Chapter Twenty-Three

Toward the end of January, Tom and I went to London. As well as needing to find an editor, he wanted to speak to some musicians about scoring his film. He didn’t want a soundtrack written, he just needed someone who knew music and could apply existing songs to the film to help increase the emotional impact.

He also had an appointment with his plastic surgeon, who was going to measure how much new skin had been grown and estimate when the surgery could go ahead. His leg was looking horribly misshapen thanks to the fluid-filled balloons, but we were hopeful that meant he was nearly ready to have his operation. He’d always been such an active man. I was eager to see him running along our beach again!

I wasn’t just his chauffeur, though. I had a meeting with Sam, the art dealer who had left me a message, and with the one small gallery that had eventually replied to my email.

I was also looking forward to seeing Tom’s own home. You can tell a lot about a man from his home. Not that I was expecting huge surprises like a room devoted to his collection of troll dolls, or a BDSM dungeon, or a survivalist bunker complete with enough ammunition for a small country!

Our last paparazzo had finally left us in peace after the snow incident, so we weren’t followed. Since we were taking a week’s worth of clothes as well as the four canvas prints of my photos, we took Tom’s Jaguar after he put me on his insurance. Part of me felt like I should be pushing him to try driving. I mean, we were supposed to help each other. I felt like that didn’t just mean practically, but emotionally too.

Every time I thought about it, though, I asked myself how I would feel if he tried to push me into confronting a phobia, no matter how gently. I knew I would feel attacked, even if only gently attacked. So I kept my mouth shut, ready to support him when he showed signs of wanting to overcome his fear. Besides, he probably couldn’t drive with his leg as swollen as it was at the moment. Even sitting beside me, he was hunched right down in his seat so he could sit comfortably. Or as comfortably as possible for a tall man with balloons attached to his leg.

London traffic was light, thankfully. That was why we’d chosen to drive up on a Sunday, so we were making good time.

His home was just off a high street, down a private road that led to a small cul-de-sac of houses. With four bedrooms, it was a good size but it was far from a mansion. It was decorated like any other family home, with mostly hardwood floors and well-loved leather couches. He had a few prints of famous paintings hanging on his walls, but mostly he had framed movie posters. I liked his home. It felt warm, unpretentious, and very “Tom.”

Even the location was like him—not hidden but unobtrusive. It was just going about its business of being a house, whether people knew it was there or not.

He also had a small garden, which would ordinarily be nice but it was a little too chilly to enjoy that day.

We unpacked and popped over to a local shop for some supplies, like fresh milk. When we got back, he showed me where he thought my pictures should go. There was a long, white wall in his living room that at the moment had nothing on it.

The four canvasses were large, but they would fit without looking cramped. We measured, marked the distances, and tapped in the double-nailed picture hooks to hold the frames.

“So do you have a morning or two free when we get back?” I asked him as I kneeled on the sideboard and marked the location of the next hook with a pencil.

“Sure, what do you need?”

“A model.” I crawled down the sideboard and marked off the next point.

“Are we talking fashion, or glamour modeling?” he teased.

“Portrait,” I said with a smile. “How does that look?”

He retracted the tape measure and stepped back.

“That looks about right. They look even, anyway.”

“Great. Hand me a hook and the hammer, please?”

He did, and I tapped the first one in.

“I was thinking my next project might be to see if I can sort of recreate Andy Warhol’s famous Marilyn Monroe portraits,” I explained as I worked. “Or make something like that Obama Hope poster by Shepard Fairey that was everywhere for a time. But I’d like to make the colors in real life, by shining lights on the various planes of people’s faces.”

“That sounds interesting.”

“I hope so. I doubt it’ll end up looking anything like Warhol’s images. They were paintings and prints, but by blacking out all natural light and working only with colored light sources, I think I can create something striking.”

“So you’ll use contrasting colors?”

“Yeah, I want to try maybe lighting with primary colors, say blue from the top and red from below, so where they mix we’ll get shades of purple. But I also want to play with pinpoint spotlights and complementary colors too, so lighting in various shades of one color.”

“It would be an honor to be your guinea pig, darling.” He smirked.

“Thanks.” I smiled at him and held my hand out for the next hook.

“My pleasure.”

I think he felt a little guilty that I was the one climbing on furniture and banging nails in, but his leg just wasn’t up to kneeling on any hard surfaces. Besides, since my dad lacked a son, he had passed on his DIY knowledge to me. Not that he knew anything more than the basics himself, but I was glad I didn’t have to keep calling people out just because I didn’t know how to drill a hole and bang in a rawl plug.

“So do you fancy doing anything while we’re in London?” he asked, passing another picture hook.

“What did you have in mind?”

