Page 104 of On Circus Lane

He rolls his eyes, unable to conceal his smile. “Was that when you took me to see the Baker Street post box with the blue plaque on it?”

“And why did English Heritage do that?”

“Because Dangermouse lived there.” He starts to laugh, and I grin at him.

We’d found that when we finally got to go inside a museum together that we didn’t gel. I can’t stand to walk at a pace more suited to someone on the edge of death, and it’s too hot in those places. He tends to do culture with Jack, and I love the friendship that’s developed between them, but I still take care to arrange my own surprises with Bee. I love to see the interest and enjoyment he gets from them, and they’re what helped to land him, so I’ll never stop.

His grin fades and he pulls me close. “Iloveyou,” he says fiercely. “I don’t want you to ever forget that.”

“Where’s this come from?” I say, hugging him.

He grimaces. “I know I’m a workaholic and a bit too occupied with work. I don’t want you to ever feel that you don’t come first in my world.”

“Hey,” I say, raising his square little chin and gazing into his bright blue eyes. “I know that. You always make me feel special.”

“Because youare,” he says, the fervour in his voice filling me with warmth. “You’re the most special thing in my life.”

“And you’re mine.” I kiss him. “Which is why you’re cooking dinner for us.”

“Honesty compels me to use the word charring rather than cooking.”

“Well, I’m sure it’ll be better than when your dad made bubble and squeak.”

“God, don’t remind me. Until I left home, I didn’t realise that normal people’s family meals aren’t the subject of an arson investigation.”

I start to laugh. “At least he wasn’t stoned like my parents.”

“I can’t even begin to imagine my dad stoned. The mind boggles.”

We walk up the path to his dad’s front door. It’s a nice, detached house on a leafy side street near the university. His dad keeps making noises about selling it because it’s too big for him, but then he promptly forgets about it. Bee rings the doorbell, and we wait. And wait. And then wait some more.

Bee scratches his head. “Where is he?”

“Chairing a meeting of the Tolkien Appreciation Society?” I say, joking.

“No, that was last week.”

I blink, and he rings the doorbell again. This time, we hear footsteps, and the door swings open. Bee’s dad is a thin man who stoops slightly. His hair is greying and always a little unkempt, but his eyes are the same bright blue as his son’s.

“Bee,” he says in astonishment. He hugs his son and grins at me. “And Tom,” he says, drawing me into a hug. He smells of washing powder, smoke from the fire, and a whiff of pipe tobacco. “What are you both doing here?”

Bee frowns. “We’re doing Christmas early,” he prompts.

His dad’s face clears. “Of course.That’swhy I have all the food in. I thought I might have organised an extra session with my Romantic poet’s study group.”

“I can’t believe you forgot,” Bee says piously.

I can’t believe he’s adopting that tone when he lost our car last week, but I keep quiet, accepting the extra handshake his dad offers me and then trying to scrub the ink off my palm.

“Dad,” Bee exclaims. “Your pen’s leaked again.”

“Oh dear, how very trying,” he says. His face clears. “Come in anyway, the two of you.”

We step inside, closing the door after us. Bee’s dad walks ahead of us, disappearing into the kitchen where I can hear Christmas carols playing on the radio. Through the open door to the lounge, I can see a fire blazing and a huge Christmas tree twinkling with lights.

“I’ll put dinner on,” he calls.

Bee tuts. “He knows I’m cooking today.”

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