Chapter Text
Tweets all/no replies
25 May
Tom Hiddleston @twhiddleston
Ah, yes. Home again. Grateful for a precious few days off. Now. What to do first?
I popped my index finger down upon the mouse with a flourish, clicking the “tweet” button, and letting the internet and all its wonders take my meager little message and display it on my Twitter feed for the entire world to see – or at least, for those few who were actually interested in reading my Twitter feed. Few meaning, about 540,000, which to this day, I can’t seem to suss out why.
My desk chair creaked a bit, straining under the shifting weight as I leaned back in it, kicking my stockinged feet upon an open bottom desk drawer. I peered down into the drawer and, for a moment, pondered the merits of pulling out that Hamlet script Ken Branagh had sent me. But, no. Not today.
It felt truly satisfying to skive off for a bit; to just sit and think, stewing in my own brain after months constantly on the go. Now, I had no one wanting me, I had no place to be, and I had nothing to do. Just simply… to relax. Yes, it was a consummation devoutly to be wished. To relax, to sit; to sit, perchance to… Christ! Never mind. Aye, there was the rub: work was going to be harder to push aside than I had thought.
So, I sat there, with my arms raised, fingers entwined against the back of my head, fingers scratching slightly through my unruly, bristly, curly hair; lovingly known to my sisters as the “bottle brush.” I’d let it grow out a bit, and on that particular day I’d let it go au naturel, as they say; letting it dry completely on its own after my shower. No itchy character hairpieces, no gels, no pomades, none of that Label M or Aveda crap that my publicist and whatever stylist he decides to bring along makes me use on the red carpet or at premieres or what have you.
That day, I was not going to give a single thought to my appearance, my voice, my body, my smile, my clothes, my… whatever. I didn’t even shave. I was not going to be an actor. I was just going to be Tom. Just Tom, and I was going to enjoy every minute of it.
I sat in that position, scratching at the back of my head, and watched as the response tweets rolled in. There was one from my mate, Zac Levi, suggesting that I go all tourist-ey and flash my bare bottom to a Beefeater at the Tower. I leaned forward in the chair, fingers typing quickly in response, “I can’t be arsed to.” Chuckling to myself, I closed the Mac, and heaved my bum out of the creaky chair.
I threw on a pair of old jeans, a BonIver t-shirt, trainers, and a black cardi, stuffed my iPad and some Clif bars in my rucksack, my wallet and keys in the cardi pocket, headed out the door of my flat and bounded down the stairs. There were two stacks of post on the table by the door. I scooped mine up and stuffed it in the outside pocket of my bag. I pushed the outside door open. As I walked through, the door handle caught on my cardi and I was unceremoniously yanked back. I cursed under my breath, straightened myself out, and jogged out onto the pavement, heading toward Starbucks.
It was a decent day in London; not warm, not cool, patchy clouds set out against a blue-gray sky. The streets were busy, thick with people on the pavements and cars on the roads, bustling for an early Saturday morning. I found myself twisting and turning now and again to fit my lanky body in between or around groups of chattering girls or tourists stopped in the middle of the pavement to study a map. I took pity on one such group; a hopelessly lost French family, and pointed them in the direction of the Sloane Square Tube station. The rather ample-sized mother hugged me, and the father grasped my shoulders and kissed both my cheeks.
What a great way to start the day.
The Starbucks appeared just ahead, around the bend in the road. My mouth started salivating at the thought of a Pike Place Roast and whatever sugar-laden, fat-dripping pastry I could lay my hands upon. I placed my hand on the door to push my way into the coffee shop, and with my other hand, reached for my wallet.
My wallet was not where I had put it, namely in my cardi pocket. Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit! I’d walked four blocks from my flat to this place and my wallet could have dropped out anywhere; and worse, could have been picked up by anyone. Stupid git. Stupid, stupid, stupid, git, you are, Tom. Panicking, I moved off to the side, between the Starbucks and a small café to the right and started rummaging through everything. My trouser pockets, front and back. Nope. My rucksack – main pocket, side pockets, front pockets, inner front pocket, inner back pocket, inner bloody side pocket, pocket underneath, phone pocket, pocket in the flap – crap, this thing had too many fucking pockets. Nope. I straightened up, checking my cardi once again. Finding nothing but keys, I puffed out my cheeks and blew out a resigned, angry burst of breath. I wondered for a moment if my wallet had been nicked by someone in that nice French family. Merde, I hoped not.