“Well, I could get us tickets to a show or two.”

“Last minute? They’ll cost a small fortune!” I protested.

“Not if you know people in the production.” He shrugged. “They always keep a couple of seats back for family and friends. If they’re not claimed, they’re sold at the box office at cost.”

Well, that didn’t sound too bad. “Okay then, that sounds nice.” I hadn’t been to many London shows since Darren died. I made it up to the city maybe once a year with a group from the village, but that was it.

“What do you fancy? Drama? Musical? Shakespeare?”

“Anything, I suppose . . . as long as the Shakespeare isn’t like those productions we had to watch in school. They were all ruffled collars, stilted speech, and phony accents.”

“I promise,” he said with a laugh.

“I wouldn’t mind seeing a musical,” I mused as I worked. “I haven’t seen one since I was nineteen.”

“Darren didn’t like them?”

“Far too frivolous for him,” I confirmed. “I always wanted to see Hairspray, though. Do you think we could get tickets to that, if it’s still on?” I turned to him, biting my lip. “I mean, not if it’s any hassle or going to cost a fortune or something.”

“I’ll see what I can do. No promises.”

Hmm. Did he mean no promises about getting tickets, or no promises about spending a fortune? I shrugged, deciding to leave it to him.

“Will your leg be okay?” I asked, knowing some theater seats were light on the padding. He couldn’t exactly put his custom cushion on top of the seat, or he’d sit so high he’d block the view of people behind him.

“If the worst comes to worst, I’ll slouch,” he said.

I did argue that he couldn’t slouch for over two hours, but he kept assuring me he’d be fine. I made him promise to ask about disabled seating. Although he didn’t like it, he eventually agreed.

I smiled and accepted the next hook.

It was fiddly work that took about an hour all told. Once we stepped back and looked at the full view of the photographs in situ, they looked really good—if I do say so myself!

“I was a little worried they might overpower the space, but they don’t,” Tom said.

“If you had darker walls they might, but no, these look like they were made for this space.”

He took his phone out and snapped a few pictures to post to Instagram and Twitter.

“It can’t hurt to get a little more exposure before your meeting with the dealer!” he said with a wink.

***

Tom was meeting with his agent and Liam the following day, so I took the opportunity to go shopping and revisit the little boutique where I’d found the lovely dresses before.

I thought I should maybe also pick up some under-eye concealer. Tom and I weren’t exactly getting much sleep; get your mind out of the gutter, please! It was because of his leg making it so uncomfortable. He offered to let me sleep in one of the spare rooms, but I liked him spooning me in bed.

But first, dresses. I found three lovely gowns: an off-the-shoulder dress in a dark red, a sleeveless black dress with a slightly suggestive cutout over the breasts, and a sheath dress with a bold flower print on the lower part of the skirt.

I would wear the red first, I decided. I got the chance the following evening, because Tom got us tickets to an all-female performance of King Lear at the Donmar Warehouse! I didn’t know what to expect, but I did know that the Donmar didn’t do staid productions. I was hopeful it would be a modern performance. I’d been there only a couple of times, because Darren was always very disapproving of the changes they made to classics.

I looked stunning in my dark red dress, I thought, but not too formal. Tom had dressed up as much as he could. Unfortunately, even his cargo pants didn’t fit any longer, so he was in black sweatpants. He’d paired them with formal shoes and a lovely dark blue shirt that he left untucked to hide the elastic waistband of his trousers. The black jacket he chose helped dress it all up. Most people probably wouldn’t even notice his pants.

His hair was getting quite long now. He’d had it trimmed at the back for Christmas, but on top, his lovely blond hair was long enough to curl. He’d tried to tame it, but I told him I liked it. He let me style it into loose waves for him. I thought he looked very handsome. But then I was slightly biased!

We went out for dinner first at a small bistro not far from the theater that was used to catering to customers who had to be out in time for the show. The bistro was divided into three rooms. As the booking was last minute, we were seated in the front room with the bar, so things were a little cramped—but not overly so. Poor Tom had to perch on the edge of his seat, but at least the chairs were nice and cushioned.

We talked about his meetings. Tom told me that he was looking at scripts again, hopeful that he could get back to work in a few months. We discussed the plots while we ate.

Everything was fine until she passed me. It was the perfume I recognized first. I’d know the horrible, cloying scent of Youth-Dew Eau de Parfum anywhere.

My blood turned to ice in my veins. Even though my heart was pounding, I got a numb sensation in my extremities.

“Darling, are you all right? You’ve gone very pale!” Tom sounded slightly alarmed.

She had passed before I could reply, but rather than continue on to the door, she paused by our table.

“I thought that was you,” her unmistakable, hateful voice drawled. She was probably literally looking down her nose at me.

