Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
The next day, a Friday morning, Will and I try to figure out our strategy to start collecting exhibits. It’s been half an hour of stop-and-start plans that one or the other of us vetoes like we’re enduring some kind of controversial vote.
Yesterday afternoon, we dutifully sent out emails and made phone calls as Lily directed us to do in our check-in meeting.
We selected the closest venues with small exhibits that are ready for pickup.
It’s only two stops today, a trial run for this working together thing that promises to be a disaster.
It would be way easier if I went to get one item and he went to get the other, and we stayed out of each other’s orbit.
But we’re going to try this Lily’s way and collect the items together as she asked.
Our destination: two fashion houses, within walking distance of one another. This should be a cinch.
We’re in the boardroom, standing in front of my laptop, both of us leaning in as I try to map a route.
If I’m honest, I’m making a mess of it, even with Google’s help.
Also, I’m self-conscious that with the heat already today, I’m sweating, and God I hope I put on enough deodorant this morning so Will doesn’t smell me and use that as fodder in our next quibble.
Will looks up at me from his study of my laptop’s screen, bemused. “Would you like my suggestion about the route?”
“I would not.” I give him a sidelong look, my lips twitching.
I’m rewarded with frown dimples, and I can’t suppress the smile that comes a moment later.
“Dylan, this might be a better idea for a local to plan out—”
“I bet you’re the worst backseat driver too,” I retort. But I’m still smiling.
And he relents into a reluctant smile too. “I’m not.”
“Just as I suspected. Contrary and everything.” Triumphant, I straighten. Will does too.
“Also, we haven’t discussed mode of transportation.
That will inform the route, I think.” He stands partly backlit in front of the expansive floor-to-ceiling windows, framed by the view of the north bank of the Thames.
The urban skyline is becoming as familiar to me as the rugged North Shore mountains back home.
“Well, I mean, we can take the tube, or take a taxi, or use the car service Lily suggested—”
“Or I can drive.” Will gazes evenly at me, a hint of challenge on his face.
We look at each other. I’m skeptical. His hands are already on his hips.
“What, take the McLaren? Is it an affront to your manhood to take public transit?” I ask pointedly.
“I might not be from around here, but I know that driving in central London’s a pain in the ass, and there’s a congestion charge too.
Though I suppose if you’re driving a McLaren, you don’t care about the cost. Or maybe about the environment either. ”
He frowns and folds his arms across his chest. “I love the environment. And I’m opposed to climate change, for the record. Simply because I drove a sports car doesn’t mean I’m some kind of freak.”
I laugh with unbounded delight. “You said it, not me. So come on. We need to go pick up some shoes. And a dress. We better get going. We don’t want to be late. I mean, how the hell are you going to park a McLaren or Land Rover just anywhere? You’ll be mobbed by tourists for sure.”
Will looks indignant. “And if I don’t drive, what do you propose for us to do?”
“Take the tube. It goes exactly where we need.” I gesture at the map on the screen. “We’ll pop out a hundred meters away from our destination. Maybe I don’t have all the tube lines down or whatever, but I bet you know this stuff as a Londoner.”
He sighs. “I know that the tube is disgusting in the summer. It’s hardly the novelty you think it is.”
“Snob.”
Will gives me a sharp look. “You really do seem to enjoy provoking me. Why?”
“Because your reactions are so good. I can’t help it,” I drawl innocently. “I’ll try to keep it under wraps. But listen. How about this: we take the tube there, and if you really hate it, we can take a taxi or the car service back when we actually have exhibits to transport.”
He considers me, a conflict across his elegant features, till he at last relents. “Fine.”
“Fine.” Triumphant, I beam at him, then check my phone. “I’ve got all the details here too, in case.”
We’re quiet. He finishes his tea. I watch the muscles work in his jaw and throat, his collar unfastened. Then I realize I’m peering at him and quickly look away. What the hell am I doing? Mercifully, he doesn’t notice.
Will sets the mug down. He gives me a level look. “And for the record, I’m driving a Landie now.”
“A Landie? You mean Land Rover?”
“A Land Rover, yes. A Defender.”
“Huh.” I’ve got no idea what a Defender is, specifically, other than Will’s latest ride. Then I have a private battle with myself whether to ask what happened to the McLaren, but judging by the warning in his eyes, I decide I’ve pushed him enough for the last five minutes and let it go. For now.
