‘You can ask,’ he says. ‘But, you see, I was going to ask you the same thing. I’m dyspraxic, you see.’
Tommy has been told this is to do with spatial awareness rather than numbers or facts, but he has come to believe there may be a link between all these things, and after twenty-two years of his existence his mother has come to believe that too.
‘Err,’ she says. ‘Where is it that you’re going?’
‘Tris… tan Da Cunha,’ he says, like he’s navigating broken glass in bare feet.
‘Where’s that then?’ she says, resting her chin on her knuckles.
He blows out his lips, before he’s interrupted. ‘Tommy?’ comes a voice to his right. ‘I thought it was you!’
Hugs. A kiss on both cheeks. He lifts the girl with the dusty blonde bob off the floor, her feet dangling. He kisses her on both cheeks again. Flashes the pearly whites, places his hands on her shoulders, all as he considers when might be the right time to ask exactly who she is.
‘So psyched to see you…’ he says.
‘Oh my gosh, I knew you’d get through. All the producers thought you were so finessed at the final audish. I’m V excited. I’m literally buzzing. We’re gonna be on Sex on the Beach!’ she says.
What is her name? A classy girl. Posh. From London or one of the posh bits near there that Tommy’s never been to. His mind is working not so much overtime as over time. But she can’t see it ticking away, the magic happening unseen, for he is not dyspraxic when it comes to women. Oh, he knows where everything is in that respect; he has been told as much by the 67 or 177 women he has slept with (the number adaptable depending on whether he’s talking to men or women).
‘Tab… itha!’ he says, almost without missing a beat.
‘It’s just Tabs,’ she says, an air of triggered seriousness in her eyes.
Tommy notes she’s one of those people who has tried all available options and is very clear on how her name must be delivered. Branding is everything.
It suddenly feels to Tommy like the show has already begun.
‘Got it,’ he says, tapping his temple. ‘Locked in.’
‘So, what are you doing here, you nutcase?’ she shouts with a smile.
‘I coulda flown from Edinburgh, but I told them I’d go from Heathrow. Don’t know why. Wanted to keep things convenient. Thought it’d play well for me.’
‘But you’d already been picked by the time they were booking your flights, surely?’ she says, thumbs through her jean loops.
‘Yeah. Guess I got nervous. Still, my family drove me down here anyway. It’s no’ far.’
Tabs leaves the geography of that claim alone and goes back to her original line of questioning. ‘I actually meant, what are you doing getting currency? They’ll give us everything we need when we touch down in Cape Town.’
‘Oh, really?’ he says, looking as delighted as a Labrador shown a ball, and the possibility of generous per diems.
‘Yes, did you read the online pack?’
‘Oh yeah. Yeah I did.’ No, he didn’t. ‘Anyway, what currency do they take in… Cunha Da—’
‘Shh,’ she says, drawing him away from the booth. ‘You know we’re not allowed to tell people which island we’re on this year. It was in the pack?’
‘Oh yeah. Course. I won’t do that then.’ Tommy’s eyes drift towards the rubbernecking Currency Lady and back to Tabs.
‘There was too much press last time, too much local interest. It ended in tears, which was great, but it also ended in spoilers, and this show is way too big for spoilers. You heard fans found the villa last time, right?’
‘Yes.’ He didn’t.
‘Well, now they’ve gone supes remomo.’ Tommy frowns. ‘Super remote. It’s an archipelago.’
Lego? Tommy thinks. Keep quiet.
‘It’s the farthest flung British territory, Tristan Da Cunha, the largest of a group of islands in the South Atlantic. There’re penguins in winter, but it’ll be about twenty-eight degrees while we’re there. Some focus groups thought the show was all a bit sanitised, they could tell that stylists came in to do hair, designers lent out clothes and that there were breaks when the cameras were turned off. So it’s all change. They wanted us to feel far from home and out of our depths. This place is volcanic!’
‘Well, I’m sure there’ll be a few eruptions,’ he says, eyebrows raised.
I’m not even sure that counts as an innuendo, Tabs thinks.
‘Doesn’t even have an airport,’ she says, grabbing onto his arm. ‘It’s a long boat trip from Cape Town.’
‘Of course,’ Tommy says, like he knew all of that and just needed a reminder.
She takes his arm and they wander through the concourse, two gleaming specimens in a sea of grey and shuffling travellers. He takes her cabin bag, rolling it in front of him, slinging his one onto his toned shoulder. The white glow of the terminal lighting playing off their perfect skin, as these two perfectly cast beings strut their perfect bodies, as if in an advert for their own lives.
‘I love airports,’ Tommy muses.
‘Oh yeah. Totes love. It’s the independence. It’s totes adulting,’ she says.
Tommy says, ‘It’s the possibility of everything. Where’s he going? And him? And him?’ The last man Tommy points at has to take evasive action to avoid getting poked in the eye. Dyspraxia. ‘Who’s waiting for him wherever he’s going? And why does he look so good? Like a model.’
‘I’ve actually done a bit of modelling—’
‘Everyone’s classy in airports. Everything’s cleaner. People are formal, admirable, sexual. Everywhere should be an airport.’
Tabs leaves a silence to adjust her approach to this new contemplative side of him.
‘You’d have loved my grandad. He used to dress up for travel, wore a three-piece suit, every time. Always smelt of some dark scent. So handsome, even at 60.’
‘Doesn’t surprise me. Cos most people are only classy in airports, but you, you’re classy everywhere, Tabs,’ he twinkles.
She blushes.
Then he checks his Storm watch. ‘Least for the approximately… 131 minutes I’ve known you.’
Two hours on final audition day. Eleven minutes today.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
