Fit For Purpose, Julian Parrott [most recommended books txt] 📗

Rachel’s labours of visiting several video shops and supermarkets. Rachel had curated a small collection of Nia Williams’ work. As the boat’s cabin warmed nicely, he took a seat in one of his two comfy chairs, Jack jumped up into his lap, then, tea in hand, he pressed play on his small TV/DVD combo. The first DVD was of a two-decade-old TV drama; within ten minutes of watching, a young Nia emerged on screen. She was playing a pugnacious teen runaway. She turned to face the camera and Tom thought she was stunning, her dark eyes sparkled through the screen and through the years. He ached to be with her again. He took a sip of his tea and wondered what she was doing at that moment.

***

In her London town home, Nia was remembering how nicely Tom had smiled. Ben, the handsome young man who had greeted her, was shouldering a rucksack and was about to push his bike through the open front door. Nia held the door for him and passed him an envelope containing an overly generous amount of cash. She knew the young actor struggling for parts would need it.

“Thanks again for house-sitting,” she said.

“No problem darling. Anytime. You have such a lovely house. It was fun to stay and eat all your food and drink all your booze.” Ben leaned down and patted his Lab on its head. The dog licked his hand. “We love it here. Do let me know if you need me again.” Ben looked at her. “You are positively glowing darling. Jet lag must be good for the skin.”

“I’m just happy to be home,” Nia said recognising it was only a half truth.

Nia held the door open to watch Ben cycle off into the city followed by his trotting Lab. She closed the door and leant against it as if catching her breath. She was tired, almost overcome with fatigue. She would unpack her bags later.

“Time for a cup of tea,” she said out loud, her voice echoing in the empty house.

Tea made, Nia sat down in her study surrounded by the books she loved so much. She wondered whether she should get a dog. She sipped her tea thinking back on her last few weeks. The job had been fulfilling, fun, and well paid. Bills would be paid; savings account would be topped up. Nia wouldn’t have to worry about her finances, but she was anxious for the next role, the next job. There were some scripts to read, auditions to prepare for, and call backs were already on her calendar. She didn’t care for auditions but was rarely just given roles these days, and she had accepted that as another part of the actor’s life. But now, there was this Tom guy and, for the first time in a long time, her thoughts weren’t just about work. As she went through the rest of the day, her imaginings filled her house, making it feel less empty.

Over the next day, Nia and Tom went on with their separate and regular routines. As they moved through what was so familiar; boat duties, making cups of tea, talking with agents, sitting down with a book, listening to the news, they both, unknown to the other, felt attached by a gossamer-thin thread of connection.

Chapter Five

Llangollen, November 22nd

Tom woke to a cold cabin. He exhaled breath clouds as he slipped out of bed with an audible ‘brrrr’ and, put on slippers. Jack moved from the foot of the bed to the warm spot Tom had just vacated. Jack watched Tom throw on sweatpants, T-shirt, and a sweatshirt before Tom made his way down the narrowboat. His limp was more obvious on cold mornings. Tom went to light the little Morso stove in the forward cabin. He was always good with fires and the kindling took immediately. He placed a few coal bricks on top of the kindling and waited for the first wafts of warm air. He closed the stove’s grill and held out his hands to absorb the heat. Sufficiently convinced that the fire would now hold, he made his way back down the cabin to the small kitchen. His phone was plugged in, charging. He held his breath involuntarily while checking his texts. Nothing. It’s still early, he told himself. He put the kettle on. The window, above the small cooktop and sink, was almost at water level. Tom watched a few hardy ducks and coots navigate the semi-frozen canal, drawn to the narrowboat’s window in the hope of some crumbs. Tom opened the window and supplied some as he always did. The canal bank opposite opened on to a meadow, tinged with heavy frost. Tom, now with tea in hand, watched a dog fox scuttle home, like an anxious husband who had stayed out too late. Perhaps there was a vixen waiting, perhaps kits, in a nearby den. Or, perhaps, like Tom, the reynard was alone. A loner, Tom considered, but not necessarily alone. There was Jack and Rachel and her family. His thoughts then turned to Nia.

Tea done and cup placed in the sink, Tom moved down the cabin to the tiny bathroom — a child-size toilet, a half-size sink, and a small shower stall that required Tom to duck his six-foot-one body into to get his hair wet. He knocked on the thin wooden wall that separated the bathroom from the bed’s cabin, “Hey, don’t go back to sleep,” he said to Jack. He quickly washed his face, saving water had become second nature on the narrowboat. He checked his face in the mirror above the small sink. To shave or not to shave. He rasped his hands over his two-day stubble. He’d go without a shave again. He was still tired of shaving. Twenty years in the army with its over emphasis on personal turnout, freshly shaved faces, spit polished boots, blancoed webbing, and cleaned