Page 8 of On Circus Lane

“Iknow,” I screech. “Help me.”

“Okay,” she says, trying not to laugh. “You get your toiletries. I’ll find your clothes.”

“Good idea.” I dart into the bathroom, grab my wash bag, and start chucking in handfuls of whatever shit I can find.

As I zip the bag closed, I hear a horn beep outside, and I race back into the bedroom.

Ivy is standing in front of my open case and is directing Ted as he moves around doing her bidding—fetching clothes and throwing them on the bed.

“Where’s your coat, Bee?” she asks.

I point in the direction of the lounge.

She shakes her head. “It isn’t in there. We just looked.”

“Isn’t it? Oh well, it isn’t that big. I’m sure we’ll come across it.” She wanders back into the lounge on a new quest to find my coat. “I’msosorry,” I say to Ted. The sheet is now wrapped around him in a way I last saw in a textbook on the Romans.

He winks at me. “It’s a novel morning after. Usually, it’s tears or a headache.”

“Sounds like the title of the film they’ll make about my life,” I say gloomily.

He leans closer. “Last night was good, though.”

“It would probably have been a better morning after without the Genghis Khan of the wardrobe out there?” I say as Ivy yells from the lounge about packing underwear.

“Do you want me to pack your stuff, Bee?” she calls.

“No need. I can do it.” I look at the pile on the bed and start throwing stuff into the small case.

When I’m done, the case won’t close, so Ivy sits on top of it. Finally, it zips, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

“What about shoes?” she says. “Your wardrobe has your old combat boots, a pair of Converse, and some dress shoes. Where are your walking boots?”

“What walking boots?”

Her eyes narrow. “We’ll be doing a lot of walking, so you need a good pair of boots. We discussed this last week.”

I dimly remember the conversation, but I’d been occupied with a tricky equation at the time, and it had left my brain. I wave a careless hand. “My Converse will be fine. I walk in all my shoes, so surely they qualify.”

“You’ll get terrible blisters, and they might get septic,” she says in a dire tone of voice. Her expression indicates she might be planning what she’ll wear to my funeral. She gives me a second look. “Are you going dressed like that, Bee?”

I look down. I’m still in my towel. “Shit.” After I drop the towel, Ted seems more appreciative than Ivy. I drag on jeans, a T-shirt I grab from the floor, and my old jacket, then kick my feet into my Converse. “There,” I mutter. “Done.”

“I think you’ve started a new trend in fashion,” she says sweetly.

“Really?”

“Yes. I’m sure next season we’ll see loads of models with unbrushed hair and crumpled clothes.”

“I know you’re being sarcastic.”

“I’d worry if you didn’t.” She grins at me. “I’m going downstairs to wait in the car.”

I grab my case and lower it to the floor, holding it steady so the wonky wheel doesn’t destabilise it. “Sorry to rush you,” I say to Ted, who’s managed to get dressed much quicker than me.

“No problem.”

We clatter down the stairs and approach the Audi. Tom is sitting in the driver’s seat with the window down, talking to Jack in the passenger seat. He looks over as we approach and grins at me.

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