Chapter Seven

“I explained to the shop owner about the trouble you’ve had with Tom’s fans,” Diane went on. “He admitted that both the in-person complaints had come from two women in their late teens or early twenties. From the way he described them, I thought he was talking about Alice Lambert and Donna Rafferty.”

“Who are they?”

“Just two local girls. They’ve sidled up to me a time or two since Tom became famous, but I figured their game out pretty quickly! I thought they’d moved away, but I did some asking around, and it seems they only left to go to Suffolk College. Donna works in Ipswich now, though, so she doesn’t come home much. Alice seems harmless on her own. It’s only when they’re together that they do stupid things.”

“Oh, well.” I took a sip of my tea and tried to shrug off my hurt. “Maybe I’ll start my own charity shop. Then I can’t be fired no matter what anyone says.”

“Oh, you’re not fired, sweetie.” Diane smiled kindly at me. “No, Neil knows how conscientious you are. He knows bullshit when he smells it—he just thought you should know and that it would be better coming from a friend.”

Well, that was something, at least.

“Thank you.”

“They haven’t done anything else to you, have they?” She narrowed her eyes.

“Just the bad reviews that got me fired when I worked at Terry’s bar, but I think they actually did me a favor.” I willed her to leave it alone. I didn’t want to trouble her.

Diane smiled. The conversation turned to the New Playwrights’ Showcase, then to Tom’s project based on one of them. Diane hadn’t been allowed to read the script Tom had chosen either, so it looked like we’d both be hearing it for the first time on stage.

***

I knew immediately which play Tom had chosen.

A single actress sat on the stage. In her sixties or seventies probably—I couldn’t pin down an age. Her silver hair was cut into a layered bob, her makeup was flawless, and she wore the all-black uniform that all the actors did: leggings and a loose, long-sleeved shirt.

A scratchy version of “La Vie en Rose” played as she spoke, recounting how she met her husband, Daniel, in a Paris café in 1953.

She spoke of the high points in their relationship: their meeting, his marriage proposal before they’d even finished their coffees, their children. Then she recounted a few low points: their struggles in the middle part of their marriage, the stillbirth of their third child. It was all told with love and a gentle humor, even that last tragedy. The story of their marriage lasted no more than twenty minutes, and the background music changed to reflect the decade being talked about.

This story wouldn’t break new ground, but it was told with such heart that I actually found myself falling a little bit in love with Daniel and wondering where he was. I wanted to meet him.

The real punch came when we learned this was his wife’s eulogy to him at his funeral.

I saw more than one person wipe their eyes, so I didn’t feel too bad about shedding a tear myself. Yet, despite the sadness, she somehow still made us laugh one final time.

Thunderous applause erupted at the end. When I looked over to Tom, I saw that he was watching me with rapt attention.

“That’s the one,” I said rather than asked.

He nodded.

“The perfect choice,” Diane added.

***

Because of the bad weather, I’d been able to spend most mornings at the artists’ studio, taking more pictures. I had bought an attachment for the camera that let me press a remote control and take pictures from a distance, which allowed me to work alone. On the few occasions I needed help—such as throwing stones into both ends of the tank—there was usually someone else around willing to lend a hand.

I tried coloring the liquid various shades and in various concentrations, from a slight tint to turning the water opaque, usually using water-soluble paint. Turning the water opaque was messy, but it was beautiful to watch the play of light on the surface of inky black, blue, and red surfaces.

I photographed splashes, then waves made by agitating one end of the tank with a wooden board. Then I agitated the water with one or more fans, getting a series of fantastic ripples across the surface of the water.

I tried different lighting rigs, as well as mixing colored lights with different-colored water to see what kind of effects I could create.

Granted, more than half of my pictures were unusable. They were too blurry, too boring, not very attractive, or they just hadn’t worked for whatever reason. I was having a ball practicing anyway and learning for myself what did and didn’t work.

I had decided not to put my photographs in for December’s art show, partly because Tom would be away promoting his film and I had a feeling I might be a nervous wreck without his reassurances. I also felt as if I was still learning my craft and I wanted a bit more time to experiment before I chose my favorites. To be honest, while I loved this project and some of the pictures were very pretty, I knew my work wasn’t groundbreaking.

I was enjoying myself and I was afraid that the pressure of displaying my work would take some of the joy from my experiments.

I usually aimed to get home at about two o’clock, when Tom usually finished his exercise on the treadmill and came over for a chat.

The day after the New Playwrights’ Showcase I finished early, eager to get home and hear Tom’s plans for the play.

My living room wasn’t huge but it was able to hold a two-seater sofa, an armchair, a coffee table, and two banks of bookshelves without being cramped. The space under the open staircase had a small desk with my computer and printer, then on the floor beside that, my canvas printer. My wooden picture frames were housed upstairs in my bedroom, and I would use the kitchen table to stretch canvas over a frame.

I tidied up a little, then put the kettle on, got the cake out, put fresh-ground coffee in the cafetière—or coffee press, as Tom called it—and had everything ready to go when he knocked. I opened the door with a smile, but it quickly faded when I saw the grim look on his face.

“What happened to your car?” he asked.

I thought for a second, used to trick questions designed to catch me out, but I couldn’t think of anything he might be referencing.

“Nothing. Why?”

“It looks like it’s been scratched, possibly keyed.”

I sighed. Just my luck.

“I’d better go have a look. Help yourself to anything you need.”

“Nonsense. I’ll come too.”

I grabbed my keys and went to see.

The scratch was deep and ran from the back panel to the front fender. I checked around the passenger side, but that was undamaged.

“I’ve only been back less than half an hour,” I moaned, wondering when someone would’ve had the time to do that. Tom put a comforting hand on my shoulder.

