Page 28 of On Circus Lane

“What is?” he asks.

I tilt my head, not understanding.

He gestures encouragingly. “What is something you’d usually say?”

“Hello, fancy a fuck?” I say without thinking.

He laughs. “That’ssomuch better than asking what job someone does. I bet you’re a big hit at functions.”

“I’m a popular boy.”

He jumps off the sofa and hands me the plate of toast. “Help yourself.”

“Oh, no, thank you. I don’t eat breakfast.” I take the plate off him, nevertheless.

“You don’t eatbreakfast?”

“You said that in such a tone of surprise. No, I hate breakfast.”

“It’s the best meal of the day,” he says bewilderedly.

“The only people who say that are the ones who eat it. You’re like some sort of cult.”

He stares at me for a long second and then shrugs. “I think I’ve got some plasters for your feet in my bag.”

“Oh no, you don’t have to,” I start to protest, but it’s too late; he’s vanished. I take a slice of toast absentmindedly and bite into it. It’s hot and buttery, and I demolish it quickly as I make tea.

Tom comes back in, and I look up. “Do you want some tea?”

He takes his plate back, looking down at it with a funny smile. “Please. Milk, no sugar.”

I make it while he settles back on the sofa and starts to pull out paper packets of various sizes from a small first aid pouch. “They’re blister plasters,” he says, motioning me to sit down next to him. “You’ll still be able to walk without pain when you get your new boots.”

He gestures at me, and I blink. “What?”

“Put your feet here.” He taps his lap.

“You want me to put my feet in your lap? Damn, you’re a party animal. It's only nine in the morning.”

He rolls his eyes. “I’m a party animal a lot earlier than this. Time has no constraints on me. No, I’ll put the plasters on for you while you drink your tea.”

“Erm, I think I’m fine,” I say, curling my feet under me for good measure.

“You sure? I don’t mind.”

“I don’t need you to do that. I can look after myself.”

“That doesn’t mean you can’t have a bit of help occasionally.”

“That would feel a bit weird. I’m not used to being nursed. My dad was never very good when I was ill.”

“Does he not like sickness?”

I hesitate. I don’t usually talk this much, but his eyes are bright with interest which is surprisingly enticing. “God, no, that doesn’t bother him. He just tends to forget things.” He stares at me, and I elaborate. “He’s a don at Oxford University.”

“Wow. The apple obviously didn’t fall too far from the clever tree.”

“Thank you,” I say a little awkwardly. “Anyway, that meant he was super involved with his work. When I was ill as a child, he’d be great while he was with me, but when he left, I sort of slipped out of his mind. Once, when I had my appendix out, he forgot to pick me up from the hospital. When I got home, he was surprised because he thought I’d gone away on a school trip.” I pause. It’s hard to believe I just told him that. He’s looking like he doesn’t know whether to laugh or be concerned, so I say firmly, “I love him very much.” I hold out my hand for the plasters. “Thank you.”

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