I thought of what was in there. My driving licence. Damn, I’d have to pay a visit to the DVLA. Hated that. Credit cards. Shit. What’s my credit limit again? Not too much cash, maybe a tenner or two, but not much. That was okay. Photos of my parents, sisters, nieces and nephews. Those could be replaced. Probably the worst was the studio expense credit card. Losing that could be disastrous. The credit limit was probably astronomical and I’d be personally responsible for reimbursing anything some yob would spend on it. Now, that prospect truly frightened me. I was well off enough, but not that wealthy.
I started to hyperventilate a little, pulling on my hair, my eyes screwed shut and my teeth gritted. I couldn’t help but imagine the undue horror of that French father, or worse — some chav in an Adidas track suit, haggling for a Maserati or a loaded up Range Rover and then handing over the Paramount Pictures credit card to pay for it, when I felt a tap on my shoulder.
“Hey, there.”
I opened one eye and peered, worried that I’d been recognized. A woman, about my age, was studying me with a very strange expression on her face. Thankfully, it was not one of those “You’re Tom Hiddleston, oh my gawwwwwwwd!” looks. She smiled a little and squeezed my shoulder. I suppose I must have looked a fright. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I breathed. “Yeah, I’m okay. Just lost my bloody stupid wallet, is all.”
She hitched her shoulder. “What does it look like?”
“Why?” I asked, startled, “did… did you find one?”
“Yup,” she nodded once, her smile broadening, “on the bottom step just outside my flat.” She reached into her jacket pocket. “But you know I can’t give it to you until you can identify it.” She shrugged again and leaned against the building. “Can’t be giving a wallet to someone it doesn’t belong to, can I?”
I laughed. “Of course not,” I said. “It’s a brown ostrich leather bi-fold, says Burberry on the inside, initials TWH embossed on the outside near the stitching.” I nodded my head and folded my arms against my chest.
“Good, so far,” she grinned, pulling out my wallet and opening it. Relieved, I made a quick snatch for it. She pulled it back. “Nuh, uh, huh!” She waggled her finger at me. “Tell me your name first. There could be more than one TWH who lost his very, very expensive Burberry wallet whilst walking around Chelsea this morning. After all, it isChelsea.”
“Seriously?” I laughed, playfully glaring at the woman. “You shouldn’t be nosing in others’ wallets anyway.” I made another grab for it, but she was too quick, tucking it away behind her back.
“I had to see who it belonged to! You’re lucky I did look, really. I recognized you standing here looking all panic-stricken from your licence photo, even with your hair sticking out everywhere.” I frowned and involuntarily smoothed my curls down, garnering a chuckle from the woman. She continued, “If I hadn’t looked, I’d have passed you right by.” She opened the wallet again, making me cringe a little at the intrusion. “So, then, Mister TWH. What do those initials stand for? What’s your full, honest-to-God legal name?” She looked up at me expectantly.
I breathed in through my nose and puffed the air back out my mouth. “Thomas. William. Hiddleston,” I said, overemphasizing each part of my name.
“Top marks, here you go,” she grinned, and handed the wallet over to me. I rummaged through it quickly, and found that the licence, cards, photos, notes, and, thankfully, the Paramount credit card were all accounted for. As I was doing so, I hadn’t noticed that she started to walk away toward the coffee shop.
“Oi!” I shouted. She stopped and turned. I pocketed the wallet – in my jeans this time – picked up my rucksack, and followed the few steps after her. “Where are you going? I never thanked you.”
She shook her head and shrugged. “It’s okay,” she said, placing her hand on the door to pull it open. I reached over and pulled it for her, ushering her inside with a gesture. “Thanks.” She continued walking toward the barista counter.
I stopped her with a hand on her arm. “No,” I said, “thank you. Truly, you’re a lifesaver.” She smiled, nodded, turned from me again, and took her place in line. She dug into her bag and produced a few notes out of her own wallet. Emboldened, I stepped in behind her and placed a hand over her wrist, pushing down. “Do you honestly think that after you rescued me from a fate worse than death that you are going to pay for your own coffee today?”
