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

brought a small break in the weather. There was a gentle mist that had transformed a bright, morning sun into something from a Turner painting. The director liked the light and the almost supernatural feel of the weather and decided to try a location shoot. Nia would be in one long scene. She would appear on the crest of a hill, observing the teacher and his young love interest run across a hassocky sheep meadow into an epic embrace. The longing in her eyes and disappointment across her face would symbolise the cold and passionless old order yearning for what the lovers embraced as the light and energy of modernisation. Nia watched as the crew worked setting up the meadow scene from her mark on the hillside. A drone camera buzzed overhead. The steady-cam operator, who would shoot the close up of Nia’s face, kept her company. She was cold, even though she wore long underwear under her full, heavy period costume of long dark woollen dress, white cotton shirt, serge cape, and a heavy woollen shawl. She was still concerned that she’d shiver on camera. Nia asked the steady-cam operator when he would be ready to shoot the scene. He radioed down to the valley floor to the director. Ten to twenty minutes, he reported to Nia. Nia nodded and turned and walked to the top of the hill. She took out her phone, she had broken the director’s rule that phones were strictly not allowed on set, for an opportunity like this. She had a bar. She called Tom. The call went through, but he didn’t pick up. She left a message. “Tom, I love and miss you,” she said to her phone. “I’d love to see you.” She hesitated, “Maybe could you pop over?”

Her phone dinged with an incoming text. Her heart began to race with anticipation only to be disappointed to see the text was from Jane, her agent. Nia called her.

“Nia, how’s the shoot,” Jane began.

“Fine,” answered Nia. “Slow and cold but good.”

“And Goldenboy?’

“Keeping a respectful distance… now,” Nia said. She sensed that Jane was hesitating.

“You know the military advisor I had asked about Tom? Well, he called me this morning. He had heard some top-secret mumbo jumbo about Tom getting into a fight with some Russians in the city.”

“Fuck,” Nia exclaimed. She was immediately frightened. “Is Tom okay?”

“Don’t worry, Nia,” Jane said soothingly. “Tom’s fine. Probably drink involved. You know boys and their beer. But enough about our boy, now, I think you’re going to have to decide about our matron role.”

Jane talked about the business, some additional interest in Nia, possibly even some other offers, but Nia didn’t really hear any of it. She was relieved when Jane rang off. Nia tried Tom’s number again. It rang to voice mail. She texted. “Call me or text me,” she wrote. “Love you.” She added a heart icon and hit send.

The steady-cam operator waved to her; it was time for her scene. She turned her phone off and returned to work.

London

MI5 had spirited Tom out of Thames House and deposited him at a small plain hotel on the city’s outskirts. The plan was for Tom to spend the night at the hotel and then proceed to pick up his Land Rover the next morning and then drive back to North Wales. MI5 had already worked with his former hotel to collect his things, which were waiting for Tom when he entered his new room. The hotel was modern, low slung and basic. It was the kind of hotel that catered almost exclusively to businesspeople needing a night or two between travel and business meetings. There was a queen bed, a small desk and a basic bathroom. Tom was spent. He had had almost no sleep the night before and the morning’s chase across London and his interview with MI5 had left him both physically and emotionally exhausted. He worried for his friend, Gagnon, and he ached to be with Nia.

Tom had called his editor and agreed to take the commission. A small advance would wing its way over to his bank account and Tom had received a promise that the publishers would cover the Periwinkle’s running costs for the year. The editor was thrilled but had been adamant that Tom’s voice be part of the book that the travelogue would have him appearing not just as omniscient narrator but as a character. It was to be a personal memoir in the Rolt vein but with Tom’s wit and charm and a little of his personal story undergirding the narrative. It had been a commission that Tom had previously balked at taking. But he felt now that if Nia would occasionally join him on his canal journeys then he could make it work.

After the agent had ended the call, Tom checked messages and texts. None from Nia. He answered a quick text from Rachel as to his ETA and then he texted Nia. He briefly noted he had signed the book contract and that he was looking forward to seeing her again. There was no mention of his most recent adventures. He placed his phone by the bedside table, took off his watch, thought about a shower, but was asleep almost as soon as he closed his eyes.

***

London, January 15th

It was light when Tom woke. He was momentarily confused as to where he was. He had slept late. He quickly showered and felt refreshed. He dressed, packed his bag and checked out. His Land Rover had mysteriously appeared in his hotel’s car park, courtesy of MI5. Still no calls or texts from Nia. He called the hospital for an update on Gagnon’s condition. Tom was relieved to hear good news. He left a message with Gagnon’s ward sister for the Canadian to call him once he was able to do so. He texted Rachel his anticipated time of arrival.