About Last Night - Chapter 12
"The smell hasn’t improved one bit since the last time I was here, but I’m not here for the smell. I am here to recover from addiction. At least that’s what I tell myself, scanning the room for Tom."
Dear gentle reader,
(Yes, I am a “Bridgerton” fan and I hope you are too, otherwise you’d have no idea what I am talking about!)
I hope you have spent a peaceful Easter holiday! I am a bit late with the new chapter this week because I too have celebrated Easter. Besides, I’m sure you’ll forgive me because this chapter is a long one and it’s almost like you’ll get two chapters in one. And for extra added fun, I’ll let you in a little secret. It is my favourite chapter. It was the most fun to write. Enjoy! ;)
If you are just arriving, fear not, you can start from the beginning and once you are caught up, be ready for a new chapter from moi in your inbox every week(ish)!
Catch-up on Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10 and Chapter 11.
April, 2018
The smell hasn’t improved one bit since the last time I was here, but I’m not here for the smell. Nor for the coffee. I am here to recover from addiction. At least that’s what I tell myself, scanning the room as I enter. My heart flutter for a moment when I locate the person I didn’t know I was looking for.
‘Hey, there,’ says Tom, with a wave, when he notices me from the other side of the room. He strides towards me. ‘You’re back.’
‘I’m back,’ I say, my face extending into a smile.
‘Brought your own, I see,’ he says and points to my takeaway coffee. ‘Can’t say I blame you. But I need something hot in my belly – I’m frozen. Save me a chair, will you?’ he says and stomps over to the coffee station. He’s wearing muddy boots, a lumberjacket and a woolly hat with holes in it. He’s a far cry from the men I deal with at work: creative-types, purposefully dressed-down, with designer eyewear and not a single strand of hair out of place. So unlike Tom, who has taken his hat off and his hair is sticking out in all directions, crying out for the comb I am now convinced he doesn’t own.
A woman in a khaki parka and curly hair makes way towards the seat I saved for Tom, and I hurry to put my bag on it before she claims it. She gives me a disapproving look before she shuffles away. I am suitably mortified. What am I thinking? This is an AA meeting, not the Underground. Tom spends ages at the coffee station talking to some people he appears to know, and I’m starting to regret my decision. Maybe I should have let that woman take his seat after all. It’s not like he’s my friend or anything. He’s simply a guy I happened to talk to the last time I was here. And the reason why I didn’t flee. And possibly the reason why I’m back. My inner chatter rests as I admire him walking toward me with an irresistible smile. He has the cheekbones of Cary Elwes from ‘Princess Bride’ and I want to be his Buttercup.
I pinch myself until it hurts so much I can barely contain a scream. I am here to heal, not to fuck my pain away. That method didn’t work and I’ve given it a good try for almost twenty years. Tom sits down next to me and his musky, manly, goaty smell makes me want him. I turn my head away from him to stop myself from those kind of thoughts. Wait, why does he smell of goat?
‘Is this goat I smell?’
‘Sheep, actually,’ he says.
‘Where did you find sheep in London?’
The usual shuffling of papers ensues, followed by Nick’s deep voice presiding over the souls gathered here tonight.
‘I’ll tell you later,’ whispers Tom.
‘Any newcomers?’ asks Nick.
A few people raise hands, myself not included.
‘Anyone wants to share tonight?’
Definitely not me. I feel Tom’s gaze on me, but force myself not to look back. He must wonder why I’m here but haven’t introduced myself yet.
After the meeting, Tom gets stopped by a couple of people and I linger on too, pretending not to find my scarf. I could leave (we’ve not known each other long enough to justify my waiting for him), but I don’t want to. I find Tom’s presence grounding, he makes me feel like I have roots again. He has something I can’t put my finger on. He makes me feel normal in my brokenness and I desperately want to hold on to that feeling a bit longer, despite the danger I put our friendship in (is it a friendship already?). Once he’s done talking, Tom comes over and we step outside into the freezing cold together. He asks me where I live and then offers to walk me home.