She tilted her head, flummoxed. Cute, I thought. She laughed; even cuter. “Fate worse than death? From losing your wallet?”
“Yeah, of course!” I said, dramatically, with a false expression of horror. Where this flirtatiousness was coming from, I had no idea, but I went with it. I crouched down slightly so my face was near hers. Didn’t have to go far, she was nearly of a height to me. “Imagine, how horrific, appalling, dreadful, horrible and terrible it would have been if I was forced, against my will, against every single fibre of my being… to phone up Barclay’s and have to…,” I gasped, pressing my hand to my chest, “get all of my cards cancelled, and ack! Reissued!” I covered my eyes with the back of my hand, drawing looks from some of the other patrons. “Oh, the agony of it all!”
She laughed, placing a hand over mine to stop the spectacle. That was good. That was very good, her touch like that, on me, on my hand. In the moment, I wasn’t sure why it was good, but it was. “You’re a riot, you are,” she giggled and tucked her money into her back jeans pocket. Strange, but I liked that giggle; the giggle was good, very good. “Yes I suppose you can buy my coffee, since you put it that way,” she nodded, “thank you.”
Couldn’t help myself but grin like a bloody fool.
Not to bore with details, but by the way things go, she stepped up to the barista and ordered her spiced vanilla espresso concoction and yoghurt. She gave her name, Gabby, and the barista scribbled it on the side of a white cup. Gabby. Cool name, I thought. Short for, what? Gabrielle? Gabriela? Gabriel? She – Gabby – gave me a quick poke in the shoulder, pulling me out of my reverie, and I, in my turn, requested a venti Pike Place Roast and yes, I splurged on a bacon buttie. Damn the fat and calories. I used the Starbucks app on my iPhone to pay, which seemed, from her smile, to impress Gabby just a little bit. Brilliant move, Tom.
When the barista called her name, Gabby collected her drink with a quick “thank you.” She turned to me, and lifted her cup in salute, “Here’s to never losing your wallet again, Tom.” She hitched her bag up on her shoulder, and started toward the door. “Thanks for the breakfast. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around soon enough.”
My friends. My dear friends, we all have that little brain inside and within our bigger brains, and you know it’s there, right, but it’s hard to control. It’s that little brain that kicks in when you least expect it and you don’t even realize it’s kicking in. It tells you things, tells you to do things sometimes, and you get so addlepated that sometimes you have no choice but to obey, if it’s reasonable. Yeah? Well, that little brain of mine was screaming like a banshee right then and there, watching her leave. “Tom, you stupid tit! Don’t let her go! Be thou after her! Get thee hence! Anon! Anon!” I shook my head to clear it. Gah, too much Shakespeare overflowing from the big brain into to the little brain.
And what was strange, and kind of cool, is that it looked like her little brain — Gabby’s little brain within her bigger brain — was kicking in as well. How did I know this? Well, because, without me saying even a single word, she stopped at the door. She turned to me, and motioned to an empty table near the window with a tilt of her head. “You busy?” she asked, “I’m not going anywhere for a while.”
I shrugged, trying desperately to look casual. “Me neither.”
Bluebirds — Tweet Two
A/N: I finished Tweet Two in conjunction with Tweet One. Here it is. Enjoy!
Tweets all/no replies
Zachary Levi @ZacharyLevi: How’s the day off going, @twhiddleston? Who do you think you are, Ferris Bueller?
Tom Hiddleston @twhiddleston: @ZacharyLevi. No, man. Abe Frohman. The Sausage King of Chicago. Devastatingly handsome.
Gabby had gone to the loo, and I took those few minutes to whip out my iPhone and respond to another one of Zac’s tweets. I couldn’t ignore Zac. He’d hound me in private messages until I put something witty up there. It was a thing we did, the back and forth. Entertainment, you know, on every level. Plus, it was bloody good fun.
I suppose I need to tell you a little about Gabby. I still hadn’t mustered the nerve to ask her surname, but I would. She had me at a disadvantage, that way; already knowing mine. I also hadn’t sussed out whether she knew who I was, or frankly, whether she cared. The arsehole part of me wondered what rock she’d been living under if she didn’t know who I was. But then, the reasonable, humble part of me remembered that I wasn’t exactly a household name… yet.
