Chapter Twenty-Six

Diane and I tended to hover over Tom for the first week, but he insisted on doing almost everything for himself. When he wasn’t being stubbornly independent, though, we made him lie on the sofa with his leg elevated on pillows to keep the fluid buildup to a minimum.

He accepted it. He spent most of his days reading new scripts and making notes in the margins.

His surface sutures were removed after five days, before they could add to the scarring; the subcutaneous ones would dissolve on their own.

The scar was red and angry now, but actually very thin and neat; it must have taken the doctor ages to make it such a precise and tidy mark. He had silicone dressings to help reduce the scarring and stop it becoming thick and lumpy, as some scars do. Tom let me take a series of photos of the healing process.

After seven days, he was allowed to walk for as long as he wanted. He took me on some of his old running routes through the local parks and heaths. I insisted he rest and elevate the leg when we got home, but he was happy to do that if I had let him out for his walk. Well, when I say he was “happy” I mean he grudgingly accepted elevating his leg under duress from me and Diane.

He got sore after a while walking, but he never needed to use his stick. After ten days, he stopped taking his prescribed painkillers altogether and opted for over-the-counter medications. I know he still felt some pain, but it was obviously bearable. I could understand him wanting to come off the postop opiates they gave him. He had been taking them, on and off, since the accident.

At two weeks, they told him he was allowed to run again. By God, I’ve never seen a man get changed so fast as when we got home!

He’d been told to keep it to a short and gentle jog for now, rather than a sprint or a marathon. I had to trust him to take that advice. I could have gone with him, but I hate running. Well, actually, I loathe it with a fiery passion and would see it condemned to hell if I could—but that was because I’d done so much of it while married.

I pottered around the house while Tom was gone. I tried to read a book but I wasn’t taking anything in, so I found Diane and chattered to her, although later I couldn’t recall anything we’d discussed.

Tom came back after twenty minutes, rather out of breath but not limping too badly. I was hopeful that he hadn’t overdone it. He was huffing and puffing like he’d run the four-minute mile and complaining that he’d never been so unfit, but I assured him he’d soon get back in shape—as long as he didn’t push things too quickly.

During this time, I blacked out the windows in one of Tom’s spare bedrooms and bought some lights so I could continue with my new colored-light project. I roped Diane into being a model for two mornings. Tom suggested that he ask some of his friends to model for me too. They’d go crazy for the images, he said. I initially laughed, asking how much they would charge. He assured me that actors love being photographed and would happily sit for free. I was doubtful, but he said he’d send some emails out with a sample of his and Diane’s pictures.

Just the thought of getting my lens on the cheekbones and facial structure of some of his friends had me salivating, so of course I agreed. His friends kept me busy roughly every other afternoon. They all looked amazing; I guess looking good is important if you’re going to be an actor, which might be why so many of them have such great facial structure.

From the handful of people Tom had asked, things snowballed. Everyone assured me that their friends would love the approach too. I got a lot of people saying that while they “don’t usually take requests from an unknown photographer,” they would “with a recommendation from Tom.”

If everyone was genuine about wanting to help, I was going to have to spend a lot more time in London!

We went out a couple of times a week, sometimes to the theater, sometimes just for a meal. Tom was really enjoying being able to sit on a chair like a normal human being again. I begged off sometimes so he and his mum had time together. I had no problems staying in with a good book or tinkering with my photographs in Photoshop. Diane refused his offers sometimes too, allowing us time alone. She was a very good sport about giving us time together; I tried to return the favor.

If I’d been expecting Tom’s sartorial choices to improve post surgery, I would have been disappointed. He did start to move away from wearing sweatpants all the time and more into jeans for daytime wear, but he still liked his T-shirts and hoodies. He did make more of an effort when we went out in the evenings, but most of the time he was happiest in comfortable clothes. As long as his clothes didn’t have holes in them, I was happy. Of course, Tom could probably make a hessian sack sexy!

I met with Sam, the art dealer, again. My first three prints had sold out in three days, so they suggested we increase the price and cut the print run for the next images. I released another nine pictures from the Sound in Water series to them, although the plan was not to sell them all at once. They had the first three prints ready for me to sign, which, at seventy copies each, was actually over two hundred signatures. It took a hell of a long time to sign them all! Tom laughed at my moaning, but gamely joined me with some of the head shots Liam had been pestering him to autograph for fans.

