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‘Where are we going?’ he asks, settling into the righthand aisle seat at the front, while I take the one on the left.
Take a tour of Londonwas one of the first items on his list.
‘I’m not paying for an official London tour,’ I reply. ‘We have buses and feet.’
‘You’ve completely hijacked my list,’ he says halfheartedly, watching Fleet Street pass us at a snail’s pace through the window. ‘I’ll be honest, this wasn’t quite what I had in mind for that item.’
‘I’m sitting at the front of the bus with you, which is against my personal code of conduct. The least you can do is say thank you.’
‘Thank you.’ He offers a saccharine smile that I return with vigour.
‘Think of it as a private tour. I’ll give you all my fun facts.’
Appeased, he leans forward. If the barrier weren’t blocking the way, he’d have his face pressed up against the glass. ‘Fine. But only if it’s thefunnestfacts.’
We’re close to the Tesco Express we visited the other day, but I already used up my fact quota when he asked about the statue. ‘Uh, Fleet Street has been around since the Roman era.’
‘Not fun enough.’ He shakes his head, though is still interested enough to take a photo through the window. ‘I’ve never been here before. Give me drama.’
I look around before pointing to the left. ‘I tripped on a loose paving slab over there once and had the most horrifically slow-motion fall known to man.’
‘Injured?’
‘In mind and spirit only.’
‘Sorry to hear that.’
‘No you’re not.’ As I tighten my ponytail, I ask, ‘Have you really never come down here?’
‘Honestly, I’ve been terrible at doing the touristy stuff. Hence,’ he waves his phone in the air, ‘the bucket list.’
As the bus makes its slow procession along the Strand, I giveFinn tidbits from my life, pointing out anything I remember. ‘SawMamma Miawith my parents and brother there a few years ago and my mum cried duringDancing Queen.’
‘It’s an emotional song,’ he says with a lift of his shoulder.
‘Oh, and I got very drunk on a date in a cocktail bar up there,’ I point up a side street, ‘and went home with a man called Harold.’
His head swivels towards me, that single untameable curl flopping onto his forehead. ‘Harold?Was he on day release from an old people’s home?’
‘It was his retirement party,’ I retort, accompanying it with the same sugary smile from earlier. ‘God, you should’ve seen the way he moved those hips. Must’ve been a real hit with the ladies in the sixties.’
‘Interesting. Is that your usual type? Geriatric?’
‘Upset you wouldn’t fit the bill?’
‘I guess if the only reason you’d reject me is because I’m still paying into my pension, I can handle that.’ His eyes meet mine as he sips his coffee.
‘I love that you think that’s the only reason I’d reject you,’ I say, breaking eye contact to look out the windscreen. We’re approaching Charing Cross now. ‘I once sprinted halfway down the Strand to this McDonald’s to get a sausage and egg McMuffin before breakfast ended. Haven’t run since.’
‘Just what Usain Bolt would’ve wanted.’ There’s a beat of silence. ‘That makes it sound like he’s dead. He’s not dead. I don’t think. Wait,hey Siri, is Usain Bolt alive?’
I suddenly notice where we are. ‘Shit, we need to get off.’ I scramble to my feet and inconsiderately hit the stop button a couple of times in a row, silently apologising to the driver for it. Luckily, he must be in a good mood, because he’s willing to open the doors just after he closed them for the last passengers, and wespill out of the bus onto the pavement. ‘Come on,’ I say, heading towards the crossing, where our bus is currently waiting at a red light.
As we cross, I give the driver a tight-lipped smile, while Finn mimes a thank you and gives a thumbs up.
Finn’s tone is playful when he restarts our conversation from the bus. ‘If it’s not my pension, why else would you reject me? Humble me, please. I’ll relish it.’ He almost bumps into someone as we hit the pavement on the other side and apologises about eight times more than necessary.
I don’t think he needs to know the full truth here. ‘Because,’ I say, motioning my hand in his direction, ‘you are entirely incapable of walking a single metre without engaging in intense conversation with someone.’
