He shakes his head. ‘God, no, of course! More than happy to move at any pace you like.’
Glacial, preferably.
‘Thank you.’ I give him a bashful smile. ‘It’s nice to see you in that cream jumper again.’ I aim for semi-graceful as I take a bite of steak tortilla, but I fear it’s impossible.
‘Well,’ he shrugs, ‘you said you liked it.’
Operation Glow Tom Up is going quite well. I’ve never done a covert makeover like this. Normally my boyfriends know what I’m capable of and eagerly take my advice. The blueprint is how I’m working with Tiago(stop thinking about him!)– social strategy and shopping trips, PR stories and brand meetings. How did I find myself handing out positive reinforcement like I’m training a dog?
Tom’s already looking much better. He’s ditched the loud shirts, the cargo shorts, the old jeans, the white tube socks, that awful deep V-neck, and most importantly, the brown. I’ve taught him how to drape a jumper over his shoulders in a way that says Italian chic, not East Coast establishment. He now knows youcan’t pair casual trousers with a dress shirt, and there is a thing as too many patterns.
‘I do like it,’ I say, taking a swig of Diet Coke. ‘It’d also go well with those chinos you wore during the factory visit with Étienne.’
He pulls a face. ‘You saw that video?’
‘I did. Your hair was shorter then. Have you ever cut it properly short?’
‘Not since I was young.’
‘It’d be interesting to see what it’d look like now. Nothing drastic – a two on the sides and three on top.’
His eyebrows rise. ‘Since when were you an expert on men’s hair?’
Since I dated men who wash with a combined shampoo, soap, and car de-icer. ‘I used to cut my dad’s hair.’
He nods slowly. ‘You mention your dad a lot. Is there a mum on the scene?’
Not one you’re going to find out about. I give him a coy smile. ‘Everyone has a mum, Tom.’
‘Not me,’ he says, carefully wiping the sides of his mouth with his napkin. ‘Not anymore.’
I stop eating. The bustle of the market falls away as he shifts uneasily on his stool.
‘Did… something happen?’ I ask, not sure I want an answer.
‘My mum died of sepsis when I was a teenager.’
I can’t hold in a gasp. Holy shit.
How did this not come up in my research? Not that it would change much, but at least I wouldn’t be blindsided.
‘I’m so s-sorry for your loss,’ I utter.
‘She had cancer – breast cancer. Stage two. She was undergoing chemo when she got whacked by a cold. My dad had it too and it was mild, but in her it was like flu.
‘On the third day she had this soaring temperature, and by the time my dad got her to hospital, it was too late. Organ failure, septic shock, and within a couple of hours, she was gone.’
I don’t have a clue what I look like but inside I’m reeling. I remember getting colds and praying I wasn’t transmissible; poring over the thermometer, willing it to read under thirty-eight degrees; stuffing my mum in the immune-compromised section of A&E, only for it to be full of other patients’ families with their feet on the chairs.
‘My mum had cancer too,’ I hear myself blurt out. ‘Bowel cancer. Stage two. Surgery, stoma, chemo, remission.’ I take a deep breath. This isn’t something I dive into every day, let alone with some man I’m fake dating. ‘Three years later, it was back, and it was stage four.’
Tom’s steady hand closes over my shaking one on the table, and I leave it. ‘That’s horrendous, Jules.’
‘It was in her bones, her liver, her lungs. Her CT scan lit up like a Christmas tree,’ I whisper.
Honestly, sepsis sounds kinder. At the very least there’s no hospice involved. I slide my hand away and look down at my nails, unwilling or unable to meet the sadness in his eyes.
‘I get what it’s like,’ I continue. ‘The pills, the cannulas, the hair loss, the weight loss, the fatigue. Appointment after appointment after appointment.’
