In the Interlude

Epilogue - Part 1

Hertfordshire
28th December

Tom stood close to the priest trying to steady himself. He squared his shoulders, planted his feet in a wide stance and crossed his hands in front of him. His eyes, just as everyone else's, were turned to the woman in a white dress, carrying a bouquet of tulips and walking slowly up the aisle to the sound of Dancing Queen in a cappella.

He closed his eyes for a second, letting the memories of the past months wash over him.

Cavill leaned close and whispered, "You have the rings, right?"

Tom smiled. "Yep. Still here," he said and patted his vest pocket. "Like the other five times you asked."

Cavill ran his hand in his hair. "Sorry, mate. I'm just nervous. And I'm not even the lucky groom of the day."

They both turned to watch Paul. He was beaming from ear to ear, tears sparkled in his eyes.

"Dearly beloved, you have come together into the house of the Church..."

Tom handed the rings at the right moment, clapped and cheered when Paul finally could kiss his bride and headed outside with the throng for the customary wedding pictures.

He was truly happy to be there, to witness and celebrate the union of his best friend with the love of his life. Nothing would have made him miss this. He was the best man after all. Well, one of them. But Tom's mind was somewhere else, on the other side of the English Channel and even further down, on the other side of the Mediterranean Sea.

Tom was thinking of Aïcha.

It had been three months.

Three months since he came knocking on her hotel room, offering his heart and hoping she would not crush it again.

Three months since she realised she couldn't fathom another day without him in her life.

Three months since they decided to commit to one another, to give their relationship a real chance.

But it hadn't been an easy three months.

They hadn't seen each other as much as they wanted. Tom was the lead in a theatre production with eight performances a week - with a matinee and evening show on Fridays and Saturdays, only Sundays were off. And Aïcha, well, she had her life in Paris.

But she came to London, every two or three weeks, to spend the weekend with Tom. She would go straight from the Eurostar to the theatre on Friday night, take her seat amidst the audience, and marvel at the piece of art that was Tom, before joining him backstage and riding with the exhausted and emotionally drained version of him back to his place.

The weekend would pass in a blur. They would either be in the theatre or cuddled on the sofa or in his bedroom. Tom was still Tom, the sweetest man on earth, as far as Aïcha was concerned. But his mind was focused on the play, not really unwinding before Sunday when he would go for a run in the wee hours of the morning. Aïcha was exhausted just from looking at him but there was no other place she would rather be.

They also managed to squeeze in a short break to Prague mid-December when they both finished their commitments. They flew from London straight after Tom's last performance on a Saturday evening. Aïcha had just delivered the review report to her client the day before. She had the rest of December off before starting a new project in January.

Tom and Aïcha had planned to visit the Christmas markets and museums in Prague and hit the local sights but ended up locked in the luxury hotel suite Tom had booked for them, sustaining on room service and only leaving once to visit the house where Kafka used to live, now turned into a bookshop.