Tom

It was bound to happen. As a fresher at university, I had to develop a crush on somebody. Like during any other major transition in my life. Someone to obsess about, and imagine being with me in my fantasy world, making me happy, feeling wanted, not alone, awkward, and a little afraid.

I met Tom pretty much straight away, in our communal kitchen. We lived in the same corridor, in fact, our rooms were opposite each other. We spent evenings in that kitchen, drinking and getting to know our new neighbours. We laughed at the funny guy, gossiped about the resident druggy and bitched about the local hussy. And I privately worshipped Tom.

Why? It’s quite obvious, but a little strange at the same time. It was his slight awkwardness, the slightly hunched shoulders, the uncertain smile, the sea blue eyes that couldn’t rest easily on anyone else’s. His handsomeness was quite obvious. Slim, tall, toned, floppy sandy hair, and those eyes. I wasn’t the only one who found him attractive. Quite early into the term I was warned off by a fellow resident, who had already lured him into bed. In MacDonald’s, I enquired after his whereabouts, to which I was greeted with, “The boy is mine!” Fair enough, I wasn’t going to argue. The reality was he wasn’t going to touch me with bargepole. But that didn’t stop my mind wandering into a world where I was slim, confident and seductive, and bagged my man. But I wasn’t slim, confident and seductive, which made my fantasy quite safe from approaching a reality, which his just what I wanted. To be cocooned inside my unwelcoming body with my imagination.

This may sound unfair on Tom. Surely the fact that I wasn’t a conventional beauty wouldn’t necessarily put him off? Oh, but it would. Within the first week he made this very clear to me. “When a woman loses her figure, she goes on the bottom shelf.” Well, that was that, then. What, with all the lithe eighteen year-olds up for grabs, I certainly wouldn’t be first choice. Which suited me fine. Anything else would have interfered with my imagination.

But it became obvious that I wasn’t content with my fantasy world, despite the sanctuary it offered me. And Tom’s cruelty hurt. On Guy Fawkes Night, he taunted me like a playground bully, circling me in the field next to the campus lakes, like the easy prey that I was. I don’t remember why he did this, but I remember, later that night, I scribbled some angry words on a piece of paper and burned them in my friend’s bathroom sink. Later he came to apologise, and told me I could slap him if I wanted. I did, but not very hard. I didn’t want to damage his beautiful face.

I think I can say we were friends. We spent a lot of our time together, Tom taking the piss out of my name and my protestations of finding mouldy beans in my favourite mug in the communal fridge. But we had a laugh together, eating take-away pizza at ridiculous times at night, watching his TV, hanging out in my room, waxing his chest (unfortunately I wasn’t the only person invited). One evening Tom and his friend decided it would be funny to sleep in my room to see everyone’s reaction when they emerged the next day. Obviously I quite liked the idea, and was bitterly disappointed when he changed his mind.

He did seem concerned if he knew he’d upset me. One day in the kitchen he told me he couldn’t make out if I was two-faced or not, as I’d been talking to his ex-conquest (yes, the very same girl who bragged about her ownership of him over a Big Mac). I stormed out to my room, and he followed, very apologetic and concerned. At the same time, he was wary of me and my crush (obviously not that internalised, after all), and talked to a mutual “friend” about these concerns. Maybe he figured out who had put his jumper in his letterbox after secretly treasuring it. Yes, it was probably quite obvious. But he agreed to let me take some photos of him for various art projects, so can’t have been too scared.

By my second year, I hardly spoke to Tom again. This was down to several reasons. The first being the events of an evening towards the end our first year. Tom drank the contents of a bottle of Jack Daniels, and, as I’d previously witnessed when he’d been drinking, turned into a complete arsehole. Warning bells began to ring when he started slagging off everyone in the room, one by one. When he got to me, his friends shut him up before he could say his piece. I’ll never know what he was going to say, and don’t think I want to, even now. After throwing the bottle out of the window (a miracle he didn’t break the glass), he proceeded to trash the kitchen. At this point we had to call security. We tried to convince them he was usually a nice guy, but by the time they had been in a room with him for ten minutes, they had made their own, very different conclusions. I was really upset by the whole episode, and didn’t speak to him for days afterwards. By this point, everyone knew about my feelings for Tom, and no one knew what to say to me.

That summer, after exchanging addresses, I decided to forgive him and wrote him a letter. He never replied. I was pretty pissed off. In the second year, I lived off campus, and was surprised one day when my flatmate brought him back to the flat. As usual, he was very apologetic about not reply to my letter, stating several reasons why he hadn’t (“it was such an entertaining letter, I started writing back to you but couldn’t match it” etcetera etcetera). I just sat there, listening to his excuses, unsure whether to believe them or not, quietly deciding that it was about time I got over him. So I hardly spoke to him. And hardly saw him again.

I think we spoke to each other once after that. I was walking through the campus when we ran into each other, later that year. I tried to be cheerful, and he was amicable too, commenting on my flushed countenance (more to do with my emotions than my brisk walk). Then we went our separate ways.

I saw him a couple of times during the rest of my student days, but never spoke to him. He saw me too, I’m sure, and chose not to speak to me. I heard at some point he got himself a gym-bunny, which didn’t surprise me, although I can’t say it didn’t play on my mind.

After gaining my degree, I moved to London to work for Mencap. Something I read made me think of Tom, some magazine article about getting in touch with old friends. I still had Tom’s address, so I decided to write to him. I think I decided it was my last chance to see if we had any kind of friendship left, or anything more. He didn’t reply, which I expected, but I was a little disappointed. When I went to events organised by the university, I always secretly hoped that he would be there, if for no other reason than to show him how I had changed, become more confident, and found a man who loved me for who I am, not my dress size. He never came to them, but that was no surprise either, knowing how much he hated the university. But I would still like to see him again, just out of curiosity. But I don’t think I ever will. And that’s fine with me.