Alfie:
I’ve smelt worse things on the Underground.
Tilly:
Ha! That’s a point. I’m afraid your camping gear might not be in the best state when I get it back, I’m sorry.
Alfie:
That’s OK, it doesn’t matter. As long as you’re OK.
Tilly:
I’m OK. Might be getting gangrene. But I’m OK.
Alfie:
You did it though. You wild camped!
Tilly:
I did!
Alfie:
Joe would be proud of you x
Tilly:
Thanks. I’m actually proud of me too. See you when I’m back x
Behind the counter at Book Lane Alfie types another message.
Alfie:
Looking forward to it x.
But then he deletes it, instead starting a new message.
Alfie:
Hi Mum, do you think I might be able to borrow your car tomorrow?
42
There is a young man stood beside Alfie carrying the most enormous bunch of flowers Alfie has ever seen. He clutches them to his chest, eyes lighting up every time the automatic doors in the Arrivals hall slide open.
Alfie glances at the piece of card held between his hands. Will Tilly get the sign? Shouldhehave brought flowers? What is he even doing here? He’s always been a believer in excellent customer service but perhaps this is taking things too far.
The doors slide open again and the man beside Alfie lifts the flowers and waves them in the air. A tiny white-haired woman spots him and beams.
‘Let me take your bag, Gran,’ says the young man, rushing to take the handle of her wheelie suitcase.
‘Hello, love. Are these for me? Are there any flowersleftin the flower shop?’ the woman says in reply but she doesn’t stop beaming as she takes the flowers and lifts them to her face to smell them.
A little further away two young girls let out a squeal and the man who had been holding their hands lets go and allows them to duck under the barrier and run into the arms of the woman who looks just like them and is dropping her bags and reaching her arms out for them. And Alfie must have something in his eye because his vision blurs for a second and he almost misses the flash of ginger hair until a voice calls, ‘Alfie!’ and he is looking across at the pale grey-green eyes of Tilly Nightingale, her hair ina messy bun, her face free from a scrap of make-up, her legs bare from her denim shorts down to her muddy walking boots and scattered in freckles as though someone has flicked her knees with a paintbrush and –stop looking at her legs, Alfie!
‘Oh my god, I can’t believe you’re here!’
