Chapter Nine

“Ah. Well . . . ,” Tom said in a reluctant voice.

My heart sank.

I didn’t think he and Evelyn were getting on well, but most of that impression came from Diane, not Tom. He probably hadn’t said more than twenty words about her to me, so maybe I had misread the situation. Was Evelyn coming back to the UK with him? Was he moving in with her in LA? Were they engaged?

Oh God, please don’t let them be engaged!

Before my mind could conjure up any more awful scenarios, like a drunken Las Vegas wedding, he finally found the words he was seeking.

“I . . . uh . . . I called things off,” he explained.

My heart leaped and then plummeted in rapid order, leaving me feeling slightly queasy. Or was that giddy?

“You broke up?” I had to clarify. My hands were shaking, and I had to clear my throat.

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry.” He sounded so odd that I wanted details. “What happened?”

Tom sighed. “She . . . uh . . . she was getting upset over the pictures of us walking on the beach.”

“But . . . that was weeks ago!” Yeah, I was definitely feeling queasy now. Did he blame me for losing his girlfriend?

“She wasn’t happy when they first appeared, but there wasn’t much she could do about it. It was only a walk with a friend. Then she turned up at my hotel room in New York and ever since, she just seems to have had a bee in her bonnet about it. Well, about you,” he admitted.

“I’m sorry.” I managed to sound sincere.

“No, don’t be. It was over anyway. I’ll take a good friend over what I had with Evelyn any day.”

“Thank you.”

“There is just one thing.” The hesitation was back.

“Oh?”

“She didn’t take it very well. She threatened to go to the papers and tell them I was cheating on her with you.”

My breath evaporated in my lungs. Okay, being photographed on the beach I could handle, but having lies spread about me? That was a whole new level of crazy.

“Kelsey? Say something, please. You’re worrying me.”

“I . . . don’t know what to say.”

“I think I’ve placated her.” He tried to reassure me. “As long as she can attend the rest of the US leg of the publicity tour and I agree to say nice things about her in interviews, she promises she won’t say anything about you to the press. She also gets to announce the breakup and paint me as the bad guy.”

She was hardly the most trustworthy woman to uphold a bargain. What exactly would she say to make Tom the bad guy? Because making out that he’d been cheating with me would accomplish that.

“I know this is a lot to take in, but I won’t let her tell lies about you.”

“I don’t really see how you can stop her.”

“We signed a contract.” He sounded slightly ashamed to admit it. “It lays out what we can and can’t speak about. If she breaks it, she faces a steep financial penalty.”

“People really do that?” What kind of world did he live in? People actually contract their breakups? Though I supposed maybe it wasn’t much different than a divorce decree.

“Some people. Liam, my PR guy, doesn’t really go in for that kind of strict image protection, but in Evelyn’s case he made an exception. I have to admit, I feel better knowing she can’t bad-mouth us.”

“And what did you agree to?”

“I just can’t publicly say anything negative about her. I’m not in the habit of speaking badly about anyone anyway, if I can help it.”

“And what story is she going to tell about the breakup?”

“That the drugs I’m on made me moody, irascible, and difficult to live with.”

I smiled. “No one who knows you would believe that,” I scoffed. Sure, he’d been depressed and frustrated a time or two, but not short-tempered or quick to anger.

“Exactly.” I could hear the smile in his voice. “I don’t see how it can harm my image at all. Even those who believe her will give me a pass because of the pain and the medications I’m taking.”

“Okay, you do seem to have sewn this up pretty tight,” I admitted. “But please don’t feel like you need to protect me.”

“I don’t need to, but I want to. You’ve done nothing wrong, love. I’m not about to let someone start a smear campaign against you simply because you went for a walk with me.”

We moved on to happier topics. I told him about the art exhibition at the studio and how wonderful some of the pieces were.

When we eventually hung up, I was smiling, glad that things felt comfortable and friendly between us again.

Phone calls would still be hard because of the time difference, but we could keep texting. I vowed to avoid looking up interviews and red carpets from then on, however.

I picked my book up and hunted for where I’d got to before Tom called, but after a few minutes the phone went again. I answered without thinking, hoping it was Tom and he’d forgotten to tell me something.

“Kelsey, darling!”

I cringed. My mother was definitely not Tom.

“I have good news.”

“Oh?” I asked cautiously. My mother’s idea of good news and mine rarely coincided.

“Your father and I are coming to see you for Christmas.”

Shit!

“Mum, I usually go away for Christmas.”

“Well, this year you can stay put! We’ve booked accommodations in your village because you insist that we cannot possibly stay with you—”

“It’s a one-bedroom house!”

“But you are our daughter, and we are entitled to see you, especially at Christmastime!”

“Mum, look, I appreciate the gesture. Really I do, but—”

“Do you know we haven’t spent a Christmas together in almost ten years?”

Guilt. Great.

Darren hadn’t liked me seeing my folks often, so we spent every Christmas Day with his mother.

“Why don’t I come and stay with you?” I suggested.

“Because we want to see where you live, Kelsey. I’ve had it up to here with all this secrecy and wanting us to stay away!”

