Chapter Five

The following week I had plans to go to the local theater to see a play—a farce about three brothers, nothing major, no big names. Except that Diane had agreed to come as well, but on the day of the performance she decided to give Tom her ticket. It wasn’t a date, and yet we were going to the theater together. I couldn’t decide what to wear.

With a huff, I fell onto the bed and reached out to scratch behind Button’s ears.

“Things were a lot easier before he came into our lives,” I lamented to the cat. “It wasn’t as exciting, though.” I had to admit it. “Maybe I should just go with a maxi dress. I’ll smarten it up with some nice jewelry.”

Buttons purred, which wasn’t much help.

I’d already done my hair and makeup but as I looked in the mirror, I made a mental note to get a trim soon. I slipped on a maxi dress, a blue blazer, and some of my nicer costume jewelry. Under it all I wore some lovely underwear—but only for the confidence boost, not because anyone was going to see it.

Things between Tom and I hadn’t really changed since that day on the beach where we bared our souls. We were still friends, we met every day to walk, and then we stopped for a drink and sometimes a bite to eat on our way back. I trusted him more now. Maybe I’d describe him as a good friend rather than just a friend, but that was a positive change.

We both spoke a little more freely about difficult topics, but neither of us pried. If heavy things came up in conversation, which admittedly wasn’t often, we could talk about them. I didn’t pretend to be taking pictures when Tom needed a rest anymore, I just stayed with him and talked.

Finally dressed, I glanced in the mirror to check that I was presentable. I turned away before I could question my choices again.

We walked there via the town steps since the theater was so close that it seemed ridiculous to use the car, but I did worry about Tom having to climb them twice in one day.

He looked fine, however. He wasn’t limping, so he had obviously recovered from the afternoon’s walk.

“Have you seen this play before?” I asked.

“I haven’t, actually. I’ve seen some other plays by Bob Cloony, though.”

I had no real idea what to expect from the performance. I’d seen a little farce before, but it wasn’t my favorite genre. The tickets to local productions were cheap, though, so even if I hated a play and left during the intermission, I hadn’t lost much. Mostly I had a good time, and that night was no exception.

Some parts of the play fell flat, but overall it was worth the price of admission. Both Tom and I left the hall with smiles on our faces. We decided to have a drink before heading back, and I wasn’t sorry to prolong the night.

“So what did you think?” he asked as we sat down.

“It was good. I laughed a lot, but it felt . . . I don’t know . . . cramped maybe.”

“How so?”

“Well, the lady from the probation agency coming to check while there’s bootleg cigarettes and booze, illegal immigrants, and a dead body in the house should probably be enough action. Instead we also have a mistaken-identity plot line, a drug-cartel mobster, a briefcase of forged documents, and a police detective—and most of those plot points weren’t resolved, just dropped. All it was missing was a talking horse.”

He laughed. “I agree. Actually, it lacked a sense of direction and focus.” He sipped his drink. “Mum tells me that next month there’s the New Playwrights’ Showcase.”

“There is.” I nodded.

“Have you been before?”

“I have. I’ve been every year.”

“But it’s short plays, right?”

“Yes, they’re all short plays or single scenes. There’s five of them over about two hours, and only two nights. Some aren’t great, but others really hit the mark.”

“So is there scenery?”

“No. That’s one of the things I like, actually. The set is a black backdrop and the actors all wear either all black or all white, so the performance is totally stripped bare, just actors and words. When something is good, it’s easy to spot, but when it’s bad . . .” I shuddered.

“That bad?”

“There’s only been one truly awful play. I can sort of see how it would work in your head. Or it might have worked as a book, using the characters’ internal thoughts, but every line of stage dialogue was cringe-worthy.”

“How are the plays chosen?”

“They run a competition each year. I think you have to have some sort of tie to the area to enter, and then a panel reviews them and votes on their favorites. The top five get performed. Diane says there are usually some agents in the audience, so there’s a lot of interest in the competition.” I sipped my wine. “Are you going?” I asked as nonchalantly as I could.

“I thought I might.”

I smiled, pleased that he might join me again. A short while later, we decided to walk home.

“I usually go to the farmers’ market at Snape Maltings on Saturday mornings,” I said as we approached the town steps. “I wondered if you might like to join me.”

