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“I feel like everyone’s looking at us,” Jessie hisses from beside him, budged up together in the centre of their too-large booth. “We look like the bride and groom at a wedding dinner.”
“No we don’t. No one’s looking at us. It’s alright.”
This is a lie. Tom’s pretty sure people actually are looking at them. This might have been a mistake.
They’d been watching Great British Menu, and Tom Kerridge had commented that a contestant’s dessert dish reminded him of something they served at his London restaurant.
“Banana souffle?” Jessie had said. “Sounds like something you’d buy at Lush. ‘You’ll go bananas for this ultra-whipped body souffle that will leave your skin smoother than a… smoothie.’”
He’d chuckled at her marketing voice and murmured in agreement, but after a pause, she’d added “Now I wanna eat that."
“I’ve actually been to his restaurant,” Tom said. “It’s pretty good.”
“Is it posh?” she asked. “Is it hard to get into?”
“It’s not too bad,” he’d said carefully. “It’s like, fancy pub food. You definitely have to book, though. Why?”
“What if,” she’d begun. “We went there right now. Do you think they’d just like… let you in?”
Tom had checked his phone for the time. “I don’t know, Jessie. By the time we got there, it would be the middle of the post-theatre rush. Maybe? Maybe not? I wouldn’t want to try and have you be disappointed.”
He could hear her phone’s ringer internally before he even realised she’d placed the call.
“Hello? I’m with CAA. You know, the agency? Yes. Cath Driver’s office. I need a table for one of our clients.” She’d shushed him with a waving hand as he’d mouthed what are you doing? and continued to make eye contact as she spoke, raising her eyebrows and pointing at the phone at intervals. “I represent Tom Kapoor, the extremely handsome and famous movie star. He’ll be coming out of a play with a date.” Liar, he’d mouthed. “Tom Kapoor would like to bring his date to your fine establishment for banana souffle.” At that, he’d shrugged and nodded. True enough. “Yes, tonight. In say, an hour? Cool. Thanks. Bye.”
She’d turned to him triumphantly. “That was so easy!” she said. “Could you go a second dinner, or what?” They’d only had pho, earlier, and he’d found that yeah, he could eat.
“Okay,” he said. “But we’re going to need to get changed.” That had sent her off in a flurry as she rushed to put together an outfit.
Except it turned out that this was one of those times where Jessie was way more entertained by the perks of celebrity in theory than in practice. Now that they’re here, she’s going out of her mind.
“It’s not alright, Tom! That girl over there definitely took a photo of me, but she’s going to have got my bad side.”
“You don’t have a bad side,” he says automatically, meaning every word, but she just rolls her eyes.
“I do when my hair’s pinned up like this. You’re just saying that because love has made you stupid.”
“Charming,” he says, but he reaches out to catch one of her hands — the one that’s drumming nervously on the table top — in his. “Jessie, I promise it’s alright. But if you don’t want to stay we can just leave, pick up some banana ice cream on our way home instead.”
Part of the problem, he thinks, is that the hostess had taken one look at his stupid face and, instead of putting them at a nice normal table for two, had led them over to the booth in the centre of the room, right underneath the gold suit. It’s apparently an artwork by Tom Kerridge’s wife, and it definitely draws the eye, as a life-size sculpture standing up on its own as if the wearer was invisible. It’s shinier than the dress Jessie had been wearing the night they met. It’s got its own lighting. You can’t help but look at it. It’s the focal point of the restaurant, and tonight, so are they.
He’s not sure if this is some sort of PR ploy, putting them on display for everyone to see, or if the woman thought she was doing them a genuine favour by upgrading their table, but he suspects it’s the former. Famous enough to get into a high end restaurant at rush hour with no notice, not famous enough to be allowed some privacy, for there not to be an “I’ll scratch your back” clause in the unspoken social contract. Tom knows people think Jessie is lucky for getting to date him, but he knows he’s the lucky one that she puts up with it all.
It’s why he knows he’s going to forgive her for what happens next, even if in the moment he wants to curl up and die.
Because that — that is Chelsea legend Roy Kent walking past their table in his trademark all black, his trademark frown in place. And before Tom can point him out to Jessie, she’s flailing her hand frantically in his direction, trying to flag him down. Like he’s a….
Oh no.
Roy Kent stops and looks at them. He doesn’t say anything. Just stares. Or maybe glares.
“Oh thank God. Can I get a gin and tonic please?” Yes, this is happening. “No wait, two gin and tonics. And a glass of red wine.”
That’s the moment that Roy glances at Tom, and he does the tiny doubletake Tom’s used to spotting, the one that means he’s been recognised, but the person’s probably going to be respectful about it. That’s nice of him, but really, there might not be any coming back from this.
