Twenties Girl - Kinsella Sophie - Страница 64

For God’s sake. He’s obviously one of these men who have to take control. He probably never asks for directions either.

“Listen, Ed,” I say kindly. “You’re American. You’ve never been here before. Who’s more likely to know the way in, me or you?”

At that moment, a passing Beefeater stops and gives us a friendly beam. I smile back, ready to ask him the best way in, but he addresses Ed cheerily.

“Morning, Mr. Harrison. How are you? Back again already?”

What?

What just happened? Ed knows the Beefeaters? How does Ed know the Beefeaters?

I’m speechless as Ed shakes the hand of the Beefeater and says, “Good to see you, Jacob. Meet Lara.”

“Er… hello,” I manage feebly.

What’s going to happen next? Will the queen arrive and ask us in for tea?

“OK,” I splutter as soon as the Beefeater has continued on his way. “What’s going on?”

Ed takes one look at my face and bursts into laughter.

“Tell me!” I demand, and he lifts his hands apologetically.

“I’ll come clean. I was here Friday. It was a work team-building day out. We were able to talk to some of the Beefeaters. It was fascinating.” He pauses, then adds, his mouth twitching, “That’s how I know the tower was begun in 1078. By William the Conqueror. And the entrance is this way.”

“You could have told me!” I glare at him.

“I’m sorry. You seemed so into the idea, and I thought it would be cool to go around with you. But we can go someplace else. You must have seen this a million times. Let’s rethink.” He takes the Historic London guidebook and starts consulting the index.

I’m flipping the tickets back and forth in my hands, watching a group of schoolkids take pictures of one another, feeling torn. Obviously he’s right. He saw the tower on Friday so why on earth would we go around it again?

On the other hand, we’ve bought the tickets now. And it looks amazing. And I want to see it.

“We could head straight down to St. Paul’s.” Ed is peering at the tube map. “It shouldn’t take too long-”

“I want to see the Crown jewels,” I say in a small voice.

“What?” He raises his head.

“I want to see the Crown jewels. Now we’re here.”

“You mean… you’ve never seen them?” Ed stares incredulously at me. “You’ve never seen the Crown jewels?”

“I live in London!” I say, nettled at his expression. “It’s different! I can see them anytime I want, when the occasion arises. It’s just that… the occasion has never arisen.”

“Isn’t that a bit narrow-minded of you, Lara?” I can tell Ed’s loving this. “Aren’t you interested in the heritage of your great city? Don’t you think it’s criminal to ignore these unique historic monuments-”

“Shut up!” I can feel my cheeks turning red.

Ed relents. “Come on. Let me show you your own country’s fine Crown jewels. They’re great. I know the whole deal. You realize that the oldest pieces date from the Restoration?”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes.” He starts guiding me through the crowd. “The Imperial State Crown contains an enormous diamond cut from the famous Cullinan Diamond, the largest diamond ever mined.”

“Wow,” I say politely. Obviously Ed memorized the entire Crown jewels lecture yesterday.

“Uh-huh.” He nods. “At least, that’s what the world thought until 1997. When it was discovered to be a fake.”

“Really?” I stop dead. “It’s fake?”

Ed’s mouth twitches. “Just checking you’re listening.”

We see the jewels and we see the ravens and we see the White Tower and the Bloody Tower. In fact, all the towers. Ed insists on holding the guidebook and reading out facts, all the way around. Some of them are true and some of them are bullshit and some… I’m not sure. He has this totally straight face with just a tiny gleam in his eye, and you honestly can’t tell.

As we finish our Yeoman Warder’s tour, my head is spinning with visions of traitors and torture, and I feel I don’t need to hear anything else about When Executions Go Horribly Wrong, ever again. We wander through the Medieval Palace, past two guys in medieval costume doing medieval writing (I guess), and find ourselves in a room with tiny castle windows and a massive fireplace.

“OK, clever clogs. Tell me about that cupboard.” I point randomly at a small, nondescript door set in the wall. “Did Walter Raleigh grow potatoes in there or something?”

“Let’s see.” Ed consults the guidebook. “Ah, yes. This is where the Seventh Duke of Marmaduke kept his wigs. An interesting historical figure, he beheaded many of his wives. Others he cryogenically froze. He also invented the medieval version of the popcorn maker. Or ye poppecorn, as it was known.”

“Oh, really?” I adopt a serious tone.

“You’ll obviously have learned about the poppecorn craze of 1583.” Ed squints at the guidebook. “Apparently Shakespeare very nearly called Much Ado About Nothing, Much Ado About Ye Poppecorn.”

We’re both gazing intently at the tiny oak door, and after a moment an elderly couple in waterproof jackets joins us.

“It’s a wig cupboard,” says Ed to the woman, whose face lights up with interest. “The wigmaster was compelled to live in the cupboard along with his wigs.”

“Really?” The elderly woman’s face falls. “How terrible!”

“Not really,” says Ed gravely. “Because the wigmaster was very small.” He starts to demonstrate with his hands. “Very, very tiny. The word wig is derived from the phrase small man in a cupboard, you know.”

“Really?” The poor woman looks bewildered, and I nudge Ed hard in the ribs.

“Have a good tour,” he says charmingly, and we move on.

“You have an evil streak!” I say as soon as we’re out of earshot. Ed thinks about this for a moment, then gives me a disarming grin.

“Maybe I do. When I’m hungry. You want some lunch? Or should we see the Royal Fusiliers Museum?”

I hesitate thoughtfully, as though weighing these two options. I mean, no one could be more interested in their heritage than me. But the thing with any sightseeing is, after a while it turns into sight-trudging, and all the heritage turns into a blur of winding stone steps and battlements and stories about severed heads stuffed on pikes.

“We could do lunch,” I say casually. “If you’ve had enough for now.”

Ed’s eyes glint. I have this disconcerting feeling he knows exactly what I’m thinking.

“I have a very short attention span,” he says, deadpan. “Being American. So maybe we should eat.”

We head to a cafe serving things like “Georgian onion soup” and “wild boar casserole.” Ed insists on paying since I bought the tickets, and we find a table in the corner by the window.

“So, what else do you want to see in London?” I say enthusiastically. “What else was on your list?”

Ed flinches, and I suddenly wish I hadn’t put it like that. His sightseeing list must be a sore point.

“Sorry,” I say awkwardly. “I didn’t mean to remind you-”

“No! It’s fine.” He considers his forkful for a moment, as though debating whether to eat it. “You know what? You were right, what you said the other day. Shit happens, and you have to get on with life. I like your dad’s thing about the escalator. I’ve thought about that since we talked. Onward and upward.” He puts the fork in his mouth.

“Really?” I can’t help feeling touched. I’ll have to tell Dad.

“Mmm-hmm.” He chews for a moment, then eyes me questioningly. “So… you said you had a breakup too. When was that?”

Yesterday. Less than twenty-four hours ago. Even thinking about it makes me want to close my eyes and moan.

“It was… a while ago.” I shrug. “He was called Josh.”

“And what happened? If you don’t mind me asking?”

“No, of course not. It was… I just realized… we weren’t-” I break off, with a heavy sigh, and look up. “Have you ever felt really, really stupid?”

“Never.” Ed shakes his head. “Although I have on occasion felt really, really, really stupid.”