Anyroad, as I said before, she was nearly of a height to me, which was very tall for a woman. She wasn’t movie star gorgeous by any means, yet her face was very attractive, pretty, pleasant. The rest of her? Slim build, long, dirty blonde hair curled slightly at the ends. Very professional-like despite the fact that she wore flare jeans and a faded Rush 2112 t-shirt, some sort of tattoo peeking out beneath the left sleeve. Cool. As she walked toward the back of the shop I couldn’t help but notice she had a rather nice, rounded bottom and strong thighs. Her arms were toned but not overly so, and her chest was, well, nice. Not huge, but not flat either.
But I digress. As she walked back toward the table, I noticed a slight hitch in her gait. Nothing out of the ordinary or likely noticeable by anyone else, but I was interested, and as an actor, I was a student of people’s behavior. She sat back down at the table, smiled at me, and tore the lid off of her yoghurt cup. As she lifted the spoon, she asked me, “So, what do you do for a living, Thomas William Hiddleston?”
I took a sip of my coffee. “First things first, what’s your surname?” She shot me a look. “Equal footing, and all that.”
She grinned, and turned the yoghurt spoon upside down, dragging the red and white blob across her tongue; something I found strangely exciting. She swallowed, tilted her chin up and declared, “MacKenzie.”
“I knew it!” I blurted. “You’re not from around here, are you?”
“What makes you say that?” She tilted her head. Damn, that was adorable.
“Your accent.” She looked at me and waved the spoon as if to tell me to continue. “It’s London, but it’s not London. There’s something else in there. Your name’s MacKenzie… so, Scotland, right?” She smiled at me, and I sat back in my chair. I took a sip of my coffee, a smug grin on my face.
She leaned forward. “Not even close.”
“Ah, one mark against me, then.” I waved my bacon buttie in the air like she did her spoon. “Do tell.”
“I grew up in London. Near Kentish Town. But I studied materials and metallurgical engineering on exchange at the University of Illinois at Champaign, then I got my green card and spent three more years working for the City of Chicago.”
I squinted at her slightly and curved my lips upward, studying her. “Let me guess again.” She took another bite of yoghurt and again swirled her spoon in the air. “Firefighter.”
Gabby stopped her spoon mid-dunk and raised her eyes to me, stunned. “How… how did you know that?”
I pointed to a spot on my left arm, and gestured toward hers with my eyes. “Tattoo.” She tensed up suddenly and pulled her sleeve down. “It looks like the bottom half of one of those American fire department shields, and says “C.F.D.” on it,” I observed.
“It does,” she replied, quieter now. I felt as if I was hurtling down a dead-end road, but I continued.
“Do you still?” I asked, “work on a fire brigade?”
“No,” came the reply. “Not for a while. I do fire engineering and fire scene investigations now.” Ooh. Engineering. Smart, this one. I liked that. I pressed on, still hurtling, but I covered the proverbial brake with my proverbial foot, just in case.
“Why?”
“Why what?” There was that head tilt again.
“Why’d you stop being a firefighter? I mean, it’s such a cool job! You get to ride on the trucks, and carry the hoses,” I was getting excited now, making little motions with my arms and hands as I prattled on, “and go in there full charge and rescue a bunch of frightened kids in one go and…”
She cut me off with a cough and a very deliberate, very loud scrape of the bit of yoghurt at the bottom of her cup. She stared at me, licking the dregs off the spoon, and nearly threw the spoon back in. She shoved the empty cup aside and picked up her coffee, cradling it in both hands. “I stopped because I was injured doing just that.” She took a sip of the coffee and lowered her eyes to the table top.
Scrrreeeeeeeeeeeech! CRASH. Yep, a full head-on impact. Put a stop to that conversation. Shit. I wondered if I’d blown it with her already. Wouldn’t be the first time.
After a long and very awkward moment, she looked up at me, let out a single chuckle, and smiled. “It’s fine, though. I’m fine now.” It took another beat for the smile to reach her eyes. “Your turn, Thomas William Hiddleston. What’s your line of work?”