Tom was given the all clear after three weeks. The moment we left the doctor’s office, he told us we were going out that night, but he wouldn’t tell us where.

“Actually, I think I’ve made plans to visit a friend of mine this evening,” Diana said without missing a beat.

That made me immediately suspicious. Did she know what he had planned?

If she did, she wasn’t telling. Nor was Tom. The only thing Tom would tell me was to dress smartly and not wear heels that were too high. What the devil constitutes too-high heels, I ask you?

I chose another of my new dresses, the sheath dress with a bold flower print on the skirt. I waited as patiently as I could for the evening to come around. Our cab took us to a place called The Speakeasy. Inside, it was decorated in a style reminiscent of the 1920s or 1930s, and the staff were dressed to match.

“This is lovely,” I said as I took everything in.

“I thought you might like it,” Tom said with a chuffed smile as we were shown to our table.

I noticed a cleared space in the middle of the room, obviously a dance floor. Judging from the men setting up instruments on the small stage, there would be live music.

We ordered some drinks and chatted for a few minutes until the band was ready. The lead singer stepped up to the microphone.

“You’ll like them,” Tom assured me. “These guys are going places.”

They played a mixture of original songs and covers. Tom tried to convince me to dance, but I begged off. The music was a little fast—and I hadn’t drunk nearly enough Dutch courage yet! I was tapping my toe and enjoying myself, though.

After six refusals, Tom started looking a little put out. I downed my drink, and we ordered another round.

“I . . . uh . . . I don’t really know how to do this sort of dancing,” I confessed. The couples on the floor seemed to be doing some form of organized flailing. Darren had always said I looked like an arthritic hippopotamus when dancing.

“What kind of dancing can you do?” he asked.

“Um . . . slow dances,” I admitted reluctantly. That didn’t seem much fun for his first night dancing again. “And I took some ballet and ballroom lessons as a kid.” This was hardly the place for a sedate waltz. A jive maybe, but who knew how to jive these days?

“So you can follow, then?” he asked me, not seeming at all perturbed by my revelations.

“Well, it’s been a while, but yes.” I’d always been quite good at following.

Tom’s smile widened as “Uptown Funk” began playing.

“Come on,” he said, taking both my hands and tugging until I had no choice but to stand up or be pulled off my chair.

Thank god for that third cosmo! He took me in the traditional dancer’s hold, but I wasn’t thinking particularly clearly, so I had no idea what we could do to the beat. Turned out we didn’t need a dance, Tom was just doing some kind of two-step of his own devising.

He began gently, easing me into it, and then there were a few under-arm turns. He started to turn me, and then he’d turn himself, a move from the jive, although the steps were slightly different. Near the end of the song he attempted to get me to do a series of spins under his arm and I am happy to report that I remained on my feet. I was grinning like a loon by the time the song finished. We stayed on the floor for the next song.

“Where did you learn to dance like this?” I asked.

“Oh, here and there.” He grinned. “But mostly I just make it up as I go along,” he said before spinning me out and then pulling me back to him.

By the end of the third song, I was sweating and thirsty. We took a break and I ordered some water, as well as some more drinks.

“Oh God, I haven’t danced like that since university!” I panted.

“I knew there was a five-year-old in you just waiting to come out and dance!” He laughed.

“Are you okay? Your leg?”

“It’s still a bit weaker, but no pain,” he assured me happily.

The next time we danced he was even more manic, pulling me tightly against him and turning so quickly that my feet actually left the ground! I shrieked with laughter—and maybe a little bit of fear since I knew one of his legs was weaker than the other. He put me back on my feet without dropping me or falling over, so all’s well that ends well.

“You’re insane!” I yelled over the music.

His reply was to repeat the same move.

And that’s how we spent the rest of the evening. We danced the night away with reckless abandon—but taking occasional rest breaks so I could rehydrate and worry that he was overdoing it.

Finally, like every good school disco, the songs slowed down toward the end of the night. I was glad of the respite.

“So you finally get a slow dance,” he told me.

Both my arms were around Tom’s neck. His hands were around my waist, and occasionally they dipped lower to grasp my bottom.

“I need the rest,” I told him, only half joking.

I was never going to keep up with him at this rate. It just seemed to be another sign that our lives were going to go in different directions. Or rather, that his was taking him away from me. At a high rate of knots, which seemed to be his new speed.