I thought about how their visit would interfere with my photography, how they would judge my friends and find them wanting—my friends have never been good enough—how they would probably discover that I didn’t have an accountancy business, and how they would nag and belittle and chip away at the cozy life I had built for myself.

“I know you’re still grieving. I’ve tried to be understanding, but it’s been over three years and you need to move on with your life, find someone to settle down with.”

It suddenly hit me. Why worry about the judgment of people who didn’t even know me? These people actually thought I still missed Darren! I can remember them knocking on the bathroom door one day after he died because they thought I was crying. The truth was I had been laughing hysterically; the bastard was dead and I’d just found out how much he’d left me in cash and assets. I was on cloud nine—how much he would have hated that!

But they hadn’t even considered that. They thought Darren was wonderful.

Perhaps stripping the wool from their eyes wouldn’t be such a bad thing. I could handle their judgment, right?

“Okay, Mum. I look forward to seeing you,” I said as graciously as I could.

Oh well. For better or worse, a course had been set.

***

When he went to Asia, Tom was seven hours ahead. He would usually call me around about ten o’clock his time, which was three o’clock for me. I made sure to be finished and home so I could talk to him.

He sounded exhausted and admitted that he had snapped at a couple of interviewers who insisted on asking about the breakup that had just been announced, despite being warned not to.

Of course Tom’s version of snapping was just a barbed comment and some side-eye—I’d looked the videos up, breaking my promise to myself to stay away from things about Tom on the Internet. I assured him that he wasn’t coming across badly.

It seemed clear that he was ready for this to be over so he could come home and sleep in his own bed. I knew he had some sort of setup using oddly shaped support pillows that allowed him as much comfort as possible on his bad leg, but they were so bulky that he’d decided to just use standard hotel pillows while traveling.

Sometimes he was so fatigued that after initial greetings he just asked me to talk to him, so I did. I would tell him about the photographs I’d taken, how well my sound-in-water images looked, the problems that inevitably came from combining electronics with water—I was now on my third amp. When that became redundant, I’d share other memories. I told him about the first art show I’d been to in the village and about my school trip to France when I was twelve.

Tom would murmur noises when appropriate, laugh, sigh, and just let me know I wasn’t talking to myself. Then he’d say good night when he was getting sleepy.

That I could soothe him just by talking to him felt oddly like a gift.

***

The day Tom flew back, I had already made plans to meet Bridget and Clare for lunch at a local pub. I’d been so focused on my photography of late, and yes, Tom too, that I’d been neglecting my friends. I didn’t want that to continue.

Clare was on a half day from school so we planned to go Christmas shopping after lunch. I had no intention of buying anything—I like to do my shopping online—but I was happy to browse with them.

When I eventually headed toward home, I noticed how the nights were starting to pull in. It was dark by four o’clock now, which was a shame but a part of me has always loved winter anyway, when you can lock the world out and curl up in front of a roaring fire with a good book and a cup of cocoa.

As I neared my little house, I noticed a familiar figure coming toward me. I broke into a huge smile.

Unlike every time I’d seen him on his press tour, when the most casual he got was wearing cargo pants, he was back to wearing sweatpants. He’d paired them with a nice jumper and a coat rather than a hoodie.

His smile was warm and welcoming, like stepping into the sun after a thunderstorm.

I approached slowly, drinking him in. After a kiss on the cheek, I hugged him tightly. He hesitated for only a second before enthusiastically hugging me back. I inhaled deeply, and his warm, familiar scent instantly relaxed me. It was a mixture of his cologne—an expensive one—his shower gel, deodorant, and just clean Tom.

I held on for perhaps longer than I should have, but I had missed him. Tom didn’t seem keen to end our embrace either. I could hear him breathing deeply too, his nose buried in my hair.

“I missed you.” His voice was deep and warm.

Wrapped in his warm embrace and surrounded by his rich voice, for the first time in a very long while I felt a frisson of sexual desire. It felt exciting, but it was also a little terrifying. I pulled out of the embrace sooner than I might have liked.

“Me too.” I smiled at him, wishing I was brave enough to act on this new attraction. God, I missed sex. “Have you got time for a coffee?”

“I’d love one.” He smiled at me.

Because he’d been limping on the short walk there, I told him to sit down as I quickly brewed a pot of coffee and got some delicious biscuits out. I lit my fire, and then I sat beside him and poured.

Although we’d been in regular contact, I asked how the trip had been. He glossed over that and quickly moved onto the short film he wanted to make. He was excited about having written a plan for what he wanted to do, who he wanted to hire, what equipment he would need, how long each planned scene would take—basically a detailed, step-by-step guide to making his movie. He planned to shoot in January. He had a lot of work to do before then, of course, like finding crew, actors, and scouting locations. I told him I was happy to volunteer my services where necessary.

He then asked about my work. I got my laptop out to show him the pictures I’d been taking.

I sat nervously as he looked through them, wondering how I’d feel if he hated them. It took a long time for him to speak, making me certain that he was about to crush my dream. In the nicest possible way, of course.