But miraculously, instead of any of the visions that flash through Tom’s mind — Roy headbutting Jessie, Roy headbutting Tom because he surely wouldn’t do that to a woman, Roy flipping the table and sending the water glasses and silverware flying — Roy nods.
“Coming right up,” he says. “Anything else?” he asks. Jessie just shakes her head, completely oblivious to what she’s just done, while Tom contemplates crawling under the table to hide.
~
After a twenty year career — between his peak at Chelsea and England, his frequent mentions in the gossip rags back when he couldn’t stop sleeping with the wrong people, his stint as a Sky commentator, and the way that the Mannion divorce, not to mention all things Ted Lasso, had seen news about Richmond constantly escape containment of the sports pages and make major headlines in recent years — it’s actually quite rare for people to not recognise Roy. Especially in London.
It’s why he’s so amused when the — Aussie? Kiwi? Somewhere down there, anyway — woman waves him down and demands he brings her a drink. The fact that she’s apparently there with Tom Kapoor, the star of some of Jamie’s favourite trashy action films, that Roy and Keeley both get a kick out of watching Jamie watch — he’s so reactionary — who clearly has recognised Roy, just makes it even better.
It’s probably Jamie’s fault she mistook him for a waiter anyway. The theatre had been freezing, air conditioning whacked up to the max, and Jamie, chivalrously, had given his own jumper to Keeley, who’d only brought a little wrap. But he’d been shivering within minutes, staring at Roy all wide-eyed and mournful, and Roy had given in to the silent plea and handed over his own jacket for Jamie to wear. They hadn’t swapped back yet, and it was only after Kapoor’s date had beckoned him over his way back from the loo that Roy had realised his remaining clothes — black button down, black waistcoat, black slacks — matched the wait staff’s uniforms perfectly.
He heads on over to buy the woman her drinks. All three of them. Not that he blames her. As he’d made his way towards the bar he’d noticed the number of people looking over at their table. He’s gone out with people who weren’t famous, of course. Almost as a rule, the nicest ones, the ones you’d want to actually stick around, are the ones who find it too hard to cope with the attention they'd get for going out with a footballer.
He’s gotten used to all of that himself, and when it was just him and Keeley, he was pretty good at not caring, or tuning it out. But now that they’ve got Jamie, he’s started getting a bit more conscious of it again. More careful.
Point is, he can understand why a decent person might struggle with the public scrutiny that comes along with dating a celebrity. He’s happy to buy someone in that position a drink or three.
~
Jessie is no longer oblivious to what she’s done, but she also doesn’t seem at all bothered by it.
“So what? He’s a soccer player. I’ve never heard of him so he can’t be that big a deal.”
“Football,” he says in exasperation. “You know it’s football. He’s an extremely important football player, you better not say soccer when he comes back.”
“Um, no!” she says, and this is good, she’s digging in for an argument which will hopefully distract her from noticing the couple two tables down from them that aren’t even trying to hide the fact that they’re filming. “Thank you very much, but he’s a soccer player and I’ll call him that. You don’t own the language Tom. You can’t tell me what to say.”
“We invented the sport!” he says, gritting his teeth. “I think that means we get to decide what its name is.”
“Why do you even care?” she says. “I thought you liked cricket?”
And well, that’s an opening he can’t let slide. “Why?” he asks. “Because I’m…” He raises an eyebrow and she scoffs.
“Don’t even go there. Yes, Tom, I am totally a racist. You got me. No, it’s because I’ve spent too many bloody afternoons sitting around watching you watch the cricket and it’s boring as hell. You’re as bad as my dad.” Despite her fake outrage, she’s smiling again now, finally properly relaxed, and Tom grins back, thinking he might be able to unclench himself, except. Oh shit. Roy is back, carefully holding all three of her drinks in his hands.
“Here you go,” he says, placing them down on the table in front of Jessie, somehow managing to not spill a drop.
“Um, thank you,” she says, looking the most sheepish he’s ever seen her. “You really didn’t have to actually buy me drinks, now that I know you are not, in fact, a waiter. Sorry about that.”
“Yeah, thanks,” Tom echoes. “Don’t worry, I’ve explained who you are now. It’s nice to meet you,” he adds belatedly. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine. Have a good night,” Roy says. Tom’s pretty good at reading microexpressions, and he thinks Roy might actually be laughing behind his eyes at the whole thing. He nods at them and turns to leave, and his good humour is what causes Tom to ask.
“I don’t suppose you’d like to join us? I mean, you might have already been served, but if not… Let me return the favour?” He glances at Jessie as he asks, raising an eyebrow in silent question and she shrugs as if to say what the hell, reaching for one of her G&T’s and knocking back most of the glass.
