Page 63 of Leaning In

“Claire?” he says, voice gravelly and low from sleep. “Are all the students alright? Is everything—” He stops and takes me in. The soaked pyjamas, the plastic-bagged camera, the general aura of misery.

“My tent’s leaking,” I explain.

He rubs a hand over his face. “Are you ok?”

“Except for the part where I’m slowly turning into a waterlogged field mouse? Sure.”

He huffs a laugh, then shifts back to unzip the flap wider.

“Come in.”

And that’s how I end up crawling into Tom Ford’s tent at midnight, damp, sleep-deprived, and very much regretting my life choices.

“Do you have your sleeping bag?” he asks.

Ummmm.

“It’s in the puddle at the bottom of my tent. Everything in my bag is wrapped in waterproof liners, so it should be fine tomorrow, but the sleeping bag was already a lost cause. Don’t worry though, I can borrow a jumper.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” He closes the tent behind me. “I can unzip this and make it into a duvet or something. It’s not that cold outside, just wet. It’ll be fine.”

This is fine, I repeat to myself as I put my camera in the space above the bed roll near the top of the tent. It’s fine, I repeat again as I take a proper look at Tom. His hair is rumpled and he’s wearing a threadbare white T-shirt and plaid pyjama bottoms. I try very hard not to think about how good he looks.

Tom starts unzipping the sleeping bag. I lean forwards to help and promptly elbow him in the face.

“Ow.” He holds his nose.

“Sorry!” I squeak, yanking my arm back like it’s on fire.

Gingerly, Tom removes his hands from his face. Phewph. Nothing looks broken. There’s no blood.

“Maybe just supervise,” he says, looking faintly amused.

I retreat and sit cross-legged, attempting to look useful while internally screaming.

Eventually, he manages to wrestle the sleeping bag open and locates a roll mat from the corner.

“Spare,” he explains, passing it over. “Bought it a few years ago for when a student inevitably forgets theirs. Guess it’s finally getting some use.”

He lays it out beside his own and pulls his sleeping bag over both of us. Then, without hesitation, he hands me the pillow, grabbing his awful 80s patterned jumper from his bag to shove under his head.

“You sure?” I ask, already clutching the pillow like it might protect me from the intimacy of the situation.

“Yep.” He settles down beside me. “Chivalry isn’t dead. Just damp.”

I would laugh at his joke but I’m too jittery.

“Oh wait.” He sits back up. “Do you need some spare clothes? I have a spare T-shirt you could wear, and some boxers?”

A shiver racks my body. “Yes please.”

“Here.” Tom turns, grabbing his backpack. “I promise not to look.”

Flicking on the flashlight again, he hunts around in his bag before passing a spare shirt and some boxers to me. He turns his back, but leaves the flashlight on so that I can see what I’m doing. I pull off my sodden pyjama shirt and shorts, balling them up and throwing them to the bottom of the tent, before pulling on his warm, dry clothes. They smell of laundry detergent and something I can’t quite place, but definitely the scent I associate with Tom. It’s comforting.

I click off the flashlight again; I really hope that none of the students were awake or out of their tents. That probably looked like some odd suggestive light show, definitely not PG.

Gingerly, I lie down and curl up with my back to him. I’m at the very edge of my mat, essentially on the floor, and the sleeping bag barely covers me. Tom lies down next to me.