Victoria gazed at Robert as he spoke. What did she know? The shop, her favourite novels, her sleeping mother and her angry father. That wasn’t enough. Her eyes drifted over to Harry and lingered on him for a while. What would it be like to know him: to know him properly? What would it be like to know how his skin smelt when he first woke up, and how his hair felt beneath her fingertips, and how his voice changed when he was frustrated, or excited, or sad? Her blood fizzed and tingled beneath her skin as she watched him. A daydream began to cloud her mind, where she lived with Harry and could touch him and talk to him whenever she wanted. The daydream flickered before her eyes, beautiful and inspiring, gently lulling her along to the dulcet melody of Robert Bell’s voice.
When the talk had finished, and Robert had answered a smattering of questions, the theatre slowly emptied, the prospective students numb and silent after an hour of being talked at. Robert spoke briefly to Harry and appearing to be relieved to take up his notes, waved at Victoria and left the room.
The theatre was now empty except for Victoria and Harry. They were back where they had started.
‘Thank you for letting me have your book signed,’ Victoria said as she stood and wandered over to the stage. ‘Perhaps I could bring you my copy instead? And then it’ll have been a straight swap.’
‘I’d like that. So, what did you think of Robert Bell?’
‘I thought he was wonderful. I want to be a writer too.’
‘What do you want to write?’
‘I want to write mysteries, like he does. Nobody would expect me to write mysteries. I’d like to surprise everyone.’
‘Well, remember where you started, won’t you. When you’re a famous mystery author, remember who introduced you to your muse.’
Victoria nodded and stared up at Harry so hard, so intently, that she ached.
‘I’m quite sorry that the talk is over. It feels so very flat going back home after that,’ she admitted.
Harry looked at his watch. ‘Would you like to get a drink?’ he asked after a few seconds. ‘I’d quite like some fresh air and a walk, if you’d like to join me.’
My Queen Victoria,
Sarah and I had a silly disagreement today, which culminated in her throwing an omelette at me, just like you did on that wonderful day that feels like so long ago. I should have been angry at Sarah, or at the least, shamed. Instead it made me think of you: your sweet, sweet kisses and your terrible cooking. I would rather eat a raw omelette every day than be without you.
Write to me.
H
On Friday, Isobel stays in her classroom for a while after the last class has gone. She marks practice exams, ticking and crossing deftly, until the pile on her desk is finished. She stands up and grabs her coat from the back of the chair, shivering as the cool air from the room snakes around her. As she glances out of the window, she sees something that makes her move closer to the glass. Tom’s Volkswagen Polo is parked outside and if she squints Isobel can see Tom sitting in the driver’s seat. He must be waiting for her, although they haven’t planned anything: Tom said he was working tonight and Isobel has plans for a night in with Iris.
Isobel takes her bag from the desk and rushes from her classroom and down the staircase. The side entrance is locked, so she flies through the main doors and round to where Tom waits.
‘What’s the matter?’ she says breathlessly as she pulls the passenger door open.
Tom leans over and grins. ‘It’s a good job Iris warned me you’d come out late, otherwise I might have thought you’d succumbed to the curse of the vanishing people of Silenshore!’
‘But what are you doing here? I thought you were working tonight.’
‘Nope. Get in.’
Iris throws her bag into the foot well and climbs into the car, still catching her breath. ‘When did you speak to Iris?’
‘When she was helping me plan this weekend. She told me what to pack for you. I didn’t have a clue.’
‘Pack? For what?’
‘Oh, I’m taking you away for a night. It’s been a crazy few weeks, what with our shock and everything. I think we need a treat. We’re driving to London tonight. It’ll be late when we get there but we’ll stay over, then spend the day there tomorrow. If you want to, that is.’
Isobel feels her heart rush at Tom, the way he’s packed the car – she sees her floral weekend bag squashed onto the backseat – the way he’s spoken to Iris and planned a surprise. ‘Nobody’s ever done anything like this for me before,’ she says.
‘Well, I’m glad to be the one to do it, then,’ Tom says as he starts the car. He leans across and kisses her softly on the cheek. ‘Ready?’
‘You really have all my stuff?’ Isobel asks, incredulous.
‘Yep. Straighteners, shampoo and conditioner, your facewash in the green bottle, some blue dress that Iris picked, phone charger, makeup bag, toothbrush…I think that’s it, isn’t it?’
‘Pyjamas?’
Tom wiggles his eyebrows comically. ‘Not needed.’
Isobel laughs, excitement fizzing up inside her and spilling out. ‘Then let’s go!’
The next morning, after lying under the crisp, tight hotel sheets and sitting in a warm bath filled with chalky complimentary bath salts, Isobel kneels on the floor in front of a brightly lit mirror and puts on her makeup. Her skin has always been clear and pale, but pregnancy is doing strange things to her, sending chemicals soaring through her blood and out of her pores. Her face is rounder now, too. She brushes some translucent powder over her pink cheeks and sits back.
‘So are you still not going to tell me what we’re doing today?’ she asks Tom, who is lying on the bed reading the free newspaper.
He puts the paper down on the bed and sits forward. After staring at her own face in the mirror, Isobel feels a surge of pleasure from looking at Tom’s. His features are defined, but not sharp. His teeth are straight and white. She went out with a man before Tom whose teeth you couldn’t see because he never really smiled, so that every time she wasn’t with him, she couldn’t remember what his teeth looked like. With Tom, she can always picture his smile perfectly.
‘No, I’m not telling you anything yet’ he says. ‘You’ll find out where we’re going when we get there.’
‘Are you driving us there?’
‘No, we’ll leave the car parked here.’
‘Well, then, I’ll know what we’re doing when we get off the Tube.’
‘We’re not getting the Tube,’ Tom says, moving from the bed and sitting on the floor next to Isobel amongst lipstick and powder, eyeliner and blusher brushes.
‘Well, then I’ll know when you tell the cab driver.’
Tom shakes his head and laughs. ‘Smart arse.’
When they climb into the juddering black Hackney cab that smells of the cabbie’s leather jacket and yesterday’s cigarettes, Tom hands him a note that Isobel saw him scribble in the hotel reception just before they left. The driver rolls his eyes, gives a brief nod, then swings the cab