‘I’m a sucker for happy endings?’
‘And?’ There’s more, I can tell.
He looks up at the ceiling as if choosing his words carefully. ‘Tom.’
‘What? Tom asked you to show me this?’
He holds out his hand, requesting the return of his phone and looks over his shoulder before nodding. ‘I wasn’t supposed to tell you.’
Hope leaps in my heart, as bouncy and joyful as a spring lamb.
‘Do you know where he is?’
Mark gives a non-committal shrug. ‘Around somewhere. We’re doing a quick debrief before he goes home.’
As soon as I hand the phone back he scuttles out of the room like a small, chagrined boy rather than a six-foot man mountain.
I reflect on what I’ve just seen. Tom. Naked emotion on his face. There’s no disguising it. In those shots, his emotions are totally obvious. Available.
Damn I need to find him. I swing my legs out of the bed and wince as my foot hits the floor. Fiery pains shoot up my leg and I have to take a moment to catch my breath. Forewarned, I take a more careful step and something tugs my hand. Bloody IV tube. I grab the rail on which the bag of solution is suspended and without thinking it through, start walking out of the room and into the corridor. I’m on a mission. I have to find Tom.
I’ve only taken a few steps when a voice from behind me shouts.
‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’
I know that voice. I smile and slowly turn around.
Tom is marching towards me, a paper bag clutched in one hand.
He comes right up to me, sparks of anger dancing in his eyes. He looks quite magnificent and I sigh because I’ve gone all gooey inside.
‘Looking for you,’ I tell him.
He puts his arms around my waist. ‘Jesus, woman, will you just get back into bed and stop giving me heart failure? The nurse said you wanted something to eat, so I’ve been out to get you something.’
Taking charge of my IV drip, he ushers me back to my room and spends an inordinate amount of time fussing over the bed, helping me in and rearranging my blankets before sitting on the bed, hemming me in.
‘Why did you leave?’ I ask.
‘Because I needed proof. As you were brought out of the ambulance, Mark said viewers would love the romance. I wanted you to see what they’d seen.’
‘You love me,’ I say with wonderment, scarcely able to believe it.
‘Been trying to tell you that. Although I’m still mad at myself for ballsing things up.’
‘That makes two of us,’ I reply, but I’m smiling at him as he traces a hand down my face, pushing my hair back from my cheek.
‘No, you didn’t do anything wrong, well … apart from putting your health at risk and not expecting enough from other people. From now on that stops. You deserve to be loved.’
He’s right. We both deserved to be loved. Him for the person he is and not the person his parents want him to be, and me because I’m not that neglected child anymore. I’m a person in my own right.
‘And so do you,’ I tell him.
I realise together we’re everything.
Epilogue
Two Years Later
‘Shh, everyone,’ bellows Nigel. ‘They’re about to announce the winner.’
We’re in the living room of Tom’s parents’ house assembled for a celebration party. Even though everyone has probably seen this clip before, they do all quieten and watch the television screen.
‘And the BAFTA for short film goes to … Love on the Run.’
The camera picks Tom out in the audience as he rises to his feet and makes his way to the stage, then it pans to me, standing clapping hard, tears running down my face and my eyes shining with pride. I could have burst with it that night.
‘Still my favourite dress,’ murmurs Tom standing beside me. I wore the black dress I was wearing when we first met – a private joke between us. He’s convinced me that it was his lucky charm.
On the screen, Tom steps on stage, in a tailored tuxedo, ducking his head to the microphone. He looks as handsome as any of the movie stars there and once again I feel that same overwhelming rush of pride.
He holds up the BAFTA in his left hand and grins before launching into the expected speech, which I knew at the time he hadn’t prepared because he genuinely did not expect to win that night.
Together we watch as, in time-honoured tradition, he starts thanking the cast, the production company and the crew. Next to me he winces at himself as he keeps remembering names he’d forgotten. ‘I can’t believe I forgot to thank Josh,’ he mutters. ‘Or Kit or Bella.’
‘You were a little overexcited,’ I tell him. ‘None of them minded.’
‘Shh, this is the best bit.’
