the ribbing became vitriolic arguments and, on the night of their
college dinner dance at a local seaside hotel, their relationship ended with Tansy throwing a can of cider at Tom’s head.
‘Tansy was difficult,’ he said. ‘You never really knew her.’
Annabel opened the oven, which had been crammed with ice and
beer cans, pul ing out another Carlsberg, the sight of which made
him feel a little on edge. He had been apprehensive about being here
around all the booze and narcotics. He had promised Annabel that
he’d come, but maybe it was too soon.
Tom wondered how many of the other partygoers knew. Had
word got around?
He looked over at Esme again, aware that Annabel could see him
doing so. There was something about her. The kindness and humour
in her face, maybe. The fact that she seemed almost innately happy.
He liked her, there was no denying that.
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‘Tom.’
‘What?’
‘Again?’
‘No.’
‘I’m not blind. Or stupid.’
‘I don’t know what to do.’
‘Well, since you seem totally determined to ignore my advice,
you have two choices. Either move to Edinburgh, live with your
grandparents and play cards. Or find true love with Esme Simon.’
‘Those are both a bit extreme. Going home seems like the safest
option,’ Tom said. It was a joke, but he knew it was also true. It
had been a turbulent year. Everyone said he must take care. Balance
was important.
‘Probably. But clearly you’re not going to do that.’
‘What do you think? Like, really, what do you think?’
‘Other than that I wish I’d never forced you to come to this
party?’
‘Come on, Annabel.’
She groaned. He was sure he heard her mutter ‘for fuck’s sake’
under her breath.
‘Really, I’m not sure it’s a great idea,’ she said. ‘But I don’t think you’re going to listen to me. And, even though I don’t think she’ll
like you—’
‘Thanks.’
‘Pleasure. As I was saying. Even though I don’t think she’ll like
you, or vice versa, I’d prefer that you actually talk to her and prove me right than stand here staring while pretending to listen what I’m
saying.’ She took a long drink. ‘Besides, her friend has gone for a fag.’
‘And?’
‘Your moment has arrived, Tom Murray.’
Tom watched the girl Esme had spent the last half hour with
make for the door, leaving her alone.
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‘Tom!’ Annabel said.
‘What? I’ve literally never approached someone at a party before.’
‘And?’
‘It’s pretty high risk,’ he said.
‘So now I’m supposed to pep you up to do something I don’t
think you should be doing?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘Well, if it helps, I’d say she’s looked over at you at least half as
many times as you have her. Though maybe that’s because she thinks
you’re weird.’
‘Really?’ he said, disbelieving. Though he had caught her glance once or twice. ‘No. It’s daft. What are the odds that we’d hit it off?’
‘As I said, incredibly low. One in a million.’
‘A million what?’
‘I’ve no fucking idea, Tom! Just bloody say hello or don’t. It’s
driving me mad. I’ve told you what I think, but you don’t care.
You’ve been terrible company for most of the evening. So at this
point I would honestly rather see you crash and burn than I would
keep talking about what she might be like,’ Annabel said. ‘Look, that joke you told me earlier about the fancy-dress shoes? It was sort of
funny. Use that.’
‘ Sort of funny?’
‘Go,’ she said, pushing his arm, which immediately attracted
Esme’s attention and forced his hand.
Tom felt as though he’d been shoved out onto a stage in front
of a thousand people without a script to read from, caught under a
single spotlight shining down on him. An expectant audience waiting
for him to make them laugh.
But, really, there was only one person looking at him: the girl
standing by herself in the corner of the kitchen. The one in plain
clothes, just like him, with a kind look about her. Who, for all his
better instincts and his friend’s advice, Tom was unable to ignore or
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look past. There were maybe four steps between the two of them, but to Tom it felt like an entire ocean.
Immediately aware that he was standing still in a sort of kitchen
no man’s land, on a patch of chipped linoleum between Esme and
Annabel, Tom gathered himself. With all the nonchalance he could
muster, he took a sip of his drink and ran his fingers through his
messy hair.
Then, after almost three hours of circling, Tom finally made his
approach.
‘Hi,’ he said.
‘Hello,’ she said.
‘It’s Esme, right?’
‘Right. And you’re Tom?’
‘Yes.’
‘Nice to meet you,’ Esme said. At which, and for no reason he
could understand, Tom reached out, grasped, and awkwardly shook
her hand. She looked surprised.
‘Oh. Very formal.’
‘Sorry.’
