Page 92 of Going Solo

“Kevin Jonas?” I shook my head. “Kevin?”

“I know, right?” Cole said. “Like, Joe is right there.”

“Right?”

“Oi!” Fiona said. “Stick to the point. Do you think you can get that book?”

I shrugged. “I have absolutely no idea, babes. But I will certainly try.”

“Thank you, Toby. If you can pull this off, I might be able to swing you a knighthood.” Fiona stood up and put her bag over her shoulder. “The PM owes me a favour or two.” She put her hand under Cole’s chin and lifted his face to hers. “We’re going to fix this, OK? Shower, put on your game face, and meet everyone downstairs in twenty.”

Fiona marched out the door. Cole and I sat there in silence for a moment, Cole’s head on my shoulder. He smelt of sleep and morning and boy.

“Do you genuinely think you can get a copy of the book?”

I combed my fingers through his hair. “I have no idea.”

“Promise me something?”

“Sure.”

“Don’t read it.”

How bad was this book? What did Jasper have to say that was so terrible Cole didn’t want me to read it?

“Of course not,” I said, and kissed him on the head.

Neither of us made to move.

“What are you thinking?” Cole asked.

I shook my head. “Why would you choose Kevin?”

ChapterThirty-Seven

It took longer than I imagined. But on a warm, drizzly evening, I found myself on Shaftesbury Avenue in London’s West End. Among the theatregoers, tourists, and Friday-night revellers, I spotted Ludo Boche standing outside the Gielgud Theatre, deep in conversation with a middle-aged woman with fabulous teased-back 1980s hair. Tucked under his arm was a neat brown paper parcel. I scooted across the road to meet him.

“Both cheeks!” he said as we kissed hello. “You’re in theatreland now. Best look like a total lovey, so you don’t blow your cover.”

“My cover?”

Ludo discreetly pointed to the book under his arm.

“Oh! I see, the book.”

“Ixnay on the booknay,” he said, tapping the side of his nose with his finger, before introducing me to Wilhelmina. “Willy is an old friend. She’s the theatre critic forThe Sentinel.”

“Delighted to meet you,” Wilhelmina said. “Slightly disappointed we didn’t get to deliver the merchandise using a dead letter drop in Saint James’s Park.”

“Oh, that would have been much more fun,” Ludo said. “Or we could have met on a mist-covered bridge at midnight. Much more cinematic.”

“Or we could have shoved it down the back of a radiator in the men’s WC at the British Museum,” Wilhelmina suggested.

“That’s muchlesscinematic, though,” Ludo said.

“Depends who else is in there,” Wilhelmina said, digging Ludo in the ribs.

Ludo slapped a palm to his head. “Wait, should I have photographed each page and sent this to you on microfilm?”

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