‘Please, no,’ I say a little too abruptly, putting my hat on. My breath turns to steam as I speak. ‘I mean, thanks, but I don’t want you to get out of your way.’
‘Not at all,’ he says. ‘I live that way too.’ He gestures vaguely in the direction of my flat.
I know I’m walking on thin ice, but his presence is so comforting. ‘Okay,’ I concede. ‘But you must tell me why you’re all covered in mud and you smell of goat?’ I say, as we begin to walk side by side, crunching a mound of discarded peanut shells under our feet.
‘Sheep,’ he corrects me again with a smile, stopping to look at his caked boots. The mud has dried, and bits of it are peeling off now. ‘I was helping on a farm today.’
I raise an eyebrow. ‘In the middle of London?’
‘It wasn’t the middle of London,’ he says, scratching his head through a hole in his hat. ‘I went to Surrey. I got a day job as a farm hand and I helped with the pregnant sheep. We delivered four lambs today.’
‘You’re pulling my leg,’ I say, eyebrows raised.
‘No, I’m not,’ he says earnestly. ‘I grew up on a farm in Ireland, so I know a thing or two about livestock. I’ve helped many a ewe giving birth in my life.’
‘Wow,’ I say. ‘Quite the hero, aren’t you, Spider-Man?’
‘Talking of which,’ he says, excitedly. ‘I think I may have gotten a part in a Shakespeare play.’
‘Good for you,’ I say and give his arm a little squeeze. ‘Well done,’ I add, suddenly a little self-conscious that I may be too forward. This is only the second time I’ve seen him, and although it feels like I’ve known him all my life, I am worried about overstepping.
‘You must come and see it,’ he says, stopping as if just struck by inspiration.
‘Me?’ I say, excited. ‘Sure. I’ll come and cheer you on. Together with your family, friends and girlfriend,’ I add, sheepishly.
‘I don’t have a girlfriend,’ he says. ‘And my family, or whatever’s left of it, is in Ireland. So.’
I suppress a smile. Apparently, I’m glad he doesn’t have a girlfriend.
‘What about your friends?’ I say.
‘‘I don’t have that many friends,’ he says, picking a piece of dried mud from his sleeve.
‘Liar,’ I say. ‘You know everybody at the meetings.’
‘I’m just a chatty guy, is all.’
I notice that my bus has driven past three times already. When I have my hands full of shopping, and it’s cold, and I really want it to come, it never comes. And now, when I don’t want it, it’s laughing in my face. Typical.
‘What do you do?’ says Tom, changing the subject. ‘I don’t think you told me yet.’
‘I don’t think you asked,’ I tease.
‘My apologies, I’m asking you now,’ he says, his accent cuter than ever.
‘My job is not nearly as interesting as yours. I work in advertising.’
‘I always imagined people in advertising to be tough men with a drinking problem,’ he laughs.
‘I believe you have been misled by the popular TV series Mad Men. In real life, it turns out some of us are women with a drinking problem,’ I say.
‘Sorry.’ His face is quite red. ‘That was a stupid thing to say.’
‘Don’t worry about it.’ I smile to reassure him when a sudden wailing makes my heart jump. A couple of passers-by look around as they hear it too, but they continue on their way. Tom looks at me, squeezes my hand and takes a few steps forward.
‘Someone’s in pain,’ he says. ‘Or something.’
We hear the piercing sound again, and Tom is quick to figure out that it comes from the park we just walked past. The gate is locked, being past nine o’clock in the evening, but he climbs over the fence like (yes, I’m actually thinking it) Spider-Man and lands with a thud into a bed of daisies. I hear a shuffling sound as he makes his way through a thicket of laurel shrubs. After that, I lose sight of him, and I have no intention of climbing the fence to check on him, even if he gets attacked by a werewolf or, more likely, by a knife-yielding young offender. When I hear the noise again, it sounds more like a soft cry than a threat.