“We only just got here. Think my girlfriend ordered a round already." Roy glances over his shoulder quickly then turns back to Tom. “But why not. Hang on, I’ll be back in a second.
~
Roy’s not normally one to accept invitations to hang out from a complete stranger, but the whole exchange has just been too funny and he’s pretty sure Jamie and Keeley would get a kick out of it. Especially Jamie. He’s famous, yes, especially after his stint on the TV show, but he’s not at Roy’s level yet and he’s not met as many proper non-sporting celebrities. Roy thinks Jamie might be a little star struck meeting Tom Kapoor! Movie Star! and that’s something Roy really wants to see.
So he weaves his way between the tables back to where Jamie and Keeley are sitting in the far corner, engaged in an enthusiastic conversation about the play.
“Babe!” she cries out when he gets back. “You were gone ages, I was thinking about sending Jamie into the loos on a search and rescue mission except knowing you two you’d just get distracted.”
Jamie sniggers from his spot next to her and Roy just rolls his eyes. “Ha ha,” he deadpans. “Come on, just grab your things and follow me, I’m relocating us to a more interesting table.”
That gets their attention, but they don't ask questions and just do what he says, getting up and following him back to where Tom and his date are sitting.
~
Roy is back a few minutes later, and he’s not alone. There’s a woman with him that Tom recognises as Keeley Jones and yes, that’s Jamie Tartt as well. He thinks. Tom isn’t actually much of an active football fan these days, but he wasn’t about to tell Jessie that he and Vinay used to take turns pretending to be Roy Kent in the back garden well into their early teens. Maybe later, but not where she could repeat it to Roy — accidentally or on purpose.
“This is Keeley,” Roy says. ”My girlfriend. And this is our…” Roy pauses and smiles at Jamie, “our friend Jamie. He’s a big fan of your work.”
“Tom,” Tom says pointlessly, for a lack of anything better to say. “This is my girlfriend Jessie.”
“Can I squeeze in beside you, babe?” Keeley says to Jessie. “I love how you’ve done your hair.”
Roy and Jamie take the chairs on the outside edge of the table, Roy holding himself rigidly upright, Jamie languid and almost sliding out of the seat. He’s staring at Tom with unabashed curiosity.
“Keeley Jones!” Jessie exclaims, looking delighted. “I know you! I follow your Instagram. I read that interview you did with Vanity Fair, it was really inspiring.” She elbows Tom in the ribs. “See, this is the kind of famous person I actually want to meet, and it’s not you doing the introduction, it’s some random soccer player making it happen.”
How does she follow Keeley on Instagram and not know she’s going out with Roy Kent? Tom is back to wanting to die, but Roy doesn’t seem put out about being called a soccer player, and Keeley Jones is grinning, clearly very entertained by the whole thing. Jamie doesn't comment on the soccer thing either, just shifts in his seat in order to lean across the table. His eyes are still focused on Tom, and he starts to speak at a rapid-fire pace.
“Hey so! I loved you in Full Tank Of Money. The sequel’s coming out in a couple of months yeah? Can you tell me anything about it? What’s Viola Sanchez like? What’s the best fight scene? Do you do your own stunts? Have you ever…”
“Jamie,” Roy cuts in sternly, but he looks kind. Fond, even. “Do you maybe want to take a breath and give Tom here a chance to answer? Oi! You can bring those over here!” The last statement is to an actual member of the wait staff who’s stood holding a tray of drinks near the table Roy’s party have just left, face confused. “We’re going to join our friends here for dinner.”
The waiter brings the tray over. It contains a beer, a glass of scotch, and a lurid green cocktail in a margarita glass, and matching the drink to the owner seems obvious. But he’s wrong on all three counts, and that unexpected fact adds another layer of interest to Roy's group. Jamie takes the cocktail, sipping it immediately, Keeley the scotch, and Roy the beer.
More people are looking at them now. A lot more. But suddenly, it’s okay. It’s not just them, after all, and something about Roy’s presence, and the self-assured nature of his friends, makes it feel different. Like they’re being admired, not judged. Everyone in the restaurant would kill to sit at this table, now, but it’s easy to block out the gawking and concentrate on engaging with some really fucking cool people. Tom feels more confident, all of a sudden, more able to straighten his shoulders and take up space, and so, it seems, does Jessie.
She and Keeley are deep in conversation and Jamie is still looking at him expectantly and Tom isn’t entirely sure how they’ve ended up here. It’s definitely not the quiet night in front of the telly he had planned, but oh well, he thinks this might end up being a good time anyway.