So, she didn’t know. Wow. That was something new. Something rather fresh, honestly. I was suddenly nervous, like a bloody teenager. I was enjoying myself too much, being this Just Tom that I was in this moment; sitting there in a nondescript Starbucks with one Gabby MacKenzie, engineer and fire investigator; like some everyday bloke, just trying desperately to keep myself from fucking this up and to keep my stupid mouth from driving her away. What if I told her who I was, and she wanted nothing to do with me? What if she thought I was some prat or some braying toff or some spoilt celebrity? What if…
There was a tug at my elbow. “Excuse me, sir?” I looked over to see a boy of about ten. His mother stood behind him, a hand on the lad’s shoulder. “Excuse me, sir,” he repeated.
“Yep,” I smiled, “what can I do for you, young man?” I turned in my seat to face him. I chanced a peek over to Gabby, knowing full well what this situation was, and what I would do about it. She just sat there, staring at me, her elbow on the table and her right hand cradling her chin. Her expression was half confusion, half grin. I redirected my attention back to the boy.
“Are you Loki?” The boy asked me. He held a pen and a Starbucks napkin out to me.
“His name is Mr. Hiddleston, Sethy,” his mother corrected.
I winked at the boy, taking the pen and napkin from him. “Call me Tom, Seth. Mr. Hiddleston’s what my dad’s called, but yes, I did play Loki.” I ruffled the boy’s hair and smiled up at the mom, who introduced herself as Mary.
I swiveled my eyes in Gabby’s direction again, and her expression had changed to a much more positive one of what… awe? Pride? Yes! Cool. My confidence renewed, I turned around, glanced quickly up at Gabby again, and began writing on the napkin.
“To Seth. Keep all your dreams alive; for they belong to you.” I signed it, “xx Tom Hiddleston.”
I waved goodbye to Seth and Mary and turned again to find Gabby beaming at me, one eyebrow cocked. “My turn to guess,” she grinned and pointed at me. “You’re an actor.”
I shrugged, opening my hands to the ceiling. “Got me on that one.”
She downed the last sip of her coffee, scanned the rest of the shop, and pitched her cup into the waste bin behind me. “I have the distinct feeling you’d rather avoid any more of that actor stuff today.” She gestured toward the door with her head. “Let’s get out of here before that happens again, shall we?”
Bluebirds — Tweet Three
Twitter - Profile
Gabby MacKenzie, CEng, IAAI-CFI
@gabbymackcfi
Vulcan Global Fire Engineering, Ltd.
VP – London, UK Operations
735 Tweets 200 Following 250 Followers
Follow
****
735 Tweets 201 Following 251 Followers
****
Direct Messages
Tom Hiddleston @twhiddleston
All Messages Mark All As Read
To Gabby MacKenzie @gabbymaccfi: Are you getting this?
4m From Gabby MacKenzie @gabbymaccfi: 10-26.
To Gabby MacKenzie @gabbymaccfi: Eh?
Just now From Gabby MacKenzie @gabbymaccfi: It means: Message received. Probie. :-)
“Holy shit, Tom.” I walked with my nose in my phone, laughing at Gabby’s Twitter message, trying to suss out what the hell a ‘probie’ was. I was about to ask her, when I realized she was no longer at my side. I looked around, spotted her, and walked the few steps back to her. She was standing still, staring down at her phone. She looked back up at me; eyes incredibly wide (and incredibly hazel and incredibly haunting with a dark limbal ring around the green that I would kill to have in my own eyes, but I digress yet again). She showed me her phone (a ruddy Android, but I could forgive her that much). The large screen was filled with photos of me, apparently from a Google search. “You’re all over the place.”
I laughed. “You Googled me?” I closed my eyes and bowed my head, shaking it. I opened one eye and peeked back up at her. “Seriously?”
“Yeah, of course!” she said, chuckling. “I mean, don’t you always Google people you’ve just met? Especially, you know… if they’re like, supposed to be famous actors that little kids come up to and ask for autographs and who play Norse gods in the movies and stuff. Of course I had to see for myself!” She looked back down at her phone. I stepped close around behind her and peered over her shoulder at the Samsung phone. (I will digress one more time – maybe — to say, that as the mild breeze wafted through her hair, I was treated to a most delicious scent such that I was compelled to inhale deeply, biting my lower lip.) She tapped the screen with an index finger, and a photo of a shouting, dirty, raggedy, very scruffy, and quite insane-looking Loki from Thor: The Dark World appeared on the screen. “This you on a bad day?” She shuddered, her shoulder tapping slightly against my chest. “Jesus, I wouldn’t want to meet you on a dark lane looking like that. You’re barking.”
