Page 61 of When We Were Young

They chatted as they walked past the theatres on Shaftesbury Avenue, underneath the tunnel of lanterns in Chinatown and on down a narrow lane that opened out onto Trafalgar Square. As they passed the fountains and lions, he fought the urge to take her hand.

The bus stop was across the square and the bus came while Emily was still checking the timetable. He followed her to the top deck. She warned him the journey was long – but it was the shortest hour and a half Will had ever experienced. They talked about everything and nothing. When he thought she might give him the bad news, he distracted her with the book of poetry he’d folded into his coat pocket to read on the journey. He explained how they inspired his lyrics and pointed out his favourites. Then she got out her sketchbook, and he was mesmerised.

As they got closer to home, and he relaxed his hold on the conversation, she hit him with it: ‘Will, we need to talk about––’

‘Look!’ cried Will. ‘There’s a chip shop! It’s still open! If we jump off now, we can get some chips and walk the rest of the way.’

He ushered her off the bus, adding another ten minutes to their walk, but at least he’d diverted the conversation. They bought chips and ate as they strolled, steam rising from the wrappers.

‘We still need to talk—’

‘Can you hold my chips a sec?’

He dipped into the shadows of an alley to take a leak. His heart raced as he walked back to where she stood waiting under a streetlamp, holding the chips like an illuminated angel.

‘Sorry about that.’ He took his chips back and they continued walking.

‘You can’t keep changing the subject, you know. I need to tell you this.’

‘I wasn’t, I—’

‘I saw Aidan last night.’

Will’s heart sank.

‘I wanted to talk to him before I came to meet you,’ she continued. ‘I told him it’s over between him and me.’

Will’s heart jumped back up, hammering hard. Did that mean what he thought it meant?

‘That shut you up.’ She popped a chip into her mouth, then screwed up the bag before throwing it into a nearby bin. No longer hungry, he did the same.

She shivered and folded her arms across her chest, shoulders high.

‘I’ve got something to warm us up.’ He patted his coat pockets and pulled out his dad’s hip flask.

‘What’s in there?’

‘Whiskey.’ He handed it to her.

She unscrewed the cap and hesitated before taking a swig. As she swallowed, she scrunched her face up and squeezed her eyes shut. ‘Oh yeah. It burns all right!’ she wheezed, handing it back.

He took a swig himself and struggled not to cough.

‘We should play a drinking game,’ she suggested.

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Okay.’

‘I ask you a question and if you don’t answer, you take a drink.’

‘Challenge accepted.’

‘Right. My first question is…’ She looked skywards. ‘Have you written any more songs about me?’

Her directness threw him.

‘I have an entire album’s worth,’ he joked, but it wasn’t far from the truth.

She went to ask another question, but he cut her off: ‘No more, my turn.’