I pull out my wallet and check for my Oyster card for the Underground. “’Kay, I’m good to go.”
He takes his folio and slips it into a leather messenger bag, along with the two books I’ve loaned him. “As am I.”
And so, with some anxiety, we head out under the bright June sun into the waiting day beyond, headed to London Bridge station.
“You’re sure?” I’m frowning as we stare together at the tube map on the wall in the station, scuffed and stickered because vandals never stop. Will alternately looks between the map on the wall and his phone.
“Absolutely. Remember, you deferred to my way-finding skills as the local.” Will’s gaze is silver and cool.
He looks slightly flushed from the walk in the heat, but if anything, the color in his face makes him more attractive.
Like he needed any help with that. A couple of heads have turned to check him out, and I can’t say I blame them.
I’d probably rubberneck too. It’s totally lost on him, absorbed in his task.
“Also, you were wrong about our destination. It’s two hundred meters from Covent Garden station. Not one hundred.”
“So sue me. What’s one hundred meters versus two hundred meters, anyway?” I shrug. “It’s not very much either way.”
“It’s double,” he points out, impassive. Like he’s doing his best Spock impression. Totally deadpan. “It’s maths.”
I sigh. “Don’t make me turn this car around. You’re complaining already?”
Will gives me a withering look.
Satisfied, I give him the once-over. “Listen, I don’t think the two Underground lines makes sense. Why not do one tube or even take the bus and walk to get to Covent Garden?” I pause meaningfully. “It’s maths.”
Will rolls his eyes. “Humor me. It’s only a minute or two difference.”
“We really could take the bus,” I muse, rubbing my jaw, the stubble rough beneath my fingers. “London buses are great.”
“No.”
“No?”
“No bus,” he affirms, no nonsense.
Judging by the look in his eye, I don’t push. I’m getting better at reading him, when to tease and when to let up. This looks like one of those times to ease up on giving him grief. “Alright, then. Have it your way. Topped up your Oyster card?”
“I don’t have one.”
“You don’t have one?” I ask, incredulous. “This is London. Who doesn’t have an Oyster card?”
“I know exactly where we are. But I don’t take public transport in London if I can help it. Which is why I drive.”
My lips twitch. I think back to what Nancy said: Mr. Too-Posh-to-Function.
Will presses his lips together into a flat line, then looks away. He heads for one of the ticket machines, and we’re finally on our way.
It’s not long before we’re jammed in a train car somewhere, full of tourists on a summer Friday. We made it through to Waterloo for the transfer onto the Bakerloo line, and with a shuddering lurch, we come to an abrupt stop as people complain.
Will’s got a seat, but he grumbles too. At least he’s not being thrown around. Then we’re not going anywhere at all. I shift my weight from foot to foot, with people too close and the air stifling.
We almost made it to Charing Cross too.
As the delay stretches to a couple of minutes, a voice comes on over the speakers, apologizing politely about the momentary delay, and that we’ll be departing shortly. No explanation given, or even if one was, it’s unintelligible over the scratchy PA system and the din of the travelers.
Typical.
Despite the initial complaints, the people around me seem either like travel-hardened Londoners or tourists busily chatting about their plans for the afternoon. I glance over at Will, and he’s back to reading one of the books I’ve loaned him.
As I continue to hold on to the overhead rail, I surreptitiously sniff myself to make sure I don’t reek of sweat.
If anything, I smell mildly of my deodorant, so at least it’s doing its job.
I’d hate to show up at some fancy fashion place smelling like something terrible.
Though it does smell generally gross on the tube, with the stuffy air and something vaguely metallic and thick too.
If I smelled weird, I wouldn’t stand out here, at least.
The longer the delay takes, the more nervous I become. What if something’s gone wrong? What if there’s an accident? Or some kind of security incident? Or someone’s fallen on the tracks? I start to worry my bottom lip.
“It’s fine. It’s probably too warm for the tracks or something,” Will says a moment later, peering at me over his book. Like he has some kind of telepathy. I swear his eyes shimmer silver. “London doesn’t do heat well.”
“I’m fine,” I tell him. “Totally not worrying. Not me.”
How did he even know? Can he smell fear?
Will gives me a wry smile and goes back to his book.
I feign confidence and start to read the ads in the carriage, as if they were the most fascinating thing ever. As suddenly as we stopped, the train shudders forward again, and we’re on our way like nothing ever happened.