“Well you know,” I laughed, “if your reaction to just a photograph is that visceral, then, professionally, it was a very good day.”
“Heh, I suppose so.” She turned her head over her shoulder and caught me staring at her. I flashed her a toothy grin. She blushed, looked away, looked back again, and away quickly; her shy grin hidden behind a curtain of dark blonde hair. She punched another photo on her screen and showed it to me, tilting her head. “Now, this one’s a knockout,” it was a leather-jerkined, crowned Henry V. She pointed at the photo, “That one there, he’s another story.” Again, with the look, look away, look back, shy grin thing. I swallowed audibly.
With that, I felt my ‘little brain’ start to kick in again. “She finds thee fitting, my lord,” it said.
My eyes raised heavenward, I mentally responded, “Patience be a tired mare, yet she will plod.”
***
We continued walking, companionably, when we came up to my building. She was a few steps ahead of me, and she stopped as well. “This is me,” she shrugged, “thanks for walking me home.”
Confused, I looked up at the building, then back at her. I pointed to the front door with my thumb. “But, I live here.”
She tipped her head, brow furrowed. “No, you don’t. There’re only two flats, and a woman lives upstairs. Emma’s her name.”
I bounded up the steps and pointed to my name on the intercom. Hiddleston. “See? Mine.”
The color suddenly drained from her face. “Then… oh. I get it.” She nodded her head up and down slowly, looking terribly crestfallen. She trudged up the steps and placed her hand on the doorknob. “Emma’s your… girlfriend, then?”
I shook my head, trying very hard not to grin. “Nope.”
“Your flatmate?”
“Nope.”
She sighed. “Ah, ok. Wife, then.” She turned the handle and opened the door, shielding herself from my view. “Understood. Well, I s’pose I’ll see you ar….”
I grasped the edge of the door with two hands, pulled it open further, and poked my head around it, grinning like a fool. “Sis-ter,” I said, deliberately. Thank God she laughed. “She’s my younger sister.” I opened the door the rest of the way and ushered Gabby inside, closing the heavy oak quietly behind us. We were alone in the foyer. “See, I’ve been gone away for a long stretch, working and things. I’d asked Emma to come over now and then to check in for me, tidy up, get my post, water whatever of my plants that are still living and that I haven’t managed to murder, that sort of thing.” She laughed again, and something… I don’t know what, but something came over me. Maybe it was the little brain again, but I went with it, winking at her. “I think, though, that I’ll have to have a very serious brother to sister talk with Emma. I’m a little upset with her, you see. She never told me…um, she uh,” I coughed, starting to lose my nerve.
And the little brain said, “say it you blithering idiot, say it, say it, say it, fool, say it, or I will.”
So, I did. “Emma never told me the woman in the downstairs flat was so beautiful.” I coughed again, looking down at my shoes. I glanced up and she was beaming at me, chewing a little bit on her bottom lip. She took breath to speak, but I beat her to it. “So, um… yeah. I’ve lived here three years. Why haven’t I seen you before?”
She blushed. “I’ve only been here six months. I just moved back to London from America to open the Vulcan office. The company found me this flat.” She leaned against the wall, her legs set slightly wide. In a swift movement, she bent over and pulled up at her left knee, bringing her foot closer to the wall. She cringed a little.
“Leg cramp?”
“Nah,” she waved me off, “I’m okay.”
“Yoga’ll do wonders for that sort of thing, you know.” I pointed at her leg, and then to mine. “I haven’t had a charley horse in years.”
“Yoga,” she repeated thoughtfully. She looked up at me, suddenly panicked. She reached into her pocket and pulled her phone out. “Bloody hell!” She pushed herself off of the wall, grabbed her bag, and started back out the door. “Listen, Tom. I’ve got to go. Will you be home in about an hour? Will you be here? I’ll be late if I don’t go now.”
“Go? Now? Where?”
“Class,” she said, hurried, but she stopped to quickly explain. She placed a hand on my chest and looked at me intently, apologetically, almost. “I teach tae kwon do sparring to my friend’s adult students. Her place is a few blocks from here, but I’m seriously going to be late and let down about twenty people if I don’t move my arse now.”
