Page 62 of On Circus Lane

“It was fromThe Mummy.”

“The ones at the British Museum?” he asks tentatively.

I turn around as he takes the pad away. I see a flash of symbols and equations before he closes it. Then I remember what he was saying. “It’s a film. Don’t tell me you’ve never seen it?”

“I don’t watch a huge amount of films,” he says almost apologetically.

“Well, you must see this one. We could watch it together.”

I hold my breath at the implication that we could see each other outside the holiday, but he’s focused on something else. “You’d watch the film again?”

I grin at the puzzlement in his voice. “I’ve probably watched it fifty times. Maybe more.”

“I don’t understand that.”

“What?”

“I don’t understand why people watch the same things over and over again.”

I shrug. “Comfort.”

His eyes sharpen. “What does that mean?”

“When you’re stressed, sometimes it’s good to know the outcome so there isn’t a horrible surprise at the end.”

“Oh my god, that sounds really good. Sometimes my brain needs to switch off.”

“That’s hardly surprising. Anyway, don’t sound so amazed. It’s nice to know what’s going to happen even if it’s just a film.” I nudge him. “But sometimes surprises can be good too.”

“Well, it’s one or the other. Take your pick.”

“Nah. Life’s not like that. It’s possible to have both. You just have to find your balance.”

His look of concentration is cute. It’s as if I’ve imparted words of great wisdom, and for a second his hand strays towards his notebook like he’s going to write it down, so I say briskly, “Come on. It’s cold.”

We cross two streets while he peppers me with questions about films until I see the restaurant’s windows glowing gold in the dark street. I hold the door open for him, feeling the heat from the restaurant hit us and a waft of lovely smells. It makes my nose twitch like a dog on the scent of something good, but even food doesn’t distract me from the startled pleasure in Bee’s eyes at my polite gesture.

I shake my head. Let’s call it what it truly is—a chivalrous gesture. I am actually courting Bee Bannister as though I’m Sir Ivanhoe. I try to remember if the filmIvanhoehad a good ending or if he died horribly.

Sal went through a stage of repetitively watching the old film version of the story. For a time, she judged all men compared to Ivanhoe, which was a bit unfair. The upper sixth didn’t have access to horses and broad swords. I can recall nearly every line of that bloody film, and even after three years at uni, I never managed to shove the information out of my head. But I still can’t remember the ending.

“Tom. Bee. Over here.”

My sister’s shout is loud enough to silence the whole restaurant, and I grimace. “Sorry,” I mutter to Bee. “We looked very hard, but it appears she came without a volume control. I wanted to send her back because she was faulty, but I was never allowed to.”

He snorts, and I take his coat from him and hand it with a smile of thanks to the waitress who’s waiting for it. Bee unwinds two scarves from around his neck and removes his hat. His hair is a tangled mess, with one bit at the front sticking straight up as though he stuck his finger in a socket. His glasses are steamed up, and he takes them off and wipes them on his T-shirt. It reveals an intriguing glimpse of pale skin that’s tight as a drum.

My mouth waters at the sight. I don’t know how long I’m going to be able to stop myself fucking him. As things go at the moment, every hour of abstinence is a triumph because he’s been opening up and talking with me more and more. I could listen to him talk all day. He’s fascinating, and I’d be intimidated by his cleverness if he didn’t seem to take just as much pleasure in my company.

Today has been wonderful with just the two of us, and all the frantic googling I’d done this morning was well worth it. I’ve done more research for this man than I managed to do at uni for my dissertation. If my try at Bee fails, I’m pretty sure Mr Google will want to marry me.

“Are you eating at the table or just cramming food down your throat in a doorway?” my sister bellows.

Ah. Just the two of us—what bliss.

“Coming. I just need to wait a few seconds,” I call.

“What for?”

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