Page 40 of On Circus Lane

Tom snorts and looks up at the sky. “It’s going to snow soon.”

“I hope so,” I say. “I love snow. Looking at it, though. Not being outside in it,” I add quickly to head off any ideas he might get about sledging or something else appallingly energetic.

His lip twitches.

“Ready, people?” Sal asks. Undertaking tour guide status, she leads us out of the courtyard and onto the street. The Royal Mileis already busy with people, and we’re caught up in the surge of the crowd. A street entertainer juggles while reciting rude limericks, and nearby, a mime artist poses chillily.

I fall into step next to Ivy and follow the others, keeping my eyes wide for new sights in a new city. I rub my hands in glee. I can’t wait for today’s itinerary. I spare a grateful glance at Tom for the fact that I’m warm and my feet don’t hurt. As if sensing my gaze, he looks back from where he’s talking to Jack and Freddy. Freddy’s arm is slung around Tom’s neck, and he’s intent on their conversation, but Tom still gives me a warm smile before he turns away.

We pass a poster for the Writer’s Museum, and I make a mental note to add that to my wish list. I need to ring my dad. He’ll appreciate that addition, as well as the lists themselves. We’d always made them together whenever we went somewhere.

My dad’s a gentle man with a distracted air and steel grey hair that’s always a bit too long. He wasn’t the most attentive father, but I had everything I needed, and our house was always full of books and people coming around to discuss the books. I loved to sit in a corner tucked behind the faded curtains in my dad’s study, listening while they discussed Beowulf or the poetry of John Donne.

Despite being distant in many conventional ways, we were always bonded by our love for museums and books, so by the time I was ten, I could direct you around the Bodleian Library if I was blindfolded.

We come to a stop, and I look up to find we’re standing outside a shop filled with tartan. “I think we’ll get something for Jack’s dad,” Steven announces. “He has his own tartan.”

“Are there ball gags on it?” Freddy asks Jack seriously, and Jack starts to laugh.

He follows Steven into the shop, and the girls decide to go in too. Sal grabs Freddy’s arm and he follows her in, directing help-me glances at Tom.

Tom waves him off and then comes over to me. My heart rate picks up, and I pat my pocket for my inhaler despite knowing I don’t need it. This is all Tom.

“Come and look at this,” he says, taking my arm. “I’ve got something that’ll interest you.”

“Is it your penis?” I say without thinking. I blanch but then relax as he starts to laugh. It’s loud and merry in the cold air, and a group of girls turn to watch him as they walk past. I don’t blame them. He’s a pretty sight in those old jeans that cling to his long legs and a black roll-neck jumper.

“Many men and women have told me that my cock is actuallyveryinteresting,” he muses, steering us across the road.

“Really?” I put on a judgemental air. “But can it reciteThe Iliadwhile downing a brandy?”

“No, but after coming it can stay hard for a while if I thinkreallygood thoughts.”

I start to laugh and then dig my heels in. “Where are we going? I do have an itinerary, you know.”

“I certainly do. I saw the A4 sheet of paper it was written on.” He points to the grey-gold bulk of the cathedral that towers over the busy streets. “St Giles Cathedral.”

“You said that yesterday. I think this is where John Knox used to preach,” I say, distracted, fumbling in my coat pocket.

“What are you looking for?”

“My guide. I was so busy with work before I left that I haven’t managed to read it thoroughly, but I’m sure I can find the relevant information.”

“I’m equally positive you can,” he says gravely. “But there’s no need. You’re right. He did preach here.”

He marches us past a statue of a man on horseback. The horse looks like the sculptor caught him mid-prance. “Charles the Second,” he says.

I follow him, glancing back at the statue. A pigeon is perched on the king’s head like a rather exotic headdress.

Tom comes to a stop. “Ta-da,” he says.

I bite my lip, looking at the cars in front of us. “It’s a car park,” I say uncertainly. “It’s very nice,” I say quickly, in case he thinks I’m being rude. “It has quite thenicestview from any car park I’ve ever seen,” I add for good measure.

His lip twitches. “We aren’t here to look at the cars.” He pauses. “Or the lovely view.” He laughs as I shove him and then takes my arm. His hand is warm against my wrist, and his fingertips have intriguing calluses. “It’s around here somewhere,” he mutters, pulling me along. Then he exclaims as he comes to a parking bay. A car is just pulling out of it, and we wait until it’s come out. The bay is marked with the number twenty-three, and Tom looks at me triumphantly. “Well?”

“Well, what?” I blink. “Is that a plaque on the floor of the bay?”

He nods. “Look a little closer.”

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