“Are you all right?” he asked me, frown lines marring his perfect features.

“I’m fine,” I lied, determined not to let my worries ruin our night.

I could worry some other time. I laid my head on his shoulder and enjoyed the feeling of his arms around me.

***

“This is it!” Tom called, running into the office where I was tweaking some of my most recent pictures.

“What’s it?” I asked, swiveling my chair to face him. Diane had returned home, and Tom was staying in London so he could have daily physiotherapy to help build up his weak leg. Now that he was allowed to train properly, he was coming along in leaps and bounds. We planned to return to the village the coming weekend.

“This!” He thrust a script at me. “Let me know what you think?”

A heavy, cold sensation settled in the pit of my stomach, but I took the script and assured him I would read it. I saved my own work, made a cup of tea, and sat on the living room sofa with the pages in hand.

He was right, it was a great movie with a simple premise that took inspiration from true events. During a baseball game, a ball went right to the edge of the playing field and the main character, Stephen, tried to catch it, knocking the ball out of the catcher’s reach. When the team loses the game the Internet goes crazy. Rabid fans track down Stephen’s address and release it online. From there his life descends into a sort of surreal experience where every aspect of his life is torn asunder by people desperate to blame him for their team losing the World Series.

That moment was called the turning point; the team was on a losing streak. Each time they played and lost, the hate heaped upon him increased. Fans badgered his employers until he was fired. Tired of the hate, pranks, and threats, his girlfriend leaves him, his friends distance themselves, his face becomes so well known that some establishments refuse to serve him. He moves to a different state only for them to find him. The same things start to happen anew. When he’s at his lowest ebb, he finds something to carry on for and somehow rebuilds his life, even in the shadow of the ever-present Internet mob.

It’s a story we’re all vaguely familiar with. Someone does or says something of varying degrees of stupidity, and the Internet reacts with a collective righteous fury, blaming an individual for all of society’s ills. Lives are ruined, jobs are lost, and the Internet gloats that they deserved it, patting itself on the back for making another one pay.

Had this guy even done anything wrong, though? The scene described how everyone in the area reached for the ball—Stephen just happened to be the one to touch it first. For that good luck, or bad luck, he was scapegoated.

The whole movie was asking deeper questions. Did his punishment fit the so-called crime? Who decides what acts of stupidity are punishable? When is the debt to society paid? When does the punishment become cruel rather than just?

Telling it from a first-person perspective gave the story a personal touch that is always missing when you read about these Internet mob attacks. It brought home the personal cost that people suffered, sometimes for years after the incident that incited the Internet’s wrath.

I didn’t expect the film to change that mob mentality—the Internet would still swarm people it felt deserving of vilification, but the story needed to be told. This script did it justice.

But it was an American story, and so it would probably be filmed there.

“What do you think?” Tom asked when I put the script down. He’d been watching me most of the time.

I looked over at him. I could just see him as Stephen, in a baseball cap, glasses, blue jeans, hoodie. An Everyman from good, working-class American stock.

“It’s really good,” I said with a smile. “Do you have to audition?”

“If I want it, it’s mine.”

“When will you go?” The thought of him leaving suddenly made it hard to breathe.

Tom sat forward. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” From somewhere deep inside, I found a smile for him. God, I was going to miss him.

Tom didn’t look at all convinced. After a few moments, he answered my question.

“Fourteen weeks, I think. I have to promote the last movie I filmed in eight weeks. I haven’t been sent a schedule, but I expect that will take at least three weeks, probably four. I’ll also need to work with a dialect coach before we start this to make sure my accent is right.”

Wow. So we probably had eight weeks left together. That did not seem like long at all.

“Darling, you’ve gone awfully pale. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m good. Honestly,” I assured him. “Tea?” I asked, needing a few minutes alone to pull myself together.

There was no way on earth that I would stand in the way of his career, even if it meant he had to move away from me, move on with his life, leave me behind. I wouldn’t let him see me cry—that wouldn’t be fair to him.

We went out to see a performance of Queen Anne that evening. As we ate beforehand, Tom told me about the telephone conversation he’d had with the director just before we left. I think I made the right noises in the right places. Some things were still being finalized, such as locations, but it sounded like a done deal.

