‘I’m so sorry.’ I hate seeing people sad, especially kind people, and from what I’ve seen of him this evening Tom is very kind. Not just in being polite and charming to us all over our unexpected dinner, but little things, like he was very quick to turn the conversation whenever Carole seemed miserable again, and he was much more tolerant than a lot of people would be to a server when she spilt definitely-oily-and-staining tomato sauce on his quite-new-and-not-cheap-looking leather shoes. So, yes, properly kind, I think.
He’s also clearly pretty miserable. He’s tall and solid and looks like he’s mid-thirties, and he’s one of those just-the-right-side-of-handsome-but-not-too-handsome people who are often very confident socially (and he was indeed unselfconscious and chatty-but-not-too-chatty when we all met) but right now he looks like a little boy who’s had his last Haribo snaffled by an adult he trusted, just as he was popping it into his mouth. Bewildered, heading towards very hurt.
‘Yeah, no.’ He shakes his head. ‘It is what it is. Not meant to be, I guess. Although…’
I wait. I feel as though he has thoughts he’s going to have to work through. I certainly would in his position.
‘Did that seem weird to you? Her wording?’ he asks.
‘A little,’ I say cautiously, ‘but I don’t actually know her of course.’
‘Yeah.’ He looks back at his phone and rereads the messages, before looking up and staring ahead of him with the hurt-following-Haribo-theft look on his face again.
I feel he shouldn’t be alone now, so I don’t want to leave him. Although maybe he has a housemate who he’s close to who he’d like to talk to.
‘Do you live alone?’ I ask.
‘Yes?’ His voice is inflected as though it’s an odd question.
‘I just…’ I’m choosing my words carefully because I don’t want to imply that things are so bad that he shouldn’t be alone, but, also, surely he’d be better off with someone to talk to. ‘I thought you might want to talk things through more. Let’s go and get a drink?’
Tom nods. ‘Yeah, actually, that would be great. Thank you. If you’re sure you aren’t in a rush to get home.’
‘No, all good, but shall we go now?’ It’s been colder than I expected this evening, since the rain started, and this platform is a bit of a wind tunnel, and I’dloveto be standing somewhere warmer. Actually, I’d love to besittingsomewhere warmer. I check my watch. ‘Oh. The pubs will all be closed. A wine bar?’ I look at his tight smile and miserable eyes and try to think of a quiet, non-party-like wine bar in the vicinity, and fail. ‘Or a coffee at mine? My flat’s a seven-and-a-half-minute brisk walk away.’
Tom manages a little laugh. ‘Not to be too precise.’ He hesitates. ‘Are you sure? It’s quite late already and I’m not at my best.’
I nod. ‘Absolutely. Really. I’d hate to think of you going home and being miserable by yourself.’
‘Yes, please, then. Thank you.’
And just like that, he’s coming back to my flat with me for a coffee, and it feels completely natural because somehow this evening I genuinely feel as though I made four new proper friends, and of those friends Tom is the closest in age to me.
I’m not eventhathorrified about what I’ve just remembered is the big tip I left my living room in, because good friends do not judge you on temporary messiness. Although I should probably warn him.
As we walk along the platform, I say, ‘I would like to mention that I was in a very big rush when I went out and as you know I was on my way to a blind date and I wanted to look my best, so I might have the entire contents of my wardrobe strewn across the flat.’
Tom laughs and says, ‘Noted.’
We barely speak once we emerge from the station, because the rain’s so heavy now that it drowns out all other sounds, even the road traffic; we just concentrate on hurrying to my flat.
We go at my fastest pace (a jog/speed-walk combination that Tom keeps up with effortlessly, although, to be fair to me, his legs are a lot longer than mine, plus I’m in my wedges) and smash my usual seven and a half minutes.
When we get there, we burst through the main door into the building and stand in the hall dripping.
I’m finding it difficult not to snigger, even though it isn’t very sensitive to Tom’s misery, because the way raindrops are making their way down his ears and falling from his lobes is very comical.
I’m obviously looking ridiculous too, because, despite Lola, Tom’s actually looking as though his own lips are twitching.
We just stand there dripping for a few moments, before I realise that I should do something about the water and say, ‘Okay, my flat’s on the first floor,’ and head for the stairs.
When we get inside my front door, which opens straight into my open-plan kitchen-living room, I leave my sodden shoes on the doormat (Ireallyhope they’re going to recover from the water because Ilovethem) and Tom stands on the mat next to them, trying to avoid dripping onto the floor. I’m grateful for that, because I’m very protective of my floorboards; my friend Gina and I lovingly (and incredibly unenjoyably) sanded them with a rented machine last year when I moved in, and then varnished them and nearly asphyxiated ourselves, and I’m not at all keen (and neither is Gina) to have to redo them.
A couple of minutes later, I’m in a dry top and jeans, and Tom’s wearing an old T-shirt of my brother’s that I found at the back of my wardrobe, we’ve both towel-dried our hair and I have the kettle on.
I turn round from getting mugs out of a cupboard and catch Tom checking his phone again.
‘Anything else?’ I ask.