“I think Mum’s been there a couple of times, but I wasn’t feeling up to it last time she asked.”

We began to walk up, Tom holding the rail as usual.

“You should go at some point. It’s full of little artisan shops, and they have concerts and exhibitions all throughout the year. I don’t think walking around the whole complex would be longer than our regular walks, and there are tea rooms and cafés you can stop in at for a break, and random benches.”

“And no stairs,” he added. Pausing on the second landing, he looked up ruefully at all the steps to the top.

“There are some, but only ever one story to get into some of the shops. They probably have a lift too.”

“Actually, doing one story at a time and spreading them out might be easier than doing these.”

He had a point.

Tom looked up to the top of the stairs. His expression said it looked like miles to him.

“I used to run up these,” he said with a wistful sigh. “Whenever I visited Mum I’d go for a run on the beach and then end with these, taking them two at a time. I felt like Rocky Balboa by the time I reached the top.”

I reached out and took his hand.

“You will again,” I told him.

He stared into my eyes, and it felt like he was staring into my soul. Then he looked away and the spell was broken.

“What if I can’t?” he asked.

“You mustn’t think like that.”

“I have to think like that. I can’t help it. What if the operation and the physio don’t help? What if this is as good as it gets for the rest of my life?”

“You’ll find a way,” I assured him.

“Will I?”

“Tom, you’re behaving like this is the end of your career and it just isn’t! Even if the worst does happen, even if no one employs you again as an actor, are you going to take that sitting down?”

“I may not have a choice.”

“You always have a choice, Tom. And yes, right now you’re beaten down and you want to curl up and lick your wounds. That’s fine, but I don’t think for a single second that you’ll let anything stop you.” I grabbed his hand with both of mine, as if I could emphasize my point with more physical contact. “I’ve heard you talk about movies and I’ve listened to your mum talk about you for three years. You love movies, and I have no doubt that you’ll always find a way to make them, either in front of the camera or behind it. When someone is as passionate and as talented as you are, they can’t fail. You can’t fail.”

“You sound awfully sure about that.” He looked over at me, and I could tell that he wanted to believe me.

“I am,” I assured him. “And believe me when I say I’ll haunt you until you succeed!”

His eyes shone with humor as he smiled at my teasing. Then he looked up the steps again, determination turning his mouth into a hard line.

“Let’s get this over with,” he said, dropping my hand as he unfolded his cane.

He had to pause at the next landing again, but we did reach the top eventually. Tom looked ready to drop, and I prayed that this next operation would do away with at least some of his pain.

We stopped outside his house.

“Thank you for a nice evening,” I told him.

“And you.” He smiled back, and we each leaned in for a kiss.

His lips felt warm against my cheek. I inhaled deeply, breathing him in.

I walked backward for a few paces, unwilling to turn around and lose sight of him. He stayed where he was, staring after me—but I figured it was probably just because he needed a rest before heading inside.

***

As I carried a tray outside a tea shop a few days later, I saw that Tom had saved us a table in the sun. The day was a little chilly, to be honest, and we were both wearing coats but it was nice to sit outdoors. We’d looked around the farmers’ market and were taking a break before continuing on and looking around the other shops.

I handed out the drinks and toasted sandwiches but I left slices of coffee cake and chocolate cake on the tray—we could fight over them later.

“Do you remember what you said earlier this week?” Tom asked me.

“Possibly, but I’m going to need more specifics.”

“You said if I didn’t find a way to make movies, you’d haunt me until I did.”

“I was deadly serious,” I teased.

“I’ve been thinking about it, actually. I have an idea I’d like to put to you.”

“Okay.”

“We help each other,” he said.

“Okaaay . . . ?” I couldn’t see what he was getting at.

“I don’t know exactly how yet. It’s hard to think past my operation, but I don’t want to sit around just doing my physio every day. I need something more to occupy me or I’ll go mad.”

I nodded rather than saying “okay” for a third time.

“Whatever it is, though, I’m thinking it’ll be difficult if I can’t drive.”

I could see how that would limit his choices.

“There might be other things that I’m unable to do for a time too,” he went on. “Physical things. I don’t know . . . ladders and stuff. It would be really useful to have some help, just in case,” he elaborated.