“Probably just kids who spotted an opportunity,” he said quietly. He glanced up and down the street, but no one was about. Another car parked a few feet away was undamaged.

“Probably,” I repeated, but I had my doubts.

I was clearly preoccupied as we walked back to my house.

“What’s wrong?” Tom asked.

“I don’t know.” I sighed. “I’m probably being paranoid, but I got a flat a few weeks ago, thanks to a nice, shiny new nail in the tire.”

“You think someone’s vandalizing your car?” His voice held a clear thread of concern. I noticed the dark circles under his eyes and felt bad for worrying him.

“It’s probably nothing,” I muttered as I shut the door behind him.

I made my way to the kitchen, busying myself making the coffee and cutting some cake for us both.

“Will it cost much to repair, do you think?” he asked.

I shrugged, making an effort to appear unworried.

“It’s deep, so probably. I’ll try that T-Cut wax that’s supposed to hide scratches. It’s not worth getting such an old car fixed.”

“Your insurance won’t cover it?” He tapped his fingers on the countertop.

“I’m third-party, fire and theft coverage only. The car’s not worth insuring fully, especially for the mileage I do. It’s fine. It’s only cosmetic, after all.”

I was probably being overly suspicious, but after losing my job thanks to those fake reviews, the unfounded complaints at my volunteer job, a nail in the tire, and now my car keyed, I was worried. No one was this unlucky, right?

I had no proof that Alice and Donna had done anything to my car, however, so I couldn’t see the point in reporting it. I couldn’t even try installing CCTV or anything, because you couldn’t see my car from my house, and I could hardly install a camera on someone else’s property.

Tom carried the tea tray into the living room, and I followed.

“Maybe I could put cameras inside the car, like a dash camera or something. There have to be versions that run on batteries, right?”

“Why don’t you park your car in our driveway?” Tom said.

I’d been so far into my morose thoughts that it took me a moment to register what he had said.

My first instinct was to refuse. If I accepted, though, I would be able to see my car from my bedroom. I could leave a webcam in the window and record anything happening around my car.

“Thanks, I might do that.” I decided to shake off the thoughts for the moment and move the conversation on. “So tell me how things are coming with the movie.”

“Well, the playwright has agreed to let me use her work. It’ll be good exposure for her, but she realizes that short films don’t really make money, so she’ll give me the rights for free. I’ll finance the production, and we’ll split any profits.”

He looked tired, but his animation almost covered it. I suspected that he wasn’t sleeping well. The leg with saline-filled balloons was probably uncomfortable to sleep on and must limit his choice of positions.

“Will it be expensive?” I asked as I began to pour the coffee. He looked like he needed it.

Tom made a noncommittal gesture. “Not sure what it’ll cost yet. I’ll have to plan the project first, and then I can get a price for things like camera hire. I’ll know how many different actors I’ll need and for how many days. I’ll have to source locations; some of them might have a cost, but I’ll avoid those if I can. And I’m sure there are a hundred and one things I haven’t considered yet. I figure while I’m doing the publicity tour I’ll have a captive audience of people I can ask for advice.”

“And will you keep it as a one-man show?”

“I’ve thought about that, a talking-head sort of thing. While she talked, I was seeing the scenes she described, so I thought it might do better to intersperse scenes of her speaking with her voice-over and silent reenactments of what she’s describing.”

“That sounds lovely,” I agreed.

“And I’ve asked the actress who did the play if she’d reprise the role on film. I mean, she was just so evocative that it would be hard to see anyone else in the role. She agreed, so I thought I’d start on an extreme close-up, just the face”—he framed his own face with his hands—“and slowly pan out so each time we return to her, we see a little more of what’s around her. It’s mostly just white walls, then a bunch of flowers enter the frame, a cross on the wall maybe, but not until right near the end will we pull far enough back to reveal that she’s in a church or funeral home, giving a eulogy.”

He continued to talk about his vision for the film. I listened intently, swept up in his enthusiasm.

We chatted a little longer, but when I took our things back into the kitchen to make another pot of coffee, I heard gentle snoring. When I looked in, I saw that he had slid down in the seat so that none of his balloons were compressed. He was lying back, his head rested on the overstuffed back cushion.

Sometimes he’s so enthusiastic that it’s hard to remember that he’s not only in pain but uncomfortable and tired.

I decided to let him sleep. I looked through the fridge to see what to make for dinner. I made a stew, enough for two. If he wanted to go home, I could just reheat the rest another day.

I also texted Diana to let her know that her son was happily snoring away on my sofa and that I’d return him to her, fed and watered, sometime later that day.

In the end he slept for almost two hours! He was embarrassingly apologetic when he awoke, turning the most fetching shade of pink—not to mention bewildered to realize that Buttons had curled up on his lap and he hadn’t felt a thing. Buttons had the right idea, if you ask me!

I was a little surprised when he accepted my invitation to stay for dinner, mainly because I would have been too embarrassed in the same situation and would have wanted to run away and hide, but I was pleased.

He seemed to like my cooking, judging from his effusive praise. I might have thought he was having me on if he hadn’t asked for seconds! He suggested a movie once we were finished, so we found something on Netflix. I took the end of the sofa again, and he sat in the armchair because those two seats had the best angle on the television.

We’d been out together a lot. We’d shared lunch, afternoon tea, coffee, even dinner after the theater, but there’s something about playing host in your own home that’s a lot more intimate. The fact I felt so relaxed pleased me, and I think he felt relaxed too. He must have done to fall asleep as he had, right?

I can’t even remember which movie we watched—something with a lot of fight scenes. I felt like a teenager again. I don’t know if Tom felt the same, but he blushed at least once when I caught him looking at me.

I couldn’t help but wonder what might have happened if we’d sat on the same small sofa.