Here’s a short word about Tom’s face. Now, we all know that physical attractiveness is not an accurate way to measure a person’s worth, but Tom’s beauty isn’t ordinary. Tom’s beauty can sink ships.
There is a strange quality that infects beautiful people. Marilyn Monroe is a perfect example. It’s the quality of other-worldliness, a pervasive effect that convinces onlookers that this person, this beautiful person, transcends the mundane and becomes something else entirely. Something holy. Something untouchable. Tom- despite being the most beautiful creature most people had ever laid eyes on – does not possess this quality. In fact – it is the absence of this quality that makes his face all the more unreal. His beauty is so lodged into the fabric of existence that even the colour of his eyes – which have been compared to the sky so many times it has ceased to be a cliché – do not just look like the sky, they are the sky, and his storm of furious hair is the golden brown of fine malt whisky; you can get drunk on every strand. You can’t get angry with a face like Tom’s. You end up feeling like you’ve stamped on a butterfly.
He flutters behind the bar like a drunken hummingbird, the gold paint on his face making him look like an off-duty statue from Covent Garden, and then he turns to address the crowd of customers.
“Right – roll up, roll up – come see the Brick Lane-ologists favourite mixologist, I’m a cocktail maker and occasional drug taker, I can do things with gin that’ll make your head spin…” he begins to juggle with three glass bottles, “I’m your loyal bartender and I take any legal tender…” he sets the bottles on the bar top with a grin, “ And I’m at your pleasure…for just two quid a measure.”