Page 23 of Handle with Care
“It’s double,” he points out, impassive. Like he’s doing his best Spock impression. Totally deadpan. “It’s maths.”
I sigh. “Don’t make me turn this car around. You’re complaining already?”
Will gives me a withering look.
Satisfied, I give him the once-over. “Listen, I don’t think the two Underground lines makes sense. Why not do one tube or even take the bus and walk to get to Covent Garden?” I pause meaningfully. “It’s maths.”
Will rolls his eyes. “Humor me. It’s only a minute or two difference.”
“We really could take the bus,” I muse, rubbing my jaw, the stubble rough beneath my fingers. “London buses are great.”
“No.”
“No?”
“No bus,” he affirms, no nonsense.
Judging by the look in his eye, I don’t push. I’m getting better at reading him, when to tease and when to let up. This looks like one of those times to ease up on giving him grief. “Alright, then. Have it your way. Topped up your Oyster card?”
“I don’t have one.”
“You don’t have one?” I ask, incredulous. “This is London. Who doesn’t have an Oyster card?”
“I know exactly where we are. But I don’t take public transport in London if I can help it. Which is why I drive.”
My lips twitch. I think back to what Nancy said: Mr. Too-Posh-to-Function.
Will presses his lips together into a flat line, then looks away. He heads for one of the ticket machines, and we’re finally on our way.
It’s not long before we’re jammed in a train car somewhere, full of tourists on a summer Friday. We made it through to Waterloo for the transfer onto the Bakerloo line, and witha shuddering lurch, we come to an abrupt stop as people complain.
Will’s got a seat, but he grumbles too. At least he’s not being thrown around. Then we’re not going anywhere at all. I shift my weight from foot to foot, with people too close and the air stifling.
We almost made it to Charing Cross too.
As the delay stretches to a couple of minutes, a voice comes on over the speakers, apologizing politely about the momentary delay, and that we’ll be departing shortly. No explanation given, or even if one was, it’s unintelligible over the scratchy PA system and the din of the travelers.
Typical.
Despite the initial complaints, the people around me seem either like travel-hardened Londoners or tourists busily chatting about their plans for the afternoon. I glance over at Will, and he’s back to reading one of the books I’ve loaned him.
As I continue to hold on to the overhead rail, I surreptitiously sniff myself to make sure I don’t reek of sweat. If anything, I smell mildly of my deodorant, so at least it’s doing its job. I’d hate to show up at some fancy fashion place smelling like something terrible. Though it does smell generally gross on the tube, with the stuffy air and something vaguely metallic and thick too. If I smelled weird, I wouldn’t stand out here, at least.
The longer the delay takes, the more nervous I become. What if something’s gone wrong? What if there’s an accident? Or some kind of security incident? Or someone’s fallen on the tracks? I start to worry my bottom lip.
“It’s fine. It’s probably too warm for the tracks or something,” Will says a moment later, peering at me over his book. Like he has some kind of telepathy. I swear his eyes shimmer silver. “London doesn’t do heat well.”
“I’m fine,” I tell him. “Totally not worrying. Not me.”
How did he even know? Can he smell fear?
Will gives me a wry smile and goes back to his book.
I feign confidence and start to read the ads in the carriage, as if they were the most fascinating thing ever. As suddenly as we stopped, the train shudders forward again, and we’re on our way like nothing ever happened.
When we finally arrive at Covent Garden, it feels far longer than the half hour or so it took to get here. We probably should have taken the car option, in hindsight, but I’m not going to admit that to him.
Instead, we’ve at last come above ground. Thank God. The crowd parts as people stream out of the station. Even Will draws in a deep breath of fresh air, or at least fresher air than that of the Underground. He rakes a hand through his hair. As ever, he looks well presented and neat, in a white shirt and charcoal chinos. I’m well-groomed too, but he takes it to a whole other level. Even his shoes shine, coordinated with his oxblood bag.
