“Wishes take time,” Tom said. “It might still happen.”
“Well I hope so,” Martha said, putting the hippo board in front of them. “Because it’s boring when you’re sad all the time.”
Tom swallowed. “Your wish was about me being sad?” he asked, frowning. “I’m not sad. I’m not sad at all.” He reached out,
adjusting the board so it was fairly in the middle of them all rather than directly in front of Martha.
“You are,” she said, looking at him. “He’s been sad ever since The Worst Day,” she explained to Sophie, before releasing all
the balls onto the board as Tom felt the heat rushing to his cheeks.
“What’s The Worst Day?” Sophie asked, looking between them.
Martha started furiously pressing the button on her orange hippo, balls flying into its mouth. Tom started to copy her with
slightly less enthusiasm.
“When all the bad things happened,” Martha explained.
“All the bad things?” Sophie asked.
“He was only happy once. With Daisy.” Martha pressed faster and faster on her hippo, very few balls now remaining.
“Who’s Daisy?” Sophie asked, and Tom could tell she was making a special effort to keep her voice light as she finally pressed
her green hippo with such force it popped off the board completely before she could get a single ball and flew into her lap.
“She’s just a friend, who’s getting married next month. I’m taking the photos for her wedding,” Tom explained, relieved by
how innocent it sounded.
Sophie frowned. “You don’t normally do wedding photos?”
“No, it’s a favor, really.”
“Why?”
“I think I’m the only one still playing,” Martha said, still pressing her hippo as one ball wobbled slowly around the board,
with no one getting it.
And so, as Martha released the balls again and again, Tom told Sophie the story of the bus and how he had fought some men
off and helped Daisy escape and they had become friends, but just friends. He didn’t mention Daisy’s own actions, or Orlando, or all the ways in which she had helped him since. He didn’t mention that because he didn’t want Sophie to think he’d continued
to pine after her, long after her Converse landed on his windscreen. And he couldn’t have mentioned it even if he wanted to,
because on hearing about his heroic actions she dived across the board, telling him how amazing he was for being so tough
and brave, and kissed him hard on the mouth, exactly the way he’d always suspected she would.