“Where?”
“You want to come to my flat one night?” he asks. “For a—what is it you and Joan call them—adult sleepovers? You want to come to my flat and have an adult sleepover?” he teases.
I giggle. “Sure,” I say, nudging him in the ribs.
We pause by a pancake vendor and decide to get savory crêpes. “Here we go, Gallagher, your favorite thing. I’ll treat you.”
“No, I’ll get these. You’ve made the effort to find something for us to do today. And also”—I can’t resist—“you’ve spent all your money on that book.”
George smiles, but it’s a thin smile, and I wonder what on earth possessed me to bring it up again. I thought he might laugh. I misread that. And then he freezes, looks down at his hands. “The book. Where’s the book?” he asks, as if I’ve taken it.
I look at his hands. He’s no longer holding the carrier bag from the gift shop. “Where…?” I start, about to repeat his own question. “Did you leave it on the bus?”
I can’t tell if he’s about to explode or cry. His jaw stiffens and he just nods. “Fuck,” he mutters under his breath.
I don’t know what to say. We get closer to the front of the queue. I order my crêpe, stroke his arm softly, his biceps flexing automatically under his jacket, but it’s a twitch, as if to get me offhim, rather than show me how built he is. I take the hint, remove my hand. He orders so quietly the vendor has to ask him to repeat it, and George replies through gritted teeth. After that, our walk along the river takes an awkward, stiff turn. I don’t speak. I’m waiting for him to speak, to change the subject. But he’s dwelling on the missing book, and I daren’t speak now. So we eat as we walk, and a while later his hand slips back into mine after we bin our rubbish.
He smiles down at me. “Sorry,” he says after a while.
“It’s all right. I’ll buy you another one,” I find myself saying.
“Really? Oh, Hannah, you don’t have to do that.”
“I know. But you’re clearly upset. You really wanted it.”
“I said I’d buyyousomething,” George teases, recovering himself. “So we’re doing it. Come on,” he says.
Our walk has taken us along the river and we can see the Tower of London on the other side. We walk across Tower Bridge, its ornate Gothic towers flanking us and the cars and buses that trundle along it as we walk across, hand in hand. For a minute I think we’re heading for a bus home, but when we walk past the Tower of London, George spies the oversized gift shop, designed to sell royal tat to customers who didn’t spend quite enough at the castle itself.
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s go in.”
“In there? In the Tower of London gift shop?”
“Yeah, I’ll buy you a present.”
“In there?” I ask again.
“Come on,” he says, dragging me in. “Want a pen with a crown on it?” he asks as he nods toward the spinning stand.
“Yeah, go on.” I just want to leave. I’m sure this is supposed to be cute. But I’m cringing.
“Or a…coaster?”
“A coaster?” I echo. “No, the pen looks nice.”
“Yeah? You don’t sound very enthusiastic,” he says.
The hint of grumpiness is coming back in his voice, so I smile broadly. “I am one hundred percent certain I want the pen with the crown on the top.”
“Bloody hell, Gallagher, it’s sixteen quid.”
I stare at him and then I say gently, “Put it back, George. Honestly, it’s fine.”
“But I want you to have this,” he says, looking genuinely concerned that I’m missing out.
“Then I’ll buy it,” I say.
He sighs, hands me the pen, and I stand in the queue to pay.
