Page 75 of That Reunited Feeling

Tom kisses my forehead. It’s warm and affectionate, like something he’d do every day when he leaves for work if this fantasy were real. “Don’t forget we’re meeting Hugo this evening.”

“Ah yes, the reporter-punching soccer player.”

“Probably best not to call him that to his face.” He laughs and heads toward the door. “He’s a bit down and needs cheering up.”

“Okay.” And I should have thought to pack something that’s suitable to wear for drinks with a famous sports star who spends his life drifting from one showbiz party to another.

“Oh, and”—Tom stops with his hand on the door handle—“can you get the contact details for Katie from the chocolate penis thing?”

“The bride?”

“Yeah.”

That’s odd. “Why do you want to get hold of her?”

“Just a thought I had. Gotta run,” he says, stepping through the door. “But if you could track her down, that’d be great.”

I shrug, puzzled. “Sure.”

As the door closes behind him, I turn back to the window, snap a picture of the view, and send it to Rachel.

But this place is so much more than just the view. This is Tom’s home. It’s part of who he is. Part of the person he became after I waved him off at the airport all that time ago.

This room is huge. Near me, at the window is a giant sectional sofa facing a sleek wall-flush fireplace—one of those long, narrow ones, halfway up the wall, that looks like flaming pebbles. Above it is a huge TV.

Beyond that is an oval dark wood table surrounded by six deep green velvet-covered curved-back chairs. Then there’s that fabulous shiny kitchen that looks like it’s never seen a day’s cooking in its life, with six beaten-metal bar stools.

The wall opposite the dining table is lined with dark wood shelves and cabinets. It’s packed with vinyl records—singles and albums. There’s an amplifier on one shelf and a record deck on the one below. Tall speakers sit on either side, bookending the most beautiful shrine to music I’ve ever seen.

Drawn to it like a moth to the one flickering light in a dark sky, I find myself running my fingers along a row of records. Everything about this says the music is well-loved. From the worn edges of the album covers, to the fact that the amp, the deck, and the speakers are all different brands. Tom probably picked the best of each and put this together himself. It’s only the sound that matters—not appearances.

Flicking through the vinyl, it’s obvious this is a special collection. Many of them are signed—both by young bands currently on his books and by legends of the industry.

There’s an Elton John one that bears the words, “Welcome to the ’hood, neighbours! Elton.” Guess that was a housewarming gift when they bought the place the ex-wife now wants.

Another says, “The fish and chips are on me next time, Bruce,” right next to a close-up of Bruce Springsteen’s face with snow falling around it.

Those two might be giant stars, but the next one makes me gasp. Four Thousand Medicines’ first album, from ten years ago. Written across the iconic cover of a wide-open landscape dotted with shiny Airstream trailers are the words, “It’s all down to you,Tom. We’d be nothing without you, mate,” and the four band members’ names scrawled below.

I trace the words with my fingers. Tom hasn’t made an amazing life only for himself, he’s made amazing lives for others.

I tip the sleeve till the white inner cover holding the record slides out. For some reason I find myself sniffing it and inhale the aroma of old paper and vinyl that resembles sugary almonds. Kind of like the scent that fills a secondhand bookstore.

The temptation to play it is too much to resist. Running my fingers along the front of the amp, I find the power button and press. The loud pop out of the speakers makes me jump, and I clutch the record to my chest to prevent it from tumbling to the floor and scratching or breaking.

The level meters on the amp light up, the needles bouncing to life, and my heart thuds like I’m a child about to be caught secretly touching the thing I was told not to touch.

I lift the clear lid covering the record deck and slide the vinyl out of the inner sleeve with as much care as if I’m handling a priceless Ming vase. Give me an original Four Thousand Medicines record over old pottery any day.

The central hole of the record slots over the spindle with a click and drops softly to the deck. The On/Off switch makes a satisfying clunk when I turn it to On. There’s a large square button next to it marked Start. I trace the ridges of the letters, tickling my fingertips on them, before giving it a firm press. And with a gentle whir, the deck starts to spin.

My teeth sink into my lip as I hold my breath and reach for the arm. I ease it out of its cradle, and my trembling fingers swing it to the edge of the spinning vinyl.

The sense of anticipation couldn’t be higher if Tom were on his knees in front of me about to rip off my pants.

I drop the needle onto the record and smile at the first thrilling crackles of sound.

Then it starts.

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