Tom…” Her sigh felt seismic and indicated much frustration on the subject – something that Tom registered immediately. “You’re not going to lose me. We’re friends. Friends forever – for life. But sweetheart, you need a man in your life, not a cinema buddy or a beer buddy. You need to feel love and you’ll never feel it in the way you need to with me. You know that, I know that. We’ll always have this…” She made a circling gesture with her hand, her voice firm but shushed lest Ash heard. “But you need to be in love. One day, you might be and I might be single. Then it might be me wanting to go to the cinema and you’ll have plans with what’s-his-face. I won’t feel bad, I’ll feel happy. But you need to move on. We both do. This is great but it’s not healthy and it’s not forever. You must know that, Tom. I’m not the only one who knows and feels that.”
Amy stopped to take a breath. Both of them seemed surprised at the outpouring of emotion. Amy seemed taken aback by the ferocity of her own feelings.
“I want more than this, Tom. I want a cuddle that doesn’t end on the landing. And if you didn’t, why are you in chat rooms every bloody night or down at those bars? You want something else and so do I. So don’t spoil this by turning it into something it isn’t and can never be.”
Tom looked deflated and sat down with a miserable plop. He knew that she was right but was taken aback by the power of her words and sentiments. It was one thing to know that she was telling the truth, it was quite another to have cold water taken from the light of day and thrown in his face.
“I know,” he said. “I do and you’re right, of course.”
Amy tousled his hair. “Look,” she said, “let’s do curry tomorrow, yeah?”
“OK,” said Tom as she turned.
“I have to go,” she said softly. “I’m already late. Speak soon – and smile.”
Tom looked up at her and gave her an enormous fake smile.
“That’s better,” she said, before planting a kiss on his head and turning to leave. “Bye, Ash!” she shouted as the door slammed shut.
Ash wandered in, draped in a blanket. “Oh, she gone then?” he asked, yawning.
“I’m afraid she has,” said Tom melancholically.
THIRTEEN
Ash’s health had improved sufficiently that he could make his way all around the house without yelps and “oohs” from aches and pains. Although still very jumpy, he was demonstrating signs of being back to normal, in so far as he was being ceaselessly irritating. It had been three weeks since the attack and, in that time, he hadn’t once ventured outside the door – not even into the secure walled yard at the back.
Tom had made various trips back to Ash’s house to get day-to-day essentials – clothes, toiletries and bedding – but after the umpteenth shuttle run, he began to wonder if Ash was visiting or moving in. Particularly when he started putting up artwork in his room.
The thought of having Ash as a lodger didn’t horrify Tom as much as he imagined it would. Ash was upbeat (for the most part) and a good friend. What’s more, he was clean and didn’t steal food from the fridge – a trait of a former housemate.
Tom had only ventured into room-letting a few times since he’d owned a house. Largely, they’d been dull, functional and forgettable encounters, but one person had put him off letting for good. This lodger had rarely paid bills and had assumed that the fridge was a communal free-for-all buffet, justifying his behaviour with the paltry lines, “It was only a smidge of butter” or, “It was just a drop of milk.” The thefts had continued and so had the excuses. When Tom had sat him down and informed him that he was required to find alternative accommodation, the shock had literally made the guy fall off his chair. The thought, the prospect, the reality of paying his way had been a completely alien concept to him. He’d moved back in with his parents
Amy stopped to take a breath. Both of them seemed surprised at the outpouring of emotion. Amy seemed taken aback by the ferocity of her own feelings.
“I want more than this, Tom. I want a cuddle that doesn’t end on the landing. And if you didn’t, why are you in chat rooms every bloody night or down at those bars? You want something else and so do I. So don’t spoil this by turning it into something it isn’t and can never be.”
Tom looked deflated and sat down with a miserable plop. He knew that she was right but was taken aback by the power of her words and sentiments. It was one thing to know that she was telling the truth, it was quite another to have cold water taken from the light of day and thrown in his face.
“I know,” he said. “I do and you’re right, of course.”
Amy tousled his hair. “Look,” she said, “let’s do curry tomorrow, yeah?”
“OK,” said Tom as she turned.
“I have to go,” she said softly. “I’m already late. Speak soon – and smile.”
Tom looked up at her and gave her an enormous fake smile.
“That’s better,” she said, before planting a kiss on his head and turning to leave. “Bye, Ash!” she shouted as the door slammed shut.
Ash wandered in, draped in a blanket. “Oh, she gone then?” he asked, yawning.
“I’m afraid she has,” said Tom melancholically.
THIRTEEN
Ash’s health had improved sufficiently that he could make his way all around the house without yelps and “oohs” from aches and pains. Although still very jumpy, he was demonstrating signs of being back to normal, in so far as he was being ceaselessly irritating. It had been three weeks since the attack and, in that time, he hadn’t once ventured outside the door – not even into the secure walled yard at the back.
Tom had made various trips back to Ash’s house to get day-to-day essentials – clothes, toiletries and bedding – but after the umpteenth shuttle run, he began to wonder if Ash was visiting or moving in. Particularly when he started putting up artwork in his room.
The thought of having Ash as a lodger didn’t horrify Tom as much as he imagined it would. Ash was upbeat (for the most part) and a good friend. What’s more, he was clean and didn’t steal food from the fridge – a trait of a former housemate.
Tom had only ventured into room-letting a few times since he’d owned a house. Largely, they’d been dull, functional and forgettable encounters, but one person had put him off letting for good. This lodger had rarely paid bills and had assumed that the fridge was a communal free-for-all buffet, justifying his behaviour with the paltry lines, “It was only a smidge of butter” or, “It was just a drop of milk.” The thefts had continued and so had the excuses. When Tom had sat him down and informed him that he was required to find alternative accommodation, the shock had literally made the guy fall off his chair. The thought, the prospect, the reality of paying his way had been a completely alien concept to him. He’d moved back in with his parents
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