‘It’s fine,’ she said, as Tom began to notice some little things about Esme. The way her mouth relaxed into something that wasn’t quite a
smile, nor neutral. That she spoke well, every consonant and vowel
there to be heard. How her glasses made her look slightly askance,
because one of her eyebrows was almost imperceptibly higher than
the other. He wondered if she was seeing the same in him. His
unshaved face, the little turmeric stain on the collar of his shirt, or the red mark of a spot that he’d tried to cover up by re-arranging
his fringe.
‘Oh, thanks, by the way,’ Tom said, attempting a rescue.
‘For what?’
‘Not wearing fancy dress. I thought I’d be the only one.’
‘What do you mean?’ she said. ‘I’m Lois Lane.’
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‘Oh . . . ?’ Tom stuttered, his internal monologue a litany of swearwords directed at Annabel for allowing him to go over. ‘Fuck.
Sorry. I’m not too up on these superhero things.’
‘And I’m taking the piss,’ she said, smiling to herself and looking
around the room at the various superheroes and infamous characters
from stage and screen.
Tom allowed himself a laugh. Though he wondered if this was
Esme signalling that she wasn’t interested. Kindly batting him away
before she had to make her feelings explicit and embarrass him. He
looked round for Annabel. She was now being flirted at by a man in
a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles costume, who would soon enough
discover that she was gay and make some half-arsed excuse to stop
talking to her.
But that smile. In itself a reason to sa
y something else, to try to
hold Esme’s attention for a little while longer.
‘Have you noticed it’s always the shoes that let the costumes down
with fancy dress? Like, over there you’ve got Spiderman. And it all
looks good. Until you see that he’s wearing a pair of black loafers.’
Esme chuckled, told him he was right, and his heart lifted a little.
Tom tried to stop collating a mental list of all the possible reasons
why Esme would want nothing to do with him. To the point that
even as she gamely continued his joke by pointing out a Wonder
Woman in court shoes and an Iron Man wearing desert boots, he
was wondering if this – tonight – would be it. That they’d share a
few laughs at a party and then go their separate ways.
He needed her to speak. To ask something or give him the tiniest
bit of confidence that there could be a spark. But the superhero-shoe
joke gently died, and the uncomfortable silence of two strangers with
nothing to say to each other began to surround them.
‘So, you’re Tom Murray then?’ she said, to his relief. Though he
might have imagined it, Tom was sure that there was a hopeful tone
to her voice. ‘Ali’s friend from back home?’
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‘I am.’
‘The musician?’
‘Well. Sort of. I play a bit, compose a bit.’
‘Compose?’
‘Nothing exciting. I’d like to get into making film scores.’
‘Oh wow,’ she said and for a moment Tom wondered if she’d
misheard and thought that he actually did write film scores.
‘But mostly I teach and play in covers bands,’ he said. ‘It’s a bit
shit, really.’
‘So, you can play a load of instruments?’ she said.
‘No. But I have a very clever keyboard that can.’
Esme laughed and Tom felt that lift again, levelling up in this
ridiculous game they were playing.
‘Do you want another drink?’ he said. ‘I think there’s still a few
in the oven-fridge thing.’
‘I would. But I was just about to leave. Work tomorrow,’ she said,
looking over to the ad agency coke heads who had turned on one
another with accusations of unfair consumption and withholding
stash. ‘Besides, this party looks like it’s dying out. Or kicking off.
Either way . . .’
And just as quickly as he had been up, Tom felt everything drop.
Despite the promise of the last few minutes, Annabel may have been
right. Esme had exchanged a few glances, but really the only thing
they had in common was a lack of fancy dress. It wasn’t exactly
enough to carry them through an awkward first date, let alone a
relationship.
‘Oh right. Yeah. You’re probably right. Another time maybe,’ Tom
said, disheartened and anticipating the silence again. The reminder
that they were still strangers.
‘Sure.’
‘Huh?’
‘Another time.’
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‘Sorry, I—’
‘Maybe we could do a drink another time.’
‘Yeah . . . I mean . . . sure,’ he said, surprised and tripping over
syllables as well as words. While Esme took her coat from a hanger
on the kitchen door and made herself ready to leave into the cool
summer night.
‘So you are actually going now then?’ he asked.
‘I am.’
‘It wasn’t, like, an excuse then. Not to talk to me.’
‘No. I really am going. Unless you can give me a brilliant reason
to stay, that makes it worth being so tired tomorrow that I’ll end up
having to finish all my work on Sunday?’
‘Well, that photographer on the roof is still kicking about.’
‘Nice try.’
Tom caught Annabel’s eye; she was observing him with the worry
and hope of a parent dropping their toddler off for its first day at
school. ‘Fine,’ she mouthed at him.