‘Tom,’ I whisper, tentatively, into the shrubs. ‘Tom?’
‘Throw me your scarf over the fence, will you?’ he says, a shapeless voice in the dark.
‘Uh, ok,’ I say. ‘It’s a Christian Lacroix scarf I’m quite fond of, but if you insist?’
‘I definitely insist,’ he says, in a tone that has acquired some urgency.
I find an apple in the pocket of my coat and wrap the scarf around it, so I can throw it better. I close an eye and take aim in the general direction of the noises from the shrubbery. ‘Watch out,’ I say and launch it into the bushes.
‘Ouch,’ I hear Tom’s muffled voice.
‘Sorry.’
‘It’s okay,’ he says, and I imagine him rubbing the hurting spot in the dark. ‘I’m impressed you managed to hit me. Although I can’t say I like it.’ He materialises at the fence with a small parcel wrapped in Christian Lacroix. ‘An apple?’ he says.
‘I like to stay on top of my five a day,’ I say, a little snappy.
‘Just keep the other four away from my head,’ he complains, and I notice a twig hanging from his hat. ‘Gently,’ he says as he transfers the package over the metal spikes. ‘Watch out, it moves,’ he adds and, once the parcel is secure in my hands, he turns around to pick up something that had fallen from his pocket.
‘I wish you’d told me before I dropped it,’ I say.
‘What?’ He makes a sudden weird twist and stares at me with his hands on the metal railing, like a caged animal.
‘I’m joking,’ I say, and I open the bundle to see a squirming grey sausage with legs. ‘A puppy,’ I say, with a sudden shriek of delight.
Tom lands on the pavement next to me. ‘Feck,’ he says, rubbing his ankle. ‘I think I landed badly.’
‘I’ll say. You should get the ankle checked tomorrow. I twisted mine on New Year’s Eve and it took weeks to heal.’
He grunts and limps slightly towards me. ‘I think it’s fine. Nothing broken.’
‘Was the puppy making that awful noise?’ I ask, finding it hard to imagine. The noise was reminiscent of a pig at the slaughter.
He looks away and then looks at me. ‘No,’ he says. ‘It was his mum.’
‘Let’s go back in there and get her,’ I suggest, unhelpfully, since I won’t exactly be the one to get “back in there”.
He gives the little guy in my arms a rub on his forehead with his thumb. The puppy smacks his lips with his eyes closed, making a pleasant sound.
‘She’s dead,’ he says. ‘She was dead when I found her in the bushes. Still warm to the touch.’
‘Wait, what about the other puppies?’ I say. ‘Dogs don’t usually have only one puppy.’
‘There were no other puppies. This little guy is the only one I found.’
I hide the bundle into my coat, next to my heart. It’s cold outside, and my Christian Lacroix scarf hasn’t exactly been designed with keeping puppies warm in mind.
‘Suppose it’s too late to call a rescue centre?’ I say.
‘We should take him to a 24 hours vet clinic,’ he suggests. ‘He’ll die without formula.’
I google ‘emergency vet’ and the closest one I find is twenty-minutes drive away. Tom hails us a black cab and I get on, cradling my precious cargo to my chest. We’re in luck – the vet can see us straight away. We are told that the puppy is in good health, but that he will need feeding every two hours until he can be handed over to a rescue centre. ‘He can stay here,’ said the vet, ‘but will you pay for his care until someone from RSPCA or Dogs Trust can pick him up?’
‘No need, I will take him,’ says Tom with a determined expression, as if he’d been preparing for this moment all his life.
‘Have you done this before?’ darts out of my mouth.
‘Aye, many times,’ he says. ‘You learn about keeping animals alive when you grow up on a farm,’ he ads.
I am filled with embarrassment. ’Of course, you have. You just played midwife for a herd of sheep.’
‘It wasn’t a whole herd,’ he smiled.
‘Sign here and here,’ says the secretary and hands Tom a bunch of papers and a biro. ‘Here are some information leaflets to help you look after him and puppy formula. Ring us if any problems.’