I was going to miss him, but I pushed the thought aside and tried to enjoy my evening. I’m quite good at ignoring unpleasant things, so once the conversation moved on, my smiles weren’t quite so forced. When we settled in the theater, I was able to immerse myself in the story and, for a little while, I completely forgot that things between us were about to change drastically.

***

Back in Allborough, I set about making prints for Tom’s friends who had agreed to sit for me. They had all signed a waiver, so I owned the rights and could sell the photographs. The prints were their payment for sitting. I carefully selected the best images, did minor color corrections and fixed blemishes in Photoshop, and then printed them on my canvas printer. I stretched them over the frames, packed them up, and posted them. I generally did one a day, which kept me out of mischief for a few days.

Things pretty much went back to normal, with the exception that Tom and I didn’t go for walks any longer. Instead, he went running. He spent most evenings and nights at my house, though, so I didn’t mind.

Most of the time it was easy to forget that Tom was about to get back to his other life.

I hadn’t pestered Tom to drive in London since I didn’t think it was the best place for someone with a driving phobia to regain his confidence. Now we were in a nice sleepy village, it was time to start desensitizing him, as he’d made me promise. I had a feeling that once he got over his fear enough to try it again, he would come along in leaps and bounds.

I also put him on my insurance. His car was lovely but it was big, so slightly harder to maneuver on narrow country lanes. It was also in pristine condition, so he might worry about prangs and dents. My car still had key marks down one side and it probably wouldn’t be very long until it was old enough to drink, so a few more knocks weren’t going to hurt it.

I started easily, by taking him for a drive down the coast on the weekend. It was a bit of a miserable day, raining on and off, and damp and cold between downpours, but we were enjoying ourselves.

When we got hungry, I suggested we stop for some fish and chips and eat them in the car, straight out of the paper while looking out to sea. He thought that was a marvelous idea.

On our way back to the car, I began to jog because it was drizzling again. I intentionally headed for the passenger side. Tom got in the driver’s side. I saw him tense up once he realized where he would have to go, but I just handed him his meal, then unwrapped my own. By the time I was munching my first chip, he seemed much more relaxed.

It hadn’t been my intention to do more than make him sit there, but with the hot food inside and rain outside, the car was getting steamed up. I passed him the keys and asked him to turn the air-conditioning on to clear the windows.

He took the keys. After checking the handbrake was on and that it hadn’t been left in gear, he started the engine. He looked a little pale while doing so, but he soon began to relax. The drizzle turned to rain so he put the wipers on for a few minutes. He still seemed fine.

Once finished, we screwed our papers up and tossed them onto the back seat. I leaned over and rested my head on Tom’s shoulder, taking his hand.

“I know it’s weird, but I love storms,” I said. “Not getting wet or anything, just watching them.”

“I know what you mean,” he said, his voice rich and warm like hot chocolate on a cold, stormy day.

I was waiting for the rain to ease off so we could change places without getting drenched. When that didn’t happen, I suggested we head home and get a nice slice of cake. Tom hesitated for a moment, perhaps wondering if he should offer to drive.

He didn’t, but it was good that he was thinking about it. We both had to brave the rain to change places but he could—and did—warm me up once we got home!

***

The next day, I needed to do some shopping. When we exited the shop, I was overt about my intentions. I unlocked the car as we approached.

“You sit in the driver’s side while I load the boot,” I directed. Fitting a week’s worth of groceries into my little car is a skill that takes some finesse.

He paused for a moment, possibly wondering if he should offer to help. He evidently decided to let me have my way.

I kept peeking through to the front while I packed the boot. Although he didn’t really seem comfortable, he didn’t look stressed either. I finished my task, took the shopping cart back, and then opened his door and bent down for a kiss.

“You okay?” I asked.

He nodded and hesitated before getting out. We were only about fifteen or twenty minutes from home. If he wanted to drive, I would let him. He evidently decided today wasn’t the day, so I drove back.

The following day, I took us to Snape Maltings. We planned to just wander around. I wanted to see an exhibition by a local watercolor artist. After we’d browsed, we stopped in at one of the eateries for some tea and cake. Tom was quiet. I was content to let him mull his thoughts over in silence.

“Can I drive back?” he asked as I finished my tea.

“Of course you can.” I handed the keys over without batting an eyelid. I’d been hoping he’d offer—that was why I chosen our location. We were only about ten minutes from home. “Ready?” I didn’t want to give him time to change his mind.

