Leo draws a breath, as if he’s holding back, as if he wants to say more but knows he shouldn’t. “You’re right. I’m sorry. Look, let me take you to lunch. How about the Ivy? You can order every drink on the menu—what d’you say?”
“I’d love to. But I can’t, I’ve already got plans.”
Leo frowns. “You’ve got a date?”
“Yeah, that’s right. I’ve got a hot date with George the Porter. I’ve got a thing for bald men with beards. We’d make a good match now, don’t you think?”
I smile. Leo doesn’t.
“She’s just a . . . friend, all right? I’m meeting a friend at Fitzbillies.”
“Right. I wasn’t—it doesn’t . . .” Leo shakes his head. “Anyway, it’s fine, I’ve got a load of paperwork to catch up on anyway—I’ve still got the report on that dead guy in room forty-seven to write, and I really should be studying too, so it’s all good.”
I know he’s lying, but I let it go. I nod and he glances about, checking no one’s there to see us, then gives me a quick kiss on the cheek and turns to walk away. I watch him go and wonder why I’m still keeping Ana a secret from Leo and Leo a secret from Ana. Perhaps I’m simply being selfish, not wanting to share either of them yet. Or perhaps it’s something deeper, something darker. I don’t know.
3:33 p.m.—Liyana & Goldie
“Bloody hell,” Liyana squeals as soon as she sees me, barrelling into Fitzbillies and crash-landing at my table. “What the hell did you do to your hair?”
I feel my cheeks flush. Unlike Leo, my sister clearly cares that I’ve cut off most of my hair. “I thought—”
“But why?” Liyana interrupts. “Why would you?”
I glance down at my Chelsea bun, poking it with my fork.
“Oh, no,” Liyana says. “Wait, you didn’t?”
I nod, still not meeting her eye.
“Because of the story.” Liyana laughs. “You cut off your hair because of my story!”
“Are you going to sit?” I say, wishing she’d drop it. “I got you a Chelsea bun.”
Liyana sits, still grinning. “I still can’t believe you did it.” She tears into the bun with her fingers, ignoring the fork. “Hey, this is delicious.”
“Yeah,” I say. “And only about three thousand calories a piece.”
Liyana chews. “And worth every one. Can we go to the Fitzwilliam Museum?”
“Of course.” I curl my hands around my teacup. “It’s just down the road. I took my brother to a Vermeer exhibition once, but I’ve not been back since. I suppose I should’ve, since I worked at the hotel across the street.”
“Why didn’t you?” Liyana asks, as if she can’t imagine a reason to justify such neglect of art.
I shrug. “Long shifts, never had the time.” It’s a half lie, but I’m not about to tell my posh sister that I felt too embarrassed, like I didn’t fit in.
“We could go to the Quentin Blake exhibition now,” Liyana says, catching herself staring at my short hair and returning to devouring the Chelsea bun. “I loved his illustrations as a kid. I had to read Roald Dahl in secret, though; Dadá—Mummy banned all his books.”
“Why?”
“She thought they encouraged rebellion against parental authority.”
“Ma told me they were too scary.” I smile. “I think she didn’t want me getting ideas, in case I made a bid for freedom in a giant peach.”
“Overprotective?”
I nod. “Massively. I spent my childhood planning my escape. But when she died . . . I still . . .”
Liyana’s dark eyes don’t change, but still I feel the shift, the sudden weight of her sadness as if it were my own.
“Yeah,” she says. “Me too.”
“I suppose having the nest ripped away too soon means we’ll always long for it more.” I take a gulp of tea. “Did you bring my comic?”
“It’s not finished,” Liyana says, reaching under the table to rummage in her bag. She hands me two folders. “That’s yours and another—a few illustrations from a graphic novel I’ve been working on for a couple of years and a fairy tale. With yours, I’m thinking I might create a series.”
“Fantastic.” Setting down my cup as far from the folders as possible, I open the one that isn’t mine. As Liyana scrapes the last of the syrup off her plate I gaze at the first page, at an image so striking I stare at it for a long time: a falling woman transforming into a bird that shrieks above a dark forest fading into the distance. Tentatively, I turn the pages