Plus One

Part 7 - Sufficient Unto the Day

I arrived back in London late Sunday night wondering when I could expect to hear from Tom – or even if I would at all. He could have changed his mind by now or have decided his feelings didn't run as deeply as he'd first thought or that I wasn't worth all the trouble of...no, I had to stop thinking like that. I'd just drive myself crazy and Lord knows there was enough crazy in my life already. Exhausted from the travel and two time changes in a short period, I set my alarm then passed out as soon as my head hit the pillow.

Monday dawned bright and clear, the sounds and smells of a summer's day awakening all around me as I went about my usual morning run. I would be stuck in my office for most of the day working through details needing my attention, so unless any changes were needed on the script or Josh required me for anything, I'd be unlikely to run into Tom. Still pondering over how to deal with our inevitable eventual meeting, I arrived at the studios and chatted with security while I showed my ID and was given the all clear to proceed. By six thirty I was ploughing through emails and messages; around seven a knock sounded on my door.

"Come in," I called, not looking up.

"Delivery for Samantha Levin."

"That's me." I signed the docket and was given two boxes – the first, long, thin and light, was about two inches deep and wrapped with lustrous satin ribbon. Curious, I untied it and removed the lid. Bedded in soft, crinkly tissue lay a rose bud on the cusp of opening; a deep red the shade of quality merlot, it was exquisite. Without conscious volition I held it to my nose, closing my eyes and sighing at the faint musky, aromatic scent it exuded. Searching for a card or note, I found none, but felt reasonably certain who the sender was. The other carton was found to contain a vase I recognised as Vera Wang for Wedgwood; etched with a delicate laurel branch pattern, the lead crystal stood around eight inches tall and caught the overhead light, reflecting sparkles over my walls as I turned it in my hands to admire it. Filling it from the nearest water supply, I sat it on my desk and carefully put the bud inside, admiring both. The delicate aroma teased my nostrils and I couldn't help glancing at it occasionally as I worked, wondering why he hadn't chosen a simple bud vase rather than the wide mouth beauty before me.

I needn't have concerned myself, it turned out – another bud was delivered at eight and then again at nine, this time accompanied by a second smaller, though heavier, box. Hands shaking a little with nerves and excitement, I opened it to find a digital voice recorder. Intrigued, I pressed play then sat heavily in my chair, heart thumping loudly in my chest, when Tom's voice began to recite Shakespeare's Sonnet 18.

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate.

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,

And summer's lease hath all too short a date.

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,

And often is his gold complexion dimmed;

And every fair from fair sometime declines,

By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimmed;

But thy eternal summer shall not fade,

Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st,

Nor shall death brag thou wand'rest in his shade,

When in eternal lines to Time thou grow'st.

     So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,