We walk out of the clinic, accompanied by the whimpers of the puppy inside my coat. ‘I can’t let you do this alone,’ I say. ‘Come to my flat and we will take turns feeding him. I have a sofa you can sleep on.’
‘You don’t have to,’ he says.
‘I want to,’ the words rush out of my mouth. I am afraid I seem too eager to spend the night with Tom, but really it is about the puppy. Holding him to my chest has done something to me. It makes me want to look after something that I won’t push away, fuck or destroy.
‘Okay,’ he says. ‘If you’re sure it won’t be a bother.’
‘I’m sure,’ I say, and give the dog sleeping peacefully in my arms a little kiss on his head.
‘How about Lucky?’ says Tom.
‘Sorry?’ I say, and the puppy squirms in my arms.
‘Should we call him Lucky?’ he adds and gives me another one of his lopsided smiles.
I smell the coffee before I open my eyes. I feel shards of sunshine dance on my face. I pull open my eyelids to the sight of Tom, wearing my pink bathrobe and a pair of fluffy slippers. His mess of a mane is wrapped up in a towel.
‘Morning,’ says Tom and hands me my least favourite mug (a monstrosity from a former client who specialises in paper clips), filled to the brim with a brownish liquid, as I pull the covers to my chin. ‘Hope it’s not too strong for you,’ he says. I take a sip I wish immediately to erase from memory. ‘I didn’t know how to use your espresso machine, so I made it the old-fashioned way. Boiled on the stove, like my nan used to make,’ he says proudly.
‘And you’ll have me believe you’ve never worked as a barista to fund your acting career?’ I say.
‘Believe it,’ he says earnestly. ‘I don’t go anywhere near things with buttons and levers.’
I sit up and look at his work. To simply call it burnt with coarse bits of coffee floating around wouldn’t encompass it. He makes me think of intentionally bad art, and I wonder whether an element of irony is involved here somewhere.
‘Definitely not too strong,’ I say, taking an unsatisfactory sip. ‘Also, not too sweet and definitely not too milky.’
‘What a relief,’ he says, and I think it’s actually cute that he didn’t get the sarcasm. Unless he’s being ironic?
He bends over a cardboard box and picks up the puppy. ‘Hello, Lucky,’ he says and puts the aforementioned in my lap. ‘How are you doing, little guy?’
I use the opportunity to dispense of my coffee on the side table and take the puppy in my arms. Eyes firmly closed, he wiggles a bit at first but then promptly falls asleep. It is the smallest, most vulnerable thing I have ever held, and I feel a wave of unspeakable tenderness. I want to protect this little creature forever, keep it safe from all harm until my last breath.
‘Your sofa is super comfortable,’ says Tom, removing the towel from his head. ‘What is it? A futon?’ He fumbles around the sofa, trying to find some indication of the brand.
‘Um, it’s actually Ikea,’ I say, making a face. ‘Why, have you landed a sofa salesman role?’
‘It’s just that I have trouble sleeping,’ he says as he runs a hand through his wet hair. ‘But last night I slept like a log in between feeds.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ I say, cuddling the puppy to my heart. Being in this moment, with Tom and our ‘baby’, I experience something I haven’t felt in a very long time. Not since Ma used to make me pancakes on a Sunday morning and sing-along to songs by The Supremes, while she was mixing the batter. It’s that feeling you only get when absolutely everything is exactly as it should be. The rarest moments of all.
‘You aren’t drinking your coffee,’ observes Tom, the mug left to rest untouched on the bedside table. ‘You don’t like it,’ he says, hurt.
‘Oh, no, I love it,’ I protest as I take another sip of Tom’s terrible brew and manage a fake smile. ‘Mmmm,’ I say and swash it around my mouth before I manage to swallow.
Tom slumps back on the sofa. ‘You don’t have to spare my feelings,’ he says, piercing me with his green eyes. ‘It’s awful, and we both know it.’
