could get my hands on. The shelf in my room is groaning with advance reading copies – early editions of books, offered to reviewers, librarians and booksellers.
‘Let’s go back down this way. Fancy something to eat?’
My stomach growls in answer. ‘Definitely.’
Crossing the road out of Hyde Park, we head down towards Portobello Road, and the smell hits us almost as we turn the corner onto the street. The fizz and spit of burgers being cooked mingles with the sweet scent of cinnamon buns from the bakery stall, and sour-spiced olives and paella in a huge frying pan.
‘What d’you fancy?’
‘Everything.’ I laugh.
‘Bockwurst, genuine German sausages, get your sausages here,’ shouts a voice, and I turn to the right, seeing a market stallholder handing one over. ‘Mustard and sauce over there, love,’ he says to the woman, who gives a nod of thanks.
‘What can I get you, love?’ he asks as he turns to me.
We take our sausages and sit down on the stone wall outside the Electric Cinema. At last the beginnings of spring are showing themselves. There are crocuses peeping through the earth in wooden window boxes, and bright yellow daffodils standing proudly in the garden beside us. Portobello Road is a riot of noise and colour, alive with people and bustle and everything I love about London. I sit there with Alex by my side, and we eat our sausages, and we watch the world go by in a companionable silence.
‘There’s a place I’d like to show you,’ Alex says, as we stand up after we’ve finished eating. He looks at me, his expression concerned. ‘Unless you want to get back? We’ve been ages.’
I shake my head. What I want to say is that I’d be quite happy walking the streets of London every day with him, because I think he is lovely. What I do say is: ‘No, I’m not in any rush to get back.’ And off we go.
We walk to Little Venice, which looks exactly like you’d think from the name. It’s like an oasis of calm in the middle of the city – canals lined with pubs and cafés, willow trees dipping their branches in the water, and colourful narrowboats moored by the canal-side.
‘I’ve always wanted to live in one of those,’ I say, peering in the window. A small child presses her nose against the window from inside and I laugh.
‘Me too,’ says Alex. ‘This is the café I wanted to show you.’
It’s not posh. The curtains are faded gingham and outside there are a couple of rickety wooden tables and chairs.
‘They do the best coffee – and breakfast – around here. I love it. And you can sit and watch the world go by.’
‘Yes please.’ I pull out a chair – it’s freezing cold, but there are thick red fleece blankets hanging on the back. I wrap one around my knees and sit, watching. It reminds me more of Amsterdam than Venice, in a funny way.
I watch the sun streaking the sky pale coral pink and red as it begins to set. After a few minutes, Alex reappears with two flat whites, each with a pretty heart on the top. I pull my phone out and take a photo, adding it to my Instagram story.
‘I like your Instagram.’ Alex stirs sugar into his coffee, and the heart disappears from the froth. ‘It’s like you see all the good bits in London.’
‘Thanks.’ I sip my drink and look out at the people on the canal. The little girl we saw earlier has climbed out of the narrowboat now. She’s wearing a thick padded coat and wellie boots, waiting for her dad to get her bike. She stamps her feet and catches my eye, jumping in a puddle and laughing. ‘I like sharing the nice bits.’
‘That’s a good way of looking at life,’ he says, smiling at me in a way that makes his eyes crinkle and my heart give a disobedient thud.
‘It’s partly a way of saving up memories, and it’s also because I like sharing them with my Nanna Beth.’
‘And your mum? Is she an Instagram addict as well?’
I shake my head, laughing. ‘Definitely not. My mother only likes to do stuff when there’s applause at the end of it. Put her on stage and she’s quite happy. There’s not enough feedback from online stuff.’
‘She’s an actress?’
I want to say no, she’s a drama queen, but that’s not really fair. I had a long, rambling voicemail from her earlier, complaining that she’s had