I kept my stare fixed on the table as I hunched in on myself, trying to make myself as small a target as possible.

“I see you’ve lost those good manners that my son tried so hard to instill in you.”

“Mrs. Malmutter,” I managed to say, fear forcing me to look up at her and offer something that approximated a smile.

I felt Tom stiffen as he heard her name.

“H-how have you been?” I didn’t stutter exactly, but my first attempt at speech was silent. Hardly surprising since my mouth suddenly felt as dry as the Sahara.

“I’m well. I’m off to see King Lear.”

Shit. So I would have to sit in a small theater with her. I couldn’t hold her gaze any longer. I lowered my eyes to the collar on her blouse.

“I didn’t think you liked the Donmar?” She preferred older theaters with long reputations. Basically, she was a snob. The Donmar was the unwanted, nouveau-riche interloper.

“Dame Helene Miller is in this production. I have wanted to see her for years.”

“And . . .” I’d forgotten how to have a conversation. My words trailed off.

“I’ve been reading about you a lot recently,” she sneered. “I’m glad you’re finally showing your true colors to the world.”

Running through my head was a torrent of nasty things I wanted to say to her, the things I had dreamed of saying ever since I’d first met her. They were swirling so fast that I couldn’t focus on one to say. I began to feel light-headed.

“Thanks to you and your slutty ways”—she cast a nasty sneer in Tom’s direction but I was so paralyzed that I couldn’t even defend him, as was my usual instinct—“I’ve been subjected to those awful tabloids calling my house at all hours.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Malmutter.” My stomach, which had been bravely soldiering on in the face of adversity, suddenly dropped out of the game, making me feel queasy.

“You should be! You didn’t deserve my son. I’ve half a mind to tell them what a gold-digger you are, so the world can see your true colors for themselves!”

“I’m sorry,” Tom interrupted. The smile on his lips didn’t reach his eyes, which were rather cold and flinty-looking. He stood up to greet her. “We haven’t been introduced. I’m Tom.”

He didn’t hold his hand out for her to shake—probably just as well considering that she was looking at him as if he was something unsavory she’d just scraped off her shoe.

“I realize you miss your son,” he said coolly. “However, I cannot allow you to go on abusing this wonderful woman! And if you’re even considering spreading any lies about her to the press, I’d rethink it if I were you.”

“Oh?” She glared at him.

“Yes. You see, while you and Darren thought you’d broken her spirit, you hadn’t. You couldn’t. She was always too strong for the likes of you. She documented her abuse in photographs. If you tell lies about her, I’ll make sure everyone knows the truth about your abusive son. His reputation, and yours, will be ruined.”

“I’ll sue you!”

“Go right ahead,” he said in his most cut-glass voice. “The additional publicity will only ensure that those ghastly photographs are seen by millions of people.” He smiled victoriously.

Mrs. Malmutter’s eyes narrowed dangerously, but she didn’t contradict him. That confirmed what I’d always suspected—she knew exactly what Darren had been doing to me.

“Now you’re going to leave and enjoy the rest of your evening. Kelsey and I will follow shortly afterward. Should you encounter either of us ever again, you will keep quiet and walk past us. But do feel free to glare,” he added with an evil smile. “We all know how terrifying a look from Medusa can be.”

I’d never been allowed to use it her first name, Ophelia, but that was it. Ophelia’s jaw was so tight that I could hear her teeth grinding.

Tom’s confident standing up to her made me want to as well, but it took a few false starts before I was able to produce any sound.

“You really should relax before you crack a tooth, Ophelia,” I finally managed to say, drawing her ire back to me.

She’d never had very good teeth, due to a fear of the dentist or something. She only went when the pain became unbearable. It was strange to see such bad teeth in the mouth of someone so wealthy. They were as rotten as she was herself.

I nearly quailed under her furious stare, but I stiffened my spine. It was a little easier to meet her gaze now.

“Cheap trash,” she hissed. She stormed over to an elderly lady who was waiting by the door, obviously her dinner companion. “Come on, Martha. We’re leaving.”

Martha and Ophelia finally left. I felt like a marionette that had had its strings cut, and I sagged in relief. I reached for my wineglass and gulped the contents down in three mouthfuls.

“Are you okay?” Tom asked as he sat back down.

My hands shook as I fished out the pillbox that still housed my Valium tablets from of my handbag.

“No.” I put my empty wineglass down. Tom topped it up, although there was only about a third of a glass left in the bottle. “But I will be,” I said as I took my pill. It probably wasn’t good to take with alcohol, but I’d done it before and not come to any harm. I didn’t take them often, but I did like to have them on hand, just in case.

