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THE NEXT MORNING I awoke to dozens of comments on my website. Compliments about the pictures and inquiries into either buying prints or hiring me to take photos at an event. I was stunned. I didn’t even have that many people following me. And then I saw the first few comments and grinned. Kate. Of course. My guess was she’d rallied everyone she knew and then some.
Once Adam left a compliment on one of my photos, site traffic took off like a hot rocket. Midmorning, the website crashed temporarily before the company was able to get it back online. I was grinning so hard my face hurt, but deep inside that sharp pain still stabbed away like a hot poker.
That afternoon my phone rang. The caller ID said it was Tom’s office. I told myself to be a big girl and answer the darned thing.
“Deb, hi, this is George White. Tom Rutledge asked me to take over for him?” The last sentence ended on a question.
“Hello, George. Thanks for calling. I understand there are some offers on my house.” I kept my tone cool and professional. I had no idea how much George knew, but judging from Tom’s behavior, I imagined it was little to nothing. There was no need to be embarrassed. People changed agents all the time for lots of reasons. Right?
“Absolutely. There are three. Would now be a good time to go over them?”
“Yes. Please do.”
By the end of the day, I’d accepted an offer on my house with the contingency that we closed in thirty days, which was fine by me. I was moving into my Notting Hill flat in two weeks, come hell or high water.
I opened a bottle of wine and toasted the sale as well as the success of my photography. But the celebration felt hollow and empty.
# # #
OVER THE NEXT COUPLE of weeks, I determinedly dodged Tom’s calls and texts while packing up my entire home, a place I’d lived for nearly ten years. I was going to miss Guildford, but I couldn’t wait to begin my new life in Notting Hill.
It wasn’t that Tom was going stalker or anything. He called twice, sent three texts. That was the first week. The second week I didn’t hear from him at all. The last text he sent was, I want to talk this through. The ball’s in your court.
So far that ball was still sitting on the court like the proverbial elephant in the room. It wasn’t right for me to leave him hanging, but I made the excuse that I was busy.
In addition to moving house, I had also booked a couple of portrait sessions and a wedding. I had no idea what I was doing, but what was that old saying? Fake it ’til you make it. And I was doing that in spades. Without a professional portrait space to use, I informed my new clients I specialized in “candid shots in unique venues.”
One of my clients was a writer friend of Kate’s who specialized in horror. He loved the idea of having pictures taken on the grounds of an old church among the grave markers. He’d been so excited over the shoot, he’d invited along half a dozen people to watch. It was sort of awkward, but I went with the flow, and the pictures turned out better than I could have imagined.
Kate had also suggested I set up an online shop and sell prints and notecards of my photos. I’d gotten it up right away, and already I’d sold half a dozen prints and a couple packs of notecards. Business-wise things were looking promising, and moving day was right around the corner. The only gray cloud on my horizon was having to deal with Tom. Dread had taken up residence in the pit of my stomach, but I kept putting off the inevitable...until it came knocking.
It was the day after I’d officially moved into my Notting Hill flat. The house in Guildford hadn’t closed yet, and there were still a few things there I needed to deal with, but essentially I was now an official resident of Notting Hill.
I’d been out buying lining paper for the cabinet drawers and was just starting to line the ones in the kitchen when there was a knock on the door. I frowned. I wasn’t expecting anyone.
Laying down the paper and scissors, I hurried to the front door and swung it open. Tom stood on the stoop. His expression was grim, his eyes brooding. He looked tired, like he hadn’t slept in a while. Join the club.
“Deb. I know I said I’d leave you alone, but we need to talk.”
I swallowed. It was time to face the music. I swung the door wide. “You’re right. Come in.”
Once he was inside, and the door shut behind him, I started to speak, but he interrupted me. “I think I deserve to know what happened.”
“What do you mean?” I wanted to kick myself. I prided myself on being a woman who didn’t play games. “I mean, could you be more specific.”
He ground his teeth. “Sure, I’ll be specific. I thought we had a great time that night.”
“We—ah—did,” I admitted.
“So why did you refuse to answer my calls? Why’d you cancel on me and request another agent? And why have you been avoiding me ever since? This is bollocks, Deb.”
“You’re right. You don’t deserve that kind of treatment, and I’m sorry.”
“So, why?”
I didn’t not want to say it out loud. It sounded bad enough in my head.
“Why, Deb?” he prodded.
“You’re too young,” I blurted.
His expression turned first to one of confusion, then astonishment. “Excuse me?”
“You do realize I’m forty years old, don’t you?”
He shrugged. “So?”
“So? I’m old enough to be your...”
“Aunt?” There was the merest quirk to his lips.
“Something like that,” I said lamely.
“Listen, I don’t care about that. So there are a few years between us. Who cares? If I was the older one, nobody would give a toss. We get on. We have a lot in common. We enjoy each other’s company. And we like each other. So who cares if there’s an age gap? Age is just a number anyway.”
“Easy for you to say,” I mumbled.
“Yeah, it is easy. Because this is just a rubbish excuse.”
I got mad all of a sudden. Why wasn’t he listening? Why wasn’t he understanding and agreeing with me? Not that I wanted him to, but why couldn’t he make this easy on me? “It’s not going to work, Tom. You know that. I know that. It’s obvious.”
“No, I don’t know that. And neither do you. The only reason this won’t work is because you’re too blasted stubborn to let it.”
“The age thing—”
“Is a rubbish excuse, and you know it. Bye, Deb. Look me up when you get your head out of your backside.”
And with that stellar remark, he stormed out the door and slammed it behind him.