‘I think your friend wants you to leave too,’ Esme said.
‘Oh yeah?’ he said, feigning confusion while making a mental
note to send Annabel an arsey text when he got home. He was
worried. Having had this whole exchange go more or less exactly as
he had wanted it to, he was panicked and felt out of his depth. It was classic Tom Murray behaviour. He had no idea how he continued
to surprise himself.
And now there was Esme, standing right in front of him, wearing
a red trench coat and a thin, light grey scarf. She looked somehow
expectant.
‘Where do you live then, Tom Murray?’ she said, buttoning
herself up.
‘Camden. Near the locks.’
‘Right. Well I’m in Pimlico. And I’d say that’s on the way,
wouldn’t you?’
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‘Well, sort of. I mean not entirely . . .’
‘Good,’ she interrupted. ‘You can walk me home then.’
With that, she led him out of the party, past a drunk Wolverine
kissing an equally drunk Catwoman on the stairs, and out onto St
Martin’s Road in Stockwell. Where, at 2.59 a.m. precisely, Tom felt
their arms brush together, the tips of her fingers lightly touching
his, then, eventually, the wonderful feeling of Esme taking his hand
for the first time.
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CHAPTER TWO
OUR FIRST DATE OR SECOND?
June 2007 – Pimlico, London
The feeling of her bare thigh against his made Tom jolt.
‘Morning.’ Esme reached across his chest to hold him.
‘Morning,’ he said, shaking off the momentary confusion about
where on earth he was, and scrambling to recall the unlikely series
of events that had brought him to Pimlico. Tom was suddenly hyper
aware of their proximity – the light, soft hair on his chest pressed
down by her arm. He never knew what to say in this kind of situ-
ation. What was there? He had woken up next to women before,
but past experience suddenly seemed useless to him. ‘You alright?’
he said.
‘Bit tired.’
Esme yawned, one side of her mouth stretching a little further
up her face than the other, Elvis Presley like.
‘You’ve only just woken up.’
‘I didn’t really sleep.’
‘Shit. I didn’t snore, did I? No one’s ever told me that I snore,’
Tom said, realising that he should clarify. ‘Not that there are many
to . . . well, you know.’
‘No, it’s fine. It’s not you, it’s me.’
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‘Little early for that, isn’t it?’
Esme whacked him playfully on the arm. ‘I mean that it’s me who has the problem with sleeping. I struggle if there’s someone new in
the bed,’ she said. ‘Not that it happens . . . well . . . often.’
‘Of course.’
‘Tom!’
‘I didn’t say a word.’
‘Well, I don’t. This is . . . a rare occurrence, shall we say?’
‘If you like.’
‘I just mean that every time I’ve had a new boyfriend or . . .
partner,’ she said, prudishly, ‘I can’t sleep for the first two or three times – nights.’
Esme moved away from him a fraction, across the bed and back
onto her own red-and-white striped pillow, which clashed with the
mismatched yellow bed sheets. He thought back to last night, when
they’d stepped into her bedroom for the first time and she’d told
him to ‘ignore the mess’ despite there not being any. At least not
compared with his own studio apartment, which was permanently
strewn with clothes, bags, instruments and discarded pizza boxes. If
his flat wasn’t so high up he would almost certainly have a mouse
problem.
Tom felt odd the instant they were no longer touching. Flat,
even. As if any distance between them was suddenly and immediately
unbearable. He wondered if she felt it too. But it was a sentiment
that, if expressed, might make him seem more weird and clingy than
hopelessly romantic and spontaneous.
‘So what,’ Tom said. ‘You’ve just been laying there, awake?’
‘And thinking,’ she said, a little coy.
‘There’s no way I’m playing the pathetic “what are you thinking”
game, Esme.’
‘Oh God, neither am I.’
‘But . . .’ Tom said, after a moment. ‘What are you thinking?’
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‘Ha! I knew it.’
‘Fine. I’m everything I’ve come to hate,’ Tom said, waiting a
moment before turning back to her. ‘Well?’
‘If you must know, I was thinking about ground rules.’
‘Rules? Because of what happened last night?’ Tom said. He
was referring to the moment Esme’s flatmate had found him in the
kitchen wearing only his underwear. She had turned the lights on,
screamed, and inadvertently summoned an upstairs neighbour who
fancied himself as a bit of a hero. Albeit armed with a cricket bat
rather than a utility belt.
‘No. For, like, this.’
‘Ohhh.’
‘What?’
‘I thought you meant rules for your flat.’
‘No. And again, sorry about my housemate.’
‘I was only getting a glass of water.’
‘It was my fault. I should have texted to let her know I was