I tried to flash Tom a reassuring smile, but it felt rather shaky.

“Do you want to go home?” he asked.

“Hell no!” I took another long sip of wine, then put the glass down. “I haven’t done anything wrong! I’m not letting her stop me from enjoying this lovely evening that you’ve gone to so much trouble to arrange!”

I still didn’t feel right. I put my head in my hands as I took a few long, slow, deep breaths.

“I should have said something to her,” I chastised myself as I looked up at him again.

“Darling, you were caught unawares. No one is at their best then,” he said sternly.

He was right.

“Every time I go to the theater, I’m usually prepared,” I confessed. “But she’s always hated the new theaters, especially those that put on ‘experimental’ performances, like the Donmar.”

“She must really like Helene Miller then.”

“Oh, she adores her.” I shook my head for not realizing that she might overcome her dislike of new theaters for Dame Helene. “Ever since she saw her playing the Prime Minister, she’s been a fan. She gripes about the action movies Helene does, calls them tripe, but she’s obsessed. She tried to get tickets to see her in An Audience With, but she couldn’t. I should have realized.”

“It’s not your fault,” Tom said firmly. “I didn’t even think to tell you who was in the production. And you did talk back to her, remember?”

“Not until the end.”

“Which is enough. Forgive yourself, darling.”

I nodded, even knowing that I’d be replaying this for days, working out what I wish I’d said.

“Had we better go?” I asked.

Tom checked his watch. “We’ve got a few minutes before we need to rush.” He raised his hand and called for the bill anyway.

The rest of the evening was somewhat tense. We were seated in Mrs. Malmutter’s—no, Ophelia’s—line of sight. I spent the entire performance pretending to ignore her, holding Tom’s hand, and smiling much wider than I normally would at the few jokes and witticisms. The whole time I felt as if I was having an out-of-body experience and watching myself rather than actually watching the play.

At the end, Ophelia left immediately—while the rest of us were still clapping, in fact.

“Looks like she’s heading to the stage door,” Tom leaned over and whispered.

Ophelia had always wanted to meet Helene, so it was possible that she would wait outside. Darren would have told her to grow up and stop acting like a child, of course. Yes, even his mother wasn’t spared his sharp tongue—not that she seemed to mind. She adored him too much to ever believe that he meant his insults.

“Come on.” Tom took my hand as the applause died down. He led me toward the front of the building, but then he approached a door marked “Staff Only” and knocked. He had that diabolical gleam in his eye again.

“Where are we going?” I asked nervously.

“To upstage your ex-mother-in-law,” he said with a wink.

The person manning the door greeted Tom with a hug and let us through without question. We wove our way through a maze of corridors until he tapped on a door with Helene Miller’s name taped on it.

“Just a second!” Came a voice everyone in the UK must recognize.

Were we really about to enter her dressing room? I wondered if I should feel excited or terrified. As it was, I was still rather numb and detached.

“Come in.”

Tom opened the door, and we entered to see Helene with her back to us, doing up her blouse.

“Tom, darling!” She approached and kissed his cheek. “I thought I saw your beautiful face in the crowd.”

She was in her sixties now, but while you couldn’t say she didn’t look her age, she wore it very well. She hadn’t resorted to surgery or fillers to try and maintain her youth, as so many felt pressured to do.

I could quite see why she’d been chosen to play the queen—everything she did had a sort of regal grace to it.

“Your Lear was brilliant,” Tom said. “Makes me want to give him a go myself!”

“You’re a bit too young,” she teased.

Tom laughed. “Well, darling, you’re a bit too female! If you can do Lear, I can at least give it a go!”

Introductions were made, and Helene hung her costume up as we chatted. While I didn’t really feel part of proceedings, I still managed to say the right things in the right places . . . I think.

We made our way toward the exit with Helene and picked up a couple of other cast members on the way. As we left the building, I spotted a line of people standing along the length of the wall—and a couple of security guards making sure no one got too rowdy.

We were at the stage door, I realized.

Helene said goodbye to us both. I warranted a kiss on the cheek this time, and she said how pleased she was to meet me.

Helene turned to sign autographs. We left, walking along the line of people until someone stopped Tom for his autograph and a selfie—even though he reminded them he wasn’t in the play. A couple of other people asked too. Then I saw Ophelia waiting in line with her friend.

As we moved away again, I almost felt myself snap back into my body. Tom put an arm around my shoulders, and I gave Ophelia the biggest, cattiest smile I could imagine.

Take that, you bitch!

As we walked away, I laughed out loud and slipped an arm around Tom’s waist.

“You’re so bad,” I told him.

“I am. Very, very bad,” he agreed, nodding his head solemnly.

I laughed again as I remembered her pinched expression.