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This I could handle.

“This good?” he asked.

I nodded in response but didn’t look at him. I didn’t want to antagonize him further.

After about ten minutes driving through light traffic, Dylan interrupted my thoughts. “That’s your new school.” He pointed to a large Gothic-style church in red and yellow brick behind a high arched wall. It looked old-fashioned, like a school from an old English 1950s novel. “I thought you might want a look at it. We have an appointment there on Monday. You can look around.”

“We do?”

“Didn’t I mention it?”

“No,” I murmured as panic constricted my chest. “Or maybe I forgot.”

Dylan’s jaw tightened. “Sorry. I meant to tell you, but all the decorating has been distracting. A good distraction,” he added, offering me a rare smile. “You did good, Emily.”

“Thanks.”

We drove on in silence.

“Damn. I forgot about the bridge.”

“What?”

“Hammersmith Bridge is closed. It’s been closed for years, but I always forget.”

I glanced toward what looked like a wrought-iron bridge, painted green and gold.

“We’ll cross at Chiswick.”

“Chiswick has a bridge?”

“It does.” Dylan accelerated onto a dual carriageway. “I wonder if we should look at another school. You’re a talented cellist and artist, and you’ve excelled in your GCSE results.”

“Can we just stick to one school? I’m sure the old-fashioned one will be fine.”

“Old-fashioned?”

“Yes. The facade looks like something out of the Malory Towers books.”

“Malory Towers?”

“Enid Blyton novels, set in a girls’ boarding school?”

“And I would have read that… when?” he teased.

“Secret Seven?”

He shook his head.

“Did you read at all?” I asked, shocked.

“Not Enid Blyton, that’s for sure. She is seriously old school and, from what I hear, problematic, Emily.”

“I know. Mum let me read them and she told me. She’d read them as a little girl. Granny had given her the books.”

“Your mum was a passionate reader,” Dylan said quietly. “She used to read to me.”

“Did she? When you were little?”