I repress a smile. ‘Well,’ I begin, trying to keep a straight face. ‘To be completely honest…’
‘It’s horse piss, admit it,’ he says, getting up and pouring the pot down the sink, upset. The liquid disappearing into the sewer makes me think of the whiskey, and a momentary desire makes itself known in my gut.
‘More like cat piss,’ I say, trying to joke.
‘What do you know about cat piss?’ he looks at me with a mock angry face, the beginning of a smile is forming on his lips.
‘You’re right, I don’t know anything about cat piss,’ I say. ‘But then again, I bet you don’t know anything about horse piss either.’
‘Oh, I beg to differ. I’ll have you know I once drank horse piss,’ he says, all serious. He’s playing with the end of the bathrobe cord, and another unwelcome image lands into my head, but I force it away.
‘You don’t say,’ I say, encouraging him to go on, to keep me distracted.
‘Yeah, well, it was a long time ago. I was around four years old. I was getting nightmares and wetting my bed. My big brother said that I was cursed and I would wet my bed my whole life unless I drank horse piss to break the spell. He said he’d get some from the stables and pour a few drops of honey into it to help with the taste.’
‘Eww,’ I scrunch my face.
‘I guess my brother was right,’ he gives out a dry chuckle. ‘I never wet my bed since.’
‘I didn’t know you had a brother,’ I say, taking the mug to my lips. ‘Do you have any other siblings?’
He pauses. ‘No,’ he says and takes his eyes away.
I want to ask him more about his brother, but I don’t want to push. I take another sip of Tom’s concoction. ‘I’d rather drink your coffee. And I don’t think I’ve wet my bed recently, although Lucky might do it for me,’ I say in an attempt to lighten up the suddenly charged atmosphere
Tom lets out a laugh. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says, pulling back a lock of red hair that hung over his eyes. ‘I never knew how to make a coffee. That’s why I always drink tea.’
‘I like tea,’ I say softly as the little creature in my arms wriggles itself to a more comfortable position. I clear my throat. ‘Please, may I have a tea,’ I say.
A smile appears on Tom’s face. He puts the kettle on and opens and closes cupboards. ‘Ok, then.’
‘Earl Grey, milk, no sugar,’ I instruct.
‘For the love of God,’ he exclaims and puts his forehead against the door of a suspended cupboard. ‘You don’t even drink proper tea,’ he says, exasperated.
I give him a moment to deal with his frustration about my tea preference and focus on Lucky. He is definitely not going anywhere. He is going to live forever in my arms if I have any say about it.
‘So what are we going to do about Lucky?’ says Tom, as if he’s read my mind, clinking a tea spoon against porcelain. He fishes out a moist and dripping teabag from the mug and, to my unspeakable horror, places it on the wooden counter top. He hands me my Earl Grey, and I take it from his hand, trying hard not to think about the stain on the countertop that will remain there forever. ‘I’m not sure I can hand him over to a charity,’ he says.
‘I’m not sure either,’ I say. ‘It’s true that I work long hours and haven’t exactly been a responsible adult as of late..’
‘All right, then it’s settled. I’ll take him,’ he says, with a mild shrug of the shoulders.
‘Hold on a minute,’ I say with just the right amount of outrage while I spill a quarter of my far too milky Earl Grey onto my duvet. ‘I didn’t say I wasn’t going to take him,’ I shout, barely aware of the absurdity of the situation. ‘Lucky needs a mother.’
As I utter the words, something unexpected happens. I have the crystal clear conviction that I can do it. I could be this puppy’s mother. For once, I could actually spend my energy on taking care of something, instead of destroying myself.
‘You do realise you sound totally crazy,’ says Tom.
‘Well, my friend,’ I say, struggling very hard for a comeback that won’t sound crazy and eventually giving up, ‘that’s because I most certainly am.’
I hope you enjoyed this chapter! We welcomed a new character. My boy Lucky. Because what book is complete without a dog, am I right? Stay tuned for the next installment.
