Forty
The next day, I’m up early despite last night’s port indulgence with Sir John and Henry. I have an appointment with Henry at noon. Before that, I’m determined to show Adam I’ve taken his advice on truth-telling. I’ve sent him a couple of update texts in the past week, and he’s responded, but a little noncommittally, clearly feeling a little tired of me and my constant dramas. I refuse breakfast and head to the Tube.
When I arrive, I knock on the door hesitantly, clutching a pack of Adam’s favourite beers. Javier opens the door and smiles broadly. “Alex!” he pulls me into a hug. “I haven’t seen you for ages! How are your parents?” he adds, with a wink.
Clearly, Adam hasn’t told him much about my latest escapades.
“Haha!” I say. “They’re good. Adam around?”
“I think he’s sleeping – alone for once – come on in!” Javier’s enthusiasm for life is infectious, and I find myself smiling back.
We head through to the kitchen, and Javier raps on Adam’s door as we pass, shouting, “Alex is here!” before sitting me down at the kitchen table and putting the kettle on. There are occasional sounds suggesting life is stirring in Adam’s room, only broken by the increasingly urgent bubbling of the kettle.
As if on cue, Adam emerges as the kettle clicks off.
“Alex. You know it’s beauty sleep time until 10am when I’m not training.”
“Well, I certainly miss your morning sunshine,” I say.
“Oh, tell me about it,” says Javier, disappearing off to his room.
“I brought you beer by way of saying… thank you. You called me out in a pretty helpful way. And I am totally trying Truth Week. Maybe even Truth Century.”
He inspects the beer, and his eyes light up like a baby meeting Tickle-Me-Elmo, “My fave!”
“It’s my way of saying you were totally right. I was a complete mess, and I’m still a bit of a mess. But I’m working on it. I haven’t told a lie since I revealed your West End debut,” I say.
Adam laughs. “If I’d known I’d get beer every time I told you your life’s a mess.”
I wince. “That’s not quite how this little transaction works, but…”
“So, no lies since my theatre debut? And what about news from the boy? Did you follow my advice there, too and give him a bit of space?”
“I haven’t seen him, and I think your advice was right…”
Adam looks sceptical.
“I’m telling the truth! I swear.”
“Wow. You are speaking the truth! And no messages?”
“OK – some messages. But not bunny-boiler level.”
Over the next hour Adam even manages to get me to laugh myself out of my funk, powering up the fancy coffee machine helps (and the sound also summons Javier from his room). I tell Adam all about my appointment with Henry, and he insists on coming along to make sure the present is “blokey” enough.
At 11:55am, we arrive at Henry’s shop, a beautifully mahogany book-shelved gem hidden away on Charing Cross Road. It’s exactly what a rare bookshop should be: all brown leather armchairs for perusing your finds, matching mahogany ladders to reach the higher bookshelves, and dim lighting so as not to wash out the books’ colours.
We find Henry at the back of the shop, poring over the hand-coloured drawings in an ancient manuscript with a magnifying glass, looking thoughtful.
“Hello!” he says, seeing us approach. “I’ve been thinking about the chapel architecture project all morning!”
I introduce him to Adam, and he smiles broadly. “So, tell me more about Ryan and his particular architectural work. The more detail, the better.”
I fill Henry in with as much detail as I can remember from my conversations with Ryan.
“Let me make a few calls,” he says, looking excited. “I have a friend who specialises in these kinds of books.”
He dispatches his shop assistant to make us tea and immediately phones his friend.
Henry describes to his friend what I’ve said about Ryan’s interests and chapel, and then for about ten minutes, all we hear is, “Uh-huh… yes … that’s right… Oh, really?”
“Well?” As soon as Henry hangs up, Adam, who seems even more invested in this than I am, demands.
“Well… it’s good news! That chapel of your beau – it looks like it’s the only surviving part of a 19th-century barracks. And it won’t be hard to track down the original architectural plans!”
“What!” This is amazing news. Ryan would love this.”
Surely, as gestures go – this might make it at least halfway.
“Yes!” continues Henry, oblivious to my internal plotting. “He says he’ll know for sure later today, and if he can source them, he can get them to you by the end of the week.”
“How much will they be, though?” Adam asks, putting an immediate damper on my joy.
“It depends on their condition and age, obviously, but I’ve seen similar pieces go for anything between ￡500-￡2,500.”
“Oh…” I say, crestfallen. “I don’t think I can cover that.”
“Well, I’ll investigate anyway. We don’t have to purchase it.”
By the time I get back to Sir John’s, I’m exhausted. My emotions feel like poorly skilled acrobats, flipping about in every direction with joy, excitement, and hopelessness, with no real sense of purpose and a greater-than-average chance of broken limbs.
“Well?” Sir John greets me excitedly. He’s clearly been waiting. “How was the appointment with Henry?”
I fill him in, and he looks delighted. “That’s perfect!” he exclaims. “If Henry can source that, that will do the trick, alright.”
“It mightn’t matter, though,” I explain, telling him the price range.
Sir John’s smile stays. “Well. I’m sure we’ll figure out something else,” he says, unusually comforting.
The next day, Sir John and I head to Henry’s shop, even though I know I’m being ridiculous, and I can’t afford whatever Henry finds. We arrive around 2pm. We discover Henry in the back again, poring over what looks to be architectural plans.
He breaks into a broad smile when he sees us. “I found them. And they’re in mint condition!”
Henry has clearly bought into my romantic debacle, so it breaks my heart when I have to tell him we can’t afford them. I can see the romantic in him battling the business owner, who won’t let him discount something worth so much money… especially not to a price I can afford.
Sir John has been entirely silent and is just quietly examining the manuscript. After about ten minutes, he looks up. “I’ll take it,” he says quietly. I start to protest, but he just turns to Henry and ignores me.
“Henry, this girl has reunited me with my daughter. She’s given an old bean a source of happiness in his dotage. Please package it up and send it to Ryan. Alex will write the address down for you.”
Henry hands me a pen, and I wordlessly write down Ryan’s address, a tear of gratitude running down my cheeks.