One Week ’Til Christmas. Belinda Missen
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and out again. And here he was, standing before me, eyes wide, jaw dropped and arm outstretched waiting for me to shake his hand.
I stepped forward and shook. ‘At last, he has a name.’
Tom’s head tipped ever so slightly as he closed his other hand over mine. It was like someone had flicked a switch, and electricity swirled from my fingers to my toes and back around again. In the time since I last saw him, I’d been wondering if I hadn’t just imagined that feeling, perhaps confused it for an emergency rush of adrenaline. But, no, it was there, and it was as real as the sun and the moon.
‘I do,’ he said. ‘It’s lovely to … see you again? I can’t really say meet, can I?’
‘Likewise.’ I didn’t move. Neither did he.
‘Between almost being crushed by a bus and your running off, I’m afraid we didn’t get to introduce ourselves yesterday.’
‘I’m Iz,’ I said.
‘Is she a bird, is she a plane?’ He smirked and narrowed his eyes.
‘Isobel.’ I cleared my throat. ‘Isobel Bennett, I work with the Melbourne Explorer. I’m here to interview you today.’
‘Beautiful.’ His hand slipped from mine and moved straight for his hip. ‘How are you? I haven’t permanently scared you off public transport, have I?’
‘No,’ I said with a nervous chuckle. ‘Just street corners.’
‘Seat … sit … would you like a … for Pete’s sake, Tom.’ He took a loud, deep breath and clapped his hands. ‘Let’s start again. Isobel, would you like a coffee? Can I get you a drink?’
‘I’d trip someone up for a coffee right now.’
An easy smile formed. ‘Perfect. Me too. Even better if it had a chaser in it.’ He turned away and made furious hand gestures to an assistant, who in turn made like a marathon runner on a mission. ‘Please, make yourself comfortable.’
As I turned to sit, I eyed the chair like it was about to vanish into thin air before I sat down. Had there been any phone reception on the Tube, I’d have realised who I was interviewing and I might’ve been better prepared for this moment. Or, you know, added it to my reasons to run in the opposite direction.
‘How has your day been?’ Tom asked. ‘Drier than yesterday, I hope?’
‘It has been, yes. Thank you.’ I held my hand in place long enough to see my fingers shake. This was so ridiculous. I’d spent months asking Edwin for the chance to grow, to interview people and work on other articles, and here comes an actor to throw me off course. But he wasn’t just any actor, was he? ‘How about you?’
‘Ah, rather boring,’ he said, with an embarrassed laugh. ‘Not that I should say that too loudly around these parts.’
Boring. Hmm. Not quite the word I’d have used myself, but anyway.
I reached for my notepad and pen. ‘Shall we begin?’
Tom stretched for my Dictaphone. Wait. What? I leaped forward, hand atop his. There it was again, warm and sharp and utterly exquisite. God bless this sleight of fate.
‘Relax.’ He clicked the red button. ‘You hadn’t hit record yet. Just helping you out.’
I whipped my shaky hand back and did the oh-so-casual tuck the hair behind the ear move. So suave. I was sure I fooled nobody. ‘I’m glad at least one of us knows what’s going on.’
He smiled gently, but all I could see was him in the gutter in front of the bus. On top of me.
My eyes darted nervously from him to the email on the screen in front of me, most of which now looked like Tolkienesque gibberish. What was worse was I had only fifteen minutes to nail this interview before I was booted out in favour of someone who actually had a clue what they were doing. I took a large gulp of coffee and rapped my pen against my notepad.
‘Is something wrong?’ Tom leaned in, elbows on his knees. ‘Are you okay?’
‘I’m sorry, I just … I have absolutely no idea what to ask you.’
‘None at all?’ He shifted, leaning back into his seat. I couldn’t tell if he was annoyed or amused, and I was sure I’d seen both of those expressions yesterday.
‘This thing, this interview, is a last-minute thing for me. My boss rang me about half an hour ago with a time and location and told me to get here.’
‘I was going to say, looking at my schedule before I walked out here, you don’t exactly look like an Edwin.’ He smiled reassuringly. ‘Much lovelier than an Edwin, if I can be so bold.’
Oh boy. My mouth filled with sand and my heart dropped the needle on some EDM.
‘Well, I may not look like an Edwin, but I certainly feel like an imbecile, which is quite in line with his personality. I mean, he’s offered me one suggestion here: How do you unwind after a busy day? What even is that?’
‘In bed.’
Coffee cup to my mouth, I coughed. Had someone switched up the thermostat? As much as a sense of humour was the first thing I looked for in a man, I didn’t need that mental image. At least not right now. I rubbed at my chin and focused on my phone again.
I was way out of my depth and the realisation was crushing. All the daydreaming in the world wasn’t going to help me build my own brand or launch my own blog when I couldn’t stumble through the simplest of interviews. By now, I was sure I looked like I was begging and wasting everybody’s time.
‘I should explain that, usually, on a good day, I’m a travel writer. I go to health spas and restaurants, climb rope bridges and cram myself onto overstuffed bus tours. I don’t do interviews per se.’
Tom crossed one knee over the other. ‘Can I make a suggestion?’
‘Will it help?’ I let out a deep breath. ‘Because I’d really appreciate that.’
‘Why don’t you let me fill you in on what we’re doing here?’ he said, lacing his fingers together and crossing his legs at the knees. ‘That way, I toe the company line, you get all the important bits, and neither of us have to deal with any of the arbitrary garbage.’
It was the permission I needed to let go and relax. Lifting my eyes to his, I felt my body unravel. Blood stopped bellowing through my ears, and I was sure my teeth stopped doing their impression of a mortar and pestle.
He opened with a few brief sentences about his play, which was about a couple in the throes of a marriage crisis during World War II. That led to a discussion of how he’d indulged in books about wartime history, the psychological impacts of it.
His ability to correlate past events into minor details of the present, even extended to the fictional worlds he inhabited. This was especially pertinent to his role on Countershock, a role that saw him play a lieutenant caught in the middle of a modern-day war. His openness and intelligence made it so much easier to volley questions.
From then to now, and to what the future might hold, he had a studious eye, discerning taste, and was every bit in command of his own ship. Listening to him talk about roles and how he picked them, I wished I had more time to indulge in life, like normal people who binge-watched television over pizza and wine.
When somebody appeared to tell us our time was up, I felt a deep sense of deflation. Our time may have been short, but I’d found him to be utterly fascinating. He was handsome, whip smart, wryly funny, and wasn’t so tall he’d trip and hit his head on the moon. All I wanted was to listen to him talk about his world view a little more; it was deliciously addictive. Alas, it was over.
‘I guess that’s us?’
‘I guess so.’ He nodded once.
Tom’s eyes did not leave me as I watched his assistant walk away.