“Sure.”

His hands were shaking as he turned the key in the ignition, but I pretended not to notice.

“The watercolors were nice, weren’t they?” I said as he gingerly pulled out of the parking space.

“Mmm.” He sounded distracted.

“I love watercolors but I’ve never got on with them, personally. I much prefer oils because . . .” By chattering inanely, I was trying to show that I trusted him. I also wanted to give him something to focus on other than his own fears. Plus, if I’m honest, Tom’s nerves were rubbing off on me and making me uneasy as well!

Being three o’clock on a weekday afternoon, the roads were very quiet, as I’d hoped. Tom was able to go as slowly as he wanted to.

For the first few miles, we pootled along at twenty miles an hour. As Tom grew more confident, he began to speed up.

I can’t even remember what I was chattering about, but I kept up a line of patter most of the way home.

He was grinning when he pulled into his mum’s driveway. I reached over to hug him. He was still a little unsure and overly cautious, but I knew he’d overcome that.

I was right. Less than a week after we started, he was barreling along the dual carriageway as he drove me to my parents’ in Ipswich for Sunday lunch.

After that, it was hard to keep him out of the car. If he kept this up, I would be the one who got out of practice! Tom kept trying to thank me, but I reminded him he had found the courage to overcome his fear, not me.

We’d been back in Allborough about three weeks when the small local cinema held an event for a new John le Carré movie adaptation, Call for the Dead. We both wanted to see it, so we headed there with Diane. The screenwriter, Victor Tomlinson, was also in attendance. He gave a talk at the end about adapting the book and why they made certain changes.

Afterward there was an informal gathering in the lobby and bar area. Tom invited Victor to dinner with us, so we headed to a local bistro with Tom, Diane, Clare and Robert, and me.

It was an enjoyable evening, but by virtue of having two Hollywood insiders at the table, the conversation was very movie themed. I kept my gnawing worry at bay most of the night, until we parted ways and Tom, Diane and I began to walk home.

When we got to the town steps, Tom turned to me. With an enthusiastic grin, he challenged me.

“Race you to the top.”

“Is that safe?” I asked, pointing to his leg.

“I’ve been doing them every day,” he answered, clearly pleased with himself. We stood side by side and prepared to race. “You say go.”

I did. We ran, but it was clear by the second set that he was faster than I was, far fitter than I expected him to be. But then, I suppose he had never really been out of shape, just not quite as active as usual.

He reached the top of the third set of steps just as I was starting them. He was at the top before I began the fourth set, his arms raised and jumping up and down like a triumphant Rocky Balboa.

I was proud of him. I gave him a big hug when I reached the top, tears pricking my eyes.

“That was amazing!” I said, wiping my eyes as I pulled away.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Fine. I just had no idea you could do that!” I was proud of him. He’d come so far since I met him. But I was also reminded that he was pulling away from me.

I wished I was brave enough to ask what was going to happen to us when he got back to work, but I couldn’t. Part of me was afraid that he would snap at me—but only a small part. It was more of a reflex than a genuine fear. No, my real fear was being left behind.

“Well done, love,” Diane told Tom as she finished her sedate climb. “Now, who wants a nightcap before bed?” she asked as we walked down the lane.

“Love one.” Tom smiled at her.

“Actually, I think I’ll get an early night, if no one minds.” I’d love a drink, but I preferred to be alone just then.

They were fine with it, so I kissed them both good night and headed off to my little home while Tom went home with his mum.

“Oh hey! What time are you free tomorrow?” he called.

“I should be back from the post office about two.”

“Great. I’ll see you then.” He certainly sounded keen.

Once inside, I locked my door, closed my curtains, and poured a nice large Tia Maria. I sipped it while watching some inane horror movie and feeling sorry for myself—not so much because Tom was leaving soon, but because of my complete inability to broach the subject with him.

Buttons came and sat beside me. I scratched him behind his ears while he purred.

I sighed and took another long sip, feeling the coffee-flavored liquid burn slightly as it went down.

***

“So,” Tom began as I let him into my house the next day. “Are you ever going to tell me what’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing’s wrong with me,” I assured him, heading to the kitchen to turn the kettle on and avoid the discussion.

Unfortunately, rather than waiting for me on the couch, he followed me through and stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed in a no-nonsense stance.

“I wish I could believe that.”