“These are . . . ,” he finally began. Then he shook his head, as if unable to find the words. “Well, marvelous doesn’t really seem to do them justice.” He finally put me out of my misery.

I felt limp with relief at his verdict.

“You really like them?”

“Like them? No. These are stunning, love! Absolutely amazing!”

He was still scrolling through the pictures when he stopped at a blue-and-red one.

“I mean, I don’t know how to describe it. It’s like when you see those fantastic images of shells with the Fibonacci spirals. You know they’re totally natural and beautiful, yet their beauty is almost enhanced by the underlying geometric principle—as if nature isn’t just happenstance, but as if there’s a plan behind the beauty.” He sighed. “I’m not explaining this very well, am I? I’m sorry. It’s the jet lag probably.”

I realized that for him it was gone midnight. No wonder he was tired.

I wrapped an arm around his and rested my head on his shoulder.

“I understood you perfectly.” He sounded eloquent enough to me. “You must be exhausted,” I said as he continued to browse the images.

“Mmm,” he agreed. “I slept a little on the plane. I’m hoping that if I can stay awake until eight or nine o’clock and then sleep through to the morning I’ll almost be back to normal.”

I sat up and poured him another coffee—he was going to need it.

“You have to let me buy some of these,” he insisted. “They’ll make perfect Christmas presents.”

“Oh. Uh . . .” Selling them before the next exhibition hadn’t even occurred to me. “You’re not just being kind, are you?”

“No!” He looked over at me, maintaining eye contact as he spoke. “These are amazing. Not only do I want to give them to friends, I want one for my Christmas present too.”

Oh. Well, I guessed I knew what I was giving Tom for Christmas. I’d have to take some more using a song Tom loved.

What the hell would I charge for these? It would feel wrong to charge Tom anything since he’d helped me so much. Really, he was my inspiration. How do you charge your muse? I sighed.

Details like that could wait, though. For the moment, I just wanted to bask in the glow of him liking them.

***

The rain held off for a few days, so after our walks Tom and I scouted locations for his movie. We were looking for a local café that we could dress to look like a Parisian café from the fifties. This basically meant visiting every café in the village while we looked at the images of period Parisian café’s that Tom had stored on his iPad for inspiration.

We were ideally looking for somewhere with small, preferably round tables—but square would do. Also with bistro chairs, the ones with a circular wooden seat and ornate, rounded backs. Dark wood too, such as the bar, if possible.

We eventually found a tea shop with small square tables and rattan chairs that would work. It didn’t have any dark wood, but we sat there and discussed how we could alter the space to make it look more French. Tom had already ordered some large, vintage French posters that he could frame and hang on the walls.

The lighting was all overhead, so we talked about using vintage-looking wall lights that could take battery-powered LEDs instead. I told Tom that I had some hooks with sticky strips that could hold up to five kilos in weight and could be removed without damaging the wall. Tom said he’d look into them.

I suggested a blackboard of handwritten specials in chalk. He proposed little half carafes of wine on some tables and those tiny, round wineglasses.

We moved to the opposite side of the café so we were sitting where the camera would be. With heads together, we planned the shot and where we’d place our actors and props within it.

Tom’s eye for composition wasn’t quite as good as his acting chops. A couple of times, I had to make suggestions so the shot would be balanced, but he didn’t seem to mind. I suppose that while acting had taught him a lot, being in front of the camera meant he missed some of the nuances of what went on behind it. He asked if I would mind helping to set up all the shots. I could see no reason to refuse. In fact, I was pleased to be asked, to be trusted with a piece of something so important to him.

I was actually quite excited to be getting a glimpse into his world.

Next we discussed if it would be feasible to show a Parisian scene through the windows—a view of the Eiffel Tower, for example. It was technically possible, but expensive as it would require using green screens and special effects. It would be more cost-effective yet amateurish to use large printed screens of a fixed scene.

All in all, and with the actors in period dress, we could make it look very authentic.

January is a quiet time in hospitality, so Tom organized with the owner to rent the shop for a day for a very reasonable fee and a thanks in the credits.

***

The day before my parents came, I logged on to my old email account and downloaded all the pictures I had sent there. It was a secret account; I had never saved the address or passwords to the computer memory, and I wiped the history when I was done.

After each beating, I had taken pictures. My secret act of defiance. I’d email them to myself and then delete them from the camera and from my sent items. I don’t know why. I never intended to go to the police, but I think some part of me was tired of being disbelieved. I didn’t know when I’d need them, but if I ever did, if I ever found the courage to leave, for example, they were my proof. Even if they were just proof for myself, a reminder that even when it seemed that butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, Darren could—and did—do those things to me.

Maybe on some level I’d always known that it was my parents who would need proof. Either way, I would dare them to tell me these images were my fault.

Once printed, I tucked them into a handy file so they were out of sight. I didn’t know if I would actually bring them out, but having them ready was an odd comfort to me. Just knowing that I could prove to my parents that Darren was not the paragon of virtue that they had always thought he was made me feel stronger.