“Tae kwon…teach…,” I started, “are you like, a… a black belt or something?”
“Third degree, yeah. See you later.” she replied, and closed the door behind her.
I stood there, utterly gobsmacked, staring at the chewed-up back of the ancient oak door. “Okay, Tom,” the little brain said. “You thought you were cool, didn’t you? But this one, she just out cooled you by a million to one.” I shook my head, my heart racing. “Engineer – smart. Firefighter – braver than shit. Black belt – could probably kick your ass into Camden Town if you brassed her off,” the little brain rebuked. “You’re out of your league, mate.”
I grabbed my rucksack, raced upstairs, and nearly flew into my flat. I pulled my phone out of my pocket, and dashed off a number of text messages, including one to Gabby to knock on my door when she returned from her class. Throwing the phone aside in my study, I shimmied out of my cardi, tossed it over the back of by armchair, and I plopped down in front of my computer. The Mac fired up right away (bless it). I opened Firefox and clicked on the Google toolbar in the top right corner. Yes, my friends. I was about to Google Gabby MacKenzie. She was interested enough to Google me; and I was certainly interested enough to Google her. As they say, two can play at this game.
The search results came up. Vulcan Global Fire Engineering, Ltd. I remembered that from her Twitter profile. I clicked on it, and perused the “about us” section. I had no idea what half of the stuff meant, so I moved on, clicking the “our professionals,” link the one for “Gabrielle Leigh MacKenzie, M.S. Eng., CEng, IAAI-CFI.” Gabrielle Leigh, eh? Lots of initials after the name. Nice. Very nice. The rest of the page loaded and her photo came up. My eyebrows rose, I leaned forward in my chair, and I could almost feel the iris muscles widen the pupils in my eyes. Gabby seriously cleaned up well. She was even more attractive in light makeup and her hair gathered neatly behind her head. It was the business suit that did me in, though. Wow. Again, not like… incredibly movie-star, Angelina Jolie type wow; but that is never what I look for in a woman. Gabby’s attractiveness wasn’t in her features. It was in her confidence; and she exuded a boatload of confidence in this photo.
I clicked out of that and moved back to Google. Not much else but her Twitter account, a relatively empty Facebook account (which I added as a friend), and a few older American news articles, from about three years ago. I clicked on one (just a date and page number in Google), and it took me to a Chicago Sun-Times article: “Two Firefighters Dead; One Critical After Explosion in CHA High-Rise Fire.”
I read the article and almost immediately, I saw her name amongst the text, “Firefighter Gabrielle L. Mackenzie.” The more I read, though, the more I felt a hateful prickle behind the eyes. The photographs of the fire scene were ghastly, chaotic, unreal, almost. As I read even further, there came a fullness in my chest, an unpleasant pressure. I swallowed against it. I just kept thinking of Gabby, at Starbucks, nearly shutting me out and shutting down when I’d asked her why she stopped being a firefighter. “You stupid git,” I said aloud. “She probably watched her friends die.” I swallowed, again, hard. “Jesus Christ,” I muttered. I had no idea the extent of her injuries; the article didn’t say, but it must have been terrible for the reporter to use phrases such as, “clinging to life,” and “critical condition,” and “emergency surgery.”
I finished the article and closed the Mac, slowly, wishing I had never read what I’d read or seen what I’d seen, but it couldn’t be undone. I don’t imagine that was the way she wanted me, or anyone else for that matter, to find out about her injuries. I imagine that, if things went well, she would have told me herself, in time, in private, in her own way. It was obviously a sore spot, something she did not appreciate revisiting or reliving, for that matter. But no. Like a tit, I Googled her, and I read this fucking article, and now I know. I’d have to tell her I know. Lying’s not an option. I wondered if it would really matter. But then, things started to make sense a little bit. The hitch in her walk, the pain in her leg – that must be all that’s left over from the accident, right? Well, if that was all, and if she was okay, as she said she was at Starbucks, then, maybe my finding out is not such a bad thing after all. Couldn’t have been all that bad if she still teaches martial arts, right?
“I mean,” I repeated to myself, “don’t you always Google people you’ve just met?”