Twenties Girl
Page 115
“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 café 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?”
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 café 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?”
