“Did he talk about Tudor?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Just that he’s really private, and they move a lot for family reasons. He didn’t say much else. I have a feeling he’s been given a gagging order on the subject.”
“Mmm, probably.”
Tink shuffled his body towards me. “So, what did you two talk about during the Tudor-Tash jigsaw sesh?”
I turned away, embarrassed. “Same really – family, TV, music, his acting, nothing of great substance. Oh, he did say one thing though. He thinks you hate him.”
Tink was genuinely shocked and upset. “I don’t hate him, I don’t hate anyone. Negativity gives you wrinkles. I just don’t trust him with you. It is my job to see you don’t get hurt again, and I think he is pain and heartache all tied up in a Tudor-shaped gift box.”
“Well, go easy on him, okay? I’m not going to discuss this again. I appreciate the concern but there is nothing to be concerned about. We are drawing a line under it, capisce?”
He smirked. “Capisce.”
We shook on it. Well, slapped hands twice, blew two kisses to the side and Eskimo-kissed with our noses – our own version of a hand shake.
“So what’s the plan for today?” I asked.
“Pookie’s going to pop around, and I thought we could have a movie day.”
“Sounds good, what we watching?”
“Well, we’re starting with Priscilla Queen of the Desert, then The Rocky Horror Picture Show and maybe Mamma Mia to finish?” he proposed, seeking approval.
I laughed. “Bloody hell, Tink, do you sneeze glitter?” I teased.
He pouted and nodded. “I sure do, and I piss pink martinis! So are you in?”
“I’m as in as you are out!”“Then let’s get this fairy show on the road,” he winked.
About midday, Tate let himself in, armed with an arsenal of camp DVDs and enough sugar-filled candy that he could have been Willy Wonka himself. I settled on the sofa and Tink and Tate sprawled out on the sheepskin rug in front of the fire.
We made light conversation, and they were talking animatedly about the view of the skyline from the rotating Calgary Tower. I let my gaze wander around the room and smiled when it landed on the vase full to the brim of sunflowers. They always made me happy.
Tate interrupted my day dream. “Do you like the sunflowers, Tash?”
I beamed. “They are my absolute favourite, I can’t believe you knew to get me them. Talk about being bang on.”
He coughed, hiding a grin.
“What?” I inquired, confused.
“Err, I actually picked tulips for you. Tudor was watching me from the car, and when he saw me picking the tulips, he got out – even though he hates to be noticed – marched into the store and said that the tulips didn’t suit you at all. He searched the shop and stopped dead in his tracks at the sunflowers. He picked as many as he could carry and took them to the counter. When I asked why he chose them, he said that they reminded him of you. Said that they were bright and bold and that they always make people smile – funny how spot on he was, eh? Plus, the woman who owned the shop had no clue who he was – so I’d say it was a successful trip all around!”
I could feel the heat rising to my face, glowing red. How weird that he knew that I adored them. What was he, a bloody flower psychic?
‘Mmm, Natasha these sunflowers are the botanical personification of you and your exuberant personality.’
“Erm yeah, he picked well I guess,” I said, flustered.
Tink suddenly interjected, “Why didn’t he give her them himself, then? If he went through all that risk to get them for her, why let you take all the glory?” He wasn’t being bitchy, just genuinely curious.
Tate squirmed. “He thought it may have looked a bit forward and he didn’t want her to get the wrong idea, you know, receiving flowers from a movie star, most people would think it meant more than a ‘I’m sorry I gave you a concussion’ and more of a ‘My dreams are coming true, a movie star loves me!’”
My heart sank right down to my big toe. If I had harboured any remaining delusion that Tudor liked me as more than a friend, maybe even just as a ‘Mmm it could maybe happen one day’ or even just a ‘I bet Tash would be a cracking shag’, then that comment alone killed it.
After a few moments of increasingly awkward silence as Tate became aware he might have just put his size nine winkle-picker in his mouth, I suggested we put on the first film.
Tink looked at me as his new fellow operated the DVD, and mouthed, “You alright?”