The next morning, I know I need to make amends. I didn’t leave things badly with Tom – there was no exchange of cross words, no storming off, no slamming of van doors. But there was some silence, some obvious surprise, and a less than ecstatic response on my part. Things have been so natural between us since we first met that anything less than easy banter felt almost as bad as me slapping him across the face and calling him a ball-bag.
I didn’t mean to hurt him, but I suspect I did, and he doesn’t deserve that. He’s uncertain of himself in social situations already, without me making it any worse.
I have decided to make amends via the gift of a Baby Groot – one of those things with wibbly-wobbly arms and a smiley face made of crochet and pipe cleaners, bouncing around in his own tiny plant pot. When I arrived at the day centre yesterday to collect my mum, they were in the middle of a craft activity, which she always loves.
She was always the kind of woman who was knitting or crocheting or creating, and we grew up doing the same. Even Van is a dab hand with an embroidery needle, or at least he was until he decided it wasn’t something Kurt Cobain would do and dumped it.
Mum was sitting at a table, showing some of the others how to make crocheted flowers to put in tiny plant pots. She’s patient and kind and, when she’s focused, really good at this stuff. Of course, that’s not always the case – sometimes the connections don’t quite click and she gets frustrated.
Yesterday, she seemed to be on form. In fact, she appeared to be holding the class, rather than taking it. Carole, bless her, often lets her do this kind of thing and it’s one of the main reasons she enjoys going to the centre. We’re lucky to have it, even if it seems to live under constant threat of closure due to budget cuts.
At first I wasn’t sure how she’d take to it, as most of the other clients are much older than her, and many of them are in different stages of dementia conditions. But Carole’s a smart cookie, and by letting my mum help out rather than be helped, she gets to feel useful and valued rather than dumped in a room full of strangers.
That day had clearly been a good day, and Mum seemed serene. I sat down with them all, and joined in. I fully appreciate the charms of crochet – you need to concentrate enough that your mind can’t wander too far, but not so much that it becomes stressful. I decided against the flowers, and instead started to fashion little Groot, taking him home to finish him off that same night.
He’s a beautiful creature, with shiny dark eyes and a zig-zaggy head and a big grin. The perfect peace offering for a man who speaks Klingon.
Mum is at home now with Jackie, one of the carers social services introduced us to, and Bella, who wasn’t at all keen on Baby Groot. She was giving him that look she gets when she’s thinking ‘I’d like to tear you apart and see what’s on the inside.’
Successfully rescued from a potentially lethal terrier experience, Groot is now with me at Briarwood, on a quick visit before my shift at the café starts.
I get out of the van, and see that a small parallel universe of building supplies has arrived. No workmen as yet, but it won’t be long before the place is filled with clomping steel-toed boots, flasks of strong tea and the smell of sawdust.
The weather is weird today – really warm, but slightly unreal. As though Mother Nature is toying with us, and will unleash an insane rainstorm later on to keep us on our toes.
The trees are hanging lush and green as I make my way down the path at the side of the building, heavy boughs rich with blossom holding hands over my head to create a fragrant arch, the low-level humming of insects all around me. I can hear the joyful chirruping of finches and nuthatches, the slightly more sinister screech of jays, and even the distant drumming of a woodpecker. It’s like a bird orchestra.
The path beneath my feet becomes softer as I walk deeper into the woods, cushioned by a springy layer of leaves and moss, my boots padding on natural carpet as I make my way down to the pond. It feels sticky and moist out here, as though I’m wading through the jungles of Brazil rather than ancient woodland in a quiet corner of England.
I emerge into the clearing, planning to skirt around the edge of the pond and head to Tom’s camper van, where I will present him with Baby Groot, and all will be well with the galaxy.
Except Tom isn’t in the camper van. Tom is in the pond. And yet again, he isn’t wearing any clothes – at least not that I can see. Maybe he has old-fashioned Victorian bloomers on beneath the water level, I don’t know.
I freeze, hidden behind the gnarled trunks of the oaks and the broad, swishing leaves of the clumps of fern. I remember my mum telling us a folk legend about the fern – that anyone carrying it could be rendered invisible. I consider swooping up a branch and hoping for the best.
I tell myself that I should just start whistling, or cough loudly, or start stomping around and snapping twigs, perhaps while singing Girls Aloud – anything to let him know that I’m there. That I’m not actually skulking around behind trees, holding a crocheted film character in a plant pot, stalking him.
I know that’s what I should do – but somehow, my body just doesn’t want to cooperate. My feet feel rooted to the earth, and my breath is stuck midway down my chest.