“Oh, so you want me to be your personal skivvy?” I joked.

“Well, you are unemployed, love. I’m doing you a favor, when you think about it. Giving your life purpose again!”

He cast a sly glance my way, and I threw my balled-up napkin at him.

“Of course I’ll help you.” I certainly saw no reason not to. I had just started to volunteer in the lifeboat gift shop, but that was only one morning a week so it wouldn’t interfere too much.

“And you’d like to earn your living from your photography, yes?” he asked me.

“It’s been my dream since I was a child. Well, to do something artistic has been. I settled on photography as a teenager,” I admitted.

My home had no mortgage so my only expenses were my car, groceries, council tax, and utility bills, which weren’t huge on such a small house. While I could live off my savings for quite a while, I would be happier if I could at least earn enough to cover expenses.

Still, I was wary that he was about to suggest I put on an exhibition.

“What if I help you with that?” he suggested. “I’m not talking about going public. You can remain anonymous if you’d like, in fact it might even help sales, give your work an air of mystery. But I’ll do what I can to help you boost your earnings.”

“How?” I was curious.

“Well, we’d have to talk about what you do now in order for me to make suggestions, but rest assured that I won’t pressure you to do anything you’re not happy with—just like I hope you won’t pressure me to drive before I’m ready.”

In theory, it all sounded plausible.

“One idea I had,” he began, “was that I could send some of my friends one of your prints and ask them to post about it on social media.”

“Would they do that?”

“I think some of them will.”

“What if they don’t like my pictures?”

“They will.” He grinned. “Mum showed me your site, and they’re lovely.”

I blushed and looked down.

“So what kind of photographer do you want to be?” he asked. “Do you like landscapes or would you really rather do portraits, or still life? Would you do wedding or event photography?”

I pulled a face at that last one.

“I’d love to do portraits, but I’d need a studio. There just isn’t room in my house for that. Same for still life, but I suppose I could hijack my living room for a few hours. I do love landscapes. They’re what I mostly do now because nature is just so effortlessly beautiful, although I wouldn’t mind a bit more variety.”

He smiled at me.

“I’ve always wanted to experiment with water,” I admitted.

“Like, the sea?”

“No, I want to see water react. It’s like . . .” I wondered how to word it. “You know those pictures you see sometimes of a single water drop hitting a teacup or the surface of a pond or something? I’d like to do that but on a larger scale, like capturing the disruption a rock might cause. I’d like to try putting a colored light source in the water so I can see how it behaves. I suspect that, like fiber optics, you’d only really see the color on the edges of the water. I’ve often wondered if I could show sound through water too. Like, if I shone a light through water and then took a huge speaker, like from a music concert or something, put it at one end and have it thudding out bass beats. Would the changes in density affect the light passing through and allow me to capture it in shadow? If it works, how would higher frequencies change the pattern?”

“You’ve given this some thought.”

“Some,” I admitted. “Water is beautiful. I just want to explore it.” I smiled. “I love it when I go out early sometimes and the dew is still coating everything. It just makes the world look fresher. And frost is also stunning. Getting a close-up of a frozen leaf is amazing.”

I began to think he was right. Maybe I could make a living from my art without giving my identity away. I had covered about half my meager expenses with the job at the pub, so it wouldn’t take much to make me self-sufficient again.

“So I’ll help you and you’ll help me,” I said, and he nodded. “It’s a deal.”

I offered him my hand, and we shook on it.

***

Diane took Tom to London for his operation. For the days they were gone, I felt rather bereft. Diane had gone away many times since I’d met her, but I’d never felt like this before. I knew it wasn’t just her I was missing.

I wanted to call Tom, but since he had to stay in the hospital until they did the first fill on the balloons, I settled for calling Diane and getting an update from her. Everything had gone well, she said, and Tom was recovering nicely.

I busied myself by volunteering for an extra shift in the charity shop and taking lots of pictures, driving down the coast and venturing a little farther afield than usual.

The day before they were due home, I decided to shop a little and pick up a welcome-home card or a get-well-soon card and maybe some flowers for Diane.

I didn’t make it far before fate intervened, however.

“Bollocks!” I sighed, looking at my flat front tire.