DidOrlandochange her, or was it their relationship that had changed? Could he really have been about to propose to a woman who was no longer in love with him, and he hadn’t even noticed?
Glancing across the canal, he watched as streams of people tore their way down the footpath toward the station and pulled out his phone. He went into his camera roll and clicked on the album called “Sophie.” There it was. The last photo he took of her that he’d printed as part of his proposal. Sophie, in bed readingOrlando. He scrolled back two or three frames and stopped dead on the pavement, zooming in. He hadn’t noticed at the time. Hadn’t given it any attention. He was just trying to find the right picture to print. The one where the sunlight caught her face just so. The perfect ruffle of the white duvet against her. He’d stared at that final photo so many times, but not this one. Not the one where the book lay flat against the bed and she ran a hand through her hair, head tilted slightly toward the window, tears glistening in her eyes.
It was the very next afternoon that she’d just blurted it out intheir living room. “I can’t do this anymore, Tom. I’m so sorry. This just isn’t right.”
“Can’t do what?” Tom had asked. “What isn’t right?”
“This. You and me. I just... I don’t know how to explain it, but I just know I need to be on my own. I really amsosorry. It’s this book I’ve been reading...”
Fuck.It was all there in that photo, and he’d missed it. Tom used to pride himself on capturing the in-between moments when his subjects stopped posing. They were always his favorite images, when the mask slipped and the rawness shone through. The vulnerability. The honesty. The more he got into editorial work, the more he forgot to look for those snapshots, and yet here one was, screaming at him, and he’d ignored it. He was so focused on the right frame that he didn’t see the truth staring back at him from his own photos. That Sophie was unhappy. That when she thought she was alone, she had cried intheirbed.
By the time Tom arrived at Bondi Green he’d regressed about four months, back in the headspace he’d been in for weeks after she ended things. After she said how sorry she was. Come to think of it, maybethatwas why he hated those words so much.
“You look gloomy,” Ralph said, pulling Tom out of the past as he appeared in front of him at the entrance to the restaurant.
“You look...” Tom scanned Ralph, squinting as he took in what looked different. Same short dark hair. Same light stubble. “Buff,” he said, realizing what it was.
He was in the short-sleeved version of his navy work shirt and his arm muscles were definitely more prominent than Tom had seen before. Given Tom had known Ralph since he was a scrawny twelve-year-old, he’d seen his arms enough times to know when they’d changed shape.
“Thanks for noticing.” Ralph raised his arm.
“Please don’t. Don’t flex.”
“Got to.” He pulled his forearm toward his head, bicep bulging.
Tom rolled his eyes and walked into the restaurant, grabbing a table in the window.
“What happened?”
Ralph grimaced. “Sounds bad if I say it. Thanks, mate,” he said to the waiter, taking a menu and handing one over to Tom.
“Bad, how?”
“Well, I don’t want Tina to leave me, do I.” He rubbed at his jaw, something he did when he was uncomfortable, and Tom stared at him, trying to understand. Eventually he realized what he was saying.
“The way Sophie left me, you mean?”
“Told you it sounded bad.”
Tom threw his menu down on the table. “Jesus, mate, way to kick a man when he’s down.” He paused, frowning. “Why the arm muscles?”
“We’re watchingCelebrity SASand Tina’s hot for that Foxy guy and, mate, he’sripped. So I’ve been sneaking in a few sessions before work. I’ve become part of the cross-fit collective.” He raised his eyebrows up and down, twice.
“You despise the cross-fit collective. You used to say it was like a cult.”
“Turns out cults are fun when you’re actuallyinthem.”
Tom nodded thoughtfully. “Scientologistsdotend to look pretty happy.”
“Exactly. So, what are you doing here? Got a job?” Ralph asked, after calling the waiter back to order.
“Not until later. Shooting Clive Owen for some cologne ad. No, I—”
“What the fuck’s happened to your cheek?” Ralph squinted, leaning closer.
Tom reached up to his jaw, the pain momentarily forgotten. “I got punched by someone on the bus this morning.”
He was a good friend, Ralph. Tom watched as he forcedaway a smirk and, while it took a couple of seconds too long for it to be his genuine reaction, his forehead creased with concern. “You okay?”
