I take one of the town cars into the city to meet Tom.
He’s standing outside Cartier on New Bond Street. Neutral-coloured, horizontal-striped T-shirt from Jil Sanders, the navy, garment-dyed cotton trousers from Brunello Cucinelli with the Chuck Taylor All Star HiTops in Farro. Even when he looks casual enough to practically be a window-washer, he’s a bit of a dream come true. He opens my car door smiling down at me as he helps me out. I look adorable: Oversized wool-blend cardigan from Jil Sander with the gingham-print dress from Miu Miu (both in navy), black patent Mary Janes from Proenza Schouler with white almost-knee-high socks from Fendi.
We stand there on the street for a brief few seconds, staring at each other and then we each let out a weird, small laugh. He looks a bit nervous. Tom England looks nervous.
He tilts his head, trying to figure it out. “Should we kiss?” I’ve never had a fake boyfriend before who knew he was fake at the commencement of our relationship, so I don’t know.
“Probably.” I nod, unsure. “Sure? Yes. Sure.” It’s quick and strange and awkward and funny and he gives me a long look and then we both start laughing again. His laugh is sort of brilliant. Deep from the back of his throat, making all the heaviness he’s carrying in his brow lift a little.
The laughing makes it easier, like it breaks the tension, rubbing out the knots of strangeness between us. He places his hand on the small of my back again, leading me down the street.
“So we’re shopping today?” I look up at him. He really is so tall. Six feet four inches, maybe?
He nods. “I kind of need a whole new wardrobe.”
“Where’s your old wardrobe?”
“At Sam’s.”
So I just nod. “Okay,” I cling to his arm because I don’t know what else to do. “A whole new wardrobe, then.”
“Up for the task?”
“Born for the task,” I nod, resolutely.
We head on into Burberry because someone with Tom’s build and colouring belongs almost exclusively in neutrals and navy blues. I sift through the racks, pulling pieces for him—the slim-fit, logo-embroidered, cashmere sweater, the checked, merino wool sweater, the slim-fit, cotton-twill chinos—I try not to pick anything I’d pick for BJ, try my best not to dog-ear in my mind the things I’ll probably come back and buy him myself next week when I hate him a little less.
They don’t look the same, anyway. Plus, Tom and BJ’s styles are completely different.
Tom’s style is… Burberry when Christopher Bailey was on board. BJ’s style is Burberry in the Riccardo Tisci era, do you know what I mean? Of course you do.
I notice two girls—maybe seventeen-ish years old—who’ve been sort of just around us since I pulled up have followed us into the store and they’re nervously edging closer and closer to me.
(“You ask.” “No, you.” “No!” “Okay, fine.”)
“Excuse me?” one of them squeaks. I look over at them, smiling as warmly as I can muster. Tom looks on, curious.
“Can we get a photo with you?” the other one asks.
“Yeah, sure,” I nod. “Of course.” I don’t know why. I never really understand why people want photos with me, nevertheless, I go stand with them. They hand the phone to Tom—hilarious—and he takes a few photos. They’re about to walk away when the first girl turns around.
“Where’s BJ?”
Tom glances over at me amused and I take a breath, breathe it out of my nose louder than I should—terribly unrefined of me—and I give them an offhanded smile.
“I’m not sure, but this is my boyfriend. Tom.” I gesture to him.
“Oh. Hi.” She laughs nervously, then scurries away.
(“They broke up?” “I told you! I knew it!” “He’s single!” “She’s never single!”)
I glance over at Tom apprehensively, flick my eyes, trying to play it off. He folds his arms over his chest, amused. “That happen a lot?”
“Oh,” I ho and hum for a moment. “What’s a lot?”
He shrugs with his mouth. “Once a day?”
I squint up at him. “Will my answer impact the state of our”—I glance around, then whisper—“fake relationship?”
He ducks a little (a lot) and whispers back, “No.”
I pull back and smile up at him. “Then yes.” He laughs and pushes some hair behind my ears, looking at me in a way that if I didn’t know it was fake, might have made my heart go funny but my heart is just fine, thanks. Maybe just a murmur.
We go to the fitting rooms and I wait outside while he tries on the clothes for me.
He comes out in the slim-fit, cotton chinos in navy and the camel long-sleeve, icon stripe-detail merino wool polo shirt. So sexy. “I’m in, by the way,” he tells me as I tug the shirt around on his body, tucking it in, untucking it, tucking it back in.
“In what?” I look up at him.
He brushes some hair behind my ear again. “This. Us.”
“Fake us?” I smirk.
He squashes a smile. “Come hell or high-water.”
I spin him around to inspect the back of his pants. “I’m glad to hear because I’d imagine both are on the way.”
“Do you now?” he says, standing over me, looking down.
My breath feels a bit caught in my chest. “I do.” I breathe out, grab the Vintage Check panel cotton hoodie and shove it in his hands, closing the door quickly because my cheeks are going pink. That hoodie was maybe too like something BJ would wear? Anyway.
“Why’s that?” Tom says from the other side of the door.
“Because BJ is insane when it comes to me.”
“Oh.” He chuckles. “Great.”
He opens the door and shows me the hoodie. It doesn’t suit Tom, but it’s perfect for BJ. I shake my head and he takes it off. On the spot. In front of me. Just whips it off of himself—and, oh my dear lord.
He’s a masterpiece. An absolute, fucking masterpiece. He could be a centrefold. I swallow heavy, looking away from him.
He looks over at me, perplexed. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.” I blink, suddenly riveted by the latte-coloured carpet in the change room.
“Am I going to get a black eye from this?” he asks with a laugh.
I glance up with a grimace. “Probably.”
He walks over to me, ducks down so we’re level, brushes his lips against mine.
“Worth it.”