The first time I saw him like this, dappled and shining in the sunlit water, my mind leapt immediately to Edward Cullen, my teenage crush. Now, Edward Cullen is nowhere – all I see is Tom.
Tom, my friend, who speaks Klingon. Who goes to the gym a lot, and looks damn fine on it. Who is bare-chested and bare-shouldered. Who has tiny droplets of water sprinkled across his skin, and pouring from the short, thick coat of his hair.
He’s splashing and diving, swooshing his head in and out of the water, shaking himself like a wet dog every time he emerges. Rick Grimes is in there with him, paddling around and grinning as he snaps at enemy twigs. Rick Grimes also looks like a wet dog, but it’s less troubling on him.
Tom is laughing, alive with the sheer joy of the day. He is doing what he set out to do – loosening up.
I don’t know how he’d feel if he knew I was lurking in the background, watching. Creeped out, possibly. Maybe just embarrassed. I don’t really know – but I do know how I feel.
I feel like kicking off my boots, stripping naked, and jumping in there with him. I feel like reaching out to touch all that bare skin, and stroking that wet head, and wrapping all my limbs around his body. In short, I feel like a woman who has just noticed her libido switch click firmly into the ‘on’ position.
I place a hand on one of the oak trees as though I’m earthing myself – not quite able to turn away, not quite able to move forward. The old me might have done the impulsive thing, and run straight in yelling ‘Geronimo’. But the new me? She has a lot more to think about than her own needs. Even if Tom didn’t recoil with horror – even if he felt the same – it couldn’t possibly end well.
I know all of this, but I still can’t quite make myself leave. I’m enjoying the view too much. And when the rain finally starts, lashing down in warm torrents, it gets even better.
Tom stands still in the water, and turns his face up to the sky. He closes his eyes, smiles at the world, and holds out his arms in welcome. He grins as rivulets run across his skin, around his jaw, fat drops splashing on his shoulders and chest. He lets out a whoop of sheer happiness, and Rick Grimes joins in with a deep, resonant woof that echoes around the clearing.
The rain might be contributing to the erotic mirage playing out in front of me – but it is also, at least, helping to shake me out of it. The downpour is one of those fast, sudden storms that pass as quickly as they start. Within what feels like seconds, I’m drenched, and I fear for Baby Groot’s wellbeing. He is made of wool, after all.
I shove him into my pocket, and ever so quietly, start to retrace my steps. Running away is the best thing for both me and Tom, I know. I’m only flesh and blood, and I might have ravaged him if I’d stayed there any longer. Now Tom can carry on swimming like nobody’s watching, and I can retain my super-cool image. The one that’s so subtle, only I can see it.
I walk stealthily back to the place where the footpaths meet at a small, green junction, and pause. I am quite literally at a crossroads, and wonder if the devil might leap out at any moment and offer to buy my soul for a handful of beans or the ability to play Flamenco guitar.
I glance back down the way I came. That way lies Tom, in all his man-bodied glory. I glance down the other path, which leads back around Briarwood and on to the camper van via a longer route. That way lies sanity.
In a move my teenaged self would never have believed, I choose sanity, and head away from the Pond of Much Temptation. I clomp through the woods, knocking branches and shrubs out of my way with an edge of anger – or more accurately, frustration. Everything feels very complicated, and a bit unfair, so I take it out on the green stuff.
By the time I reach the clearing where Tom has his van, the rain has passed – and I have cooled down. I’ve talked it all over with Groot and that has helped. He’s a good listener, and I am almost at the point where I can laugh at myself.
This is becoming a bad habit, spying on Tom in the pond. The poor bloke would be mortified if he knew. He might get a restraining order out, and then where would we be?
I tell myself not to take it all so seriously, and Groot agrees. I need to give myself a break. I’m a human being – I have needs. The fact that I’ve resigned myself to ignoring them doesn’t mean they don’t exist. And as chastity fails go, it wasn’t that bad – I looked, but I didn’t touch. I have the feeling that if I give in and let myself touch, something will snap and the carefully constructed house of cards that is my life will scatter around me in a flurry of jacks and hearts.
At the camper van, one of the chairs is set up outside, next to a small folding table. There’s an empty coffee mug sitting there, next to a book called The Martian, which is now a bit soggy. He definitely must be loosening up if he’s reached the stage where he’s recklessly abandoning soiled crockery in public.
I place Baby Groot on the table next to the book, giving his head a little pat before I leave. I wonder, as I walk away, if Tom will assume that alien life forces have snuck in and invaded his tiny patch of paradise.