Page 25 of How to Blow It with a Billionaire

“But what if you get here and I’m bonking your brother?”

“Then I’ll be psychologically traumatized and you should feel bad about yourself.”

I abandoned that line of argument as a dud and asked instead, “Where are we going?”

“I told you. Out.”

I glanced at the time on my phone, surprised at how quickly the day had passed. I’d damn near worked a nine to five, if you discounted the fact I’d gone shopping, watched TV, and not got up at nine. But, y’know, I was definitely getting there.

“Okay, okay.” I closed my laptop. “Let me get changed.”

Ellery’s own outfit—an off-the-shoulder jumper that simply said DEAD, a floral skirt, black tights, Docs, and a backpack with cat skeletons on it—didn’t offer much insight into possible destinations. It suggested something fairly casual but, knowing Ellery, that was probably how she’d dress for tea with the queen. I settled for jeans and my Boy George T-shirt. Another present from Nik, it was just a stylized eye, very blue, with the familiar slash of a brow, a touch of makeup, and a single colored tear sliding from the corner. I mean, the queen liked Boy George, right? She’d offered him an OBE once. Well, allegedly. I flung my velvet jacket over the top, grabbed my phone, and that was me: ready to go.

We headed out of the building and down into the street. It was actually shaping up to be a fairly nice evening. Not exactly warm because, y’know, England, but the sky was swirly blue and a pale silver orb was hanging in it. I’d seen pictures of such a thing on the internet and I think it was the sun. Ellery produced a pair of dark glasses and put them on. They were huge and round and covered her from brows to scowl.

Thus protected from the merest hint of summer, she led me into Hyde Park through the Albert gate. At least, I thought it was the Albert gate—it was sandwiched between a couple of embassies, wide enough to admit a carriage, and there were weird statues of animals on either side of it, which struck me as the sort of thing Victoria was liable to stick her husband’s name on. It led to a sandy avenue lined by hazy green trees, broken up every now and again by wrought-iron lampposts.

“Rotten Row,” I said, getting all excited.

Ellery turned her head slightly in my direction. “S’not that bad.”

“Are you seriously telling me there’s something I know about London that you don’t?” She didn’t answer so I took that as a grudging yes, and went on, “The name’s a corruption of Route du Roi, and it was the fashionable place for ladies and gentlemen to ride out during the Regency period.”

“I’m not into rich people shit.”

“Spoken like a true rich person.”

That earned me another head-turn, but her mouth wasn’t quite as sulky as usual. In fact, I would even have gone so far as to say her expression was amused. “How do you know this stuff?” she asked.

“Georgette Heyer. Obviously.”

“Oh.” I couldn’t see her eyes, but her tone suggested they were rolling. “Romances.”

“What’s wrong with romances? And don’t give me some line about them being trashy or patriarchal or always having the same plot because everything always has the same plot.”

“Nah. They’re just about people. Can’t be fucked with people.”

The righteous wind wheezed out of my sails. “Aren’t all books fundamentally about people?”

“Watership Down is about rabbits.”

“Allegorical people rabbits though.”

“No, it isn’t. They have their own language and faith and culture, and think about things totally differently.”

I wasn’t sure if I’d genuinely outraged her with my thoughts on Watership Down. So I did a conciliatory backpedal for the sake of social harmony. And also because I’d never heard her sound so passionate, and it was kind of adorable. “I guess. And, anyway, that book is really fucked up.”

She grinned. “Isn’t it?”

We walked on in silence. Turned left at the tennis courts and ended up back on the Kensington Road, between the Albert Memorial and the Royal Albert Hall. This part of London was basically a noncon Albert sandwich whichever way you went.

“Come on.”

Ellery stomped off purposefully, looping round to the south side of the concert hall. I’d never actually been this close to it before. It was a tiered cake of a building in red brick and terracotta, wrapped up this decorative frieze about the advancements of Arts and Science and works of industry of all nations. I knew that because it was written right there in huge shiny letters. You had to love the Victorians. I mean, apart from the colonialism. And the bigotry. And the widespread social oppression. Okay, maybe the Victorians sucked.

Once we got to what, I guess, was the front it was clear something epic was going on. There were two lines of people running down each side of the Queen’s Steps and, from the general relaxed atmosphere—there were even little clumps of picnickers—it looked like everyone was in it for the long haul. It was probably the most British thing I’d ever seen. Because, say what you will about us as a nation, we sure as hell give good queue.

Up near the front on the right was a little group all playing cards. Though they stopped when Ellery approached and an older woman, with a cluster of white curls, got up from a fishing stool in order to—OMG—hug her. And Ellery didn’t flip out or bite anyone. It was super weird.

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