“Not even a little bit your business.”
The key twitches. “Not at home . . .” she says. “Not at work . . .”
It settles near the British Museum. I’ve always wanted to go to the British Museum.
“Come on,” she says, “let’s try to catch him.”
We get into a cab, which I predict she won’t pay for. Penelope plays fast and loose with goods and services. I feel so guilty about it that I can’t make eye contact with the driver.
She keeps holding the key over the Maps app on her phone to keep track of her dad.
“Why can’t you call him again?”
“I can’t risk him telling my mum.”
“Won’t he tell her anyway? Eventually?”
“I’m going to plead my case in person.” She frowns at her phone and mumbles, “Or spell him if I have to.”
“You’d do that to your own father?”
She shrugs. “Well, I haven’t yet—He’s moving again!” She leans forward and raps on the Plexiglas screen between us and the driver. “Here is fine!”
The driver lets us out at the corner. Penny knocks her gem on his credit card reader and says,“Fair enough!”
“Do youeverpay for cab rides?” I ask her, as the taxi drives away.
She’s scanning the street. “I only take cabs when it’s an emergency.”
“So, that’s a no . . .”
“There he is!” She starts waving.
There’s a small, gray-haired white man crossing the street ahead of us. I guess Penelope did say she was biracial. Her mom’s Indian, I think.
“Dad!” she calls.
The man looks up. He gets across the street and waits for us.
“Penny,” he says. “Your mother’s been calling you.”
“Dad . . . I need your help.”
We end up at a coffee shop, and Penelope’s dad buys us scones with jam. (The scones over here are more like biscuits. They sell them everywhere, and it’s perfectly acceptable to order them at any time of day. They give you a cup of butter and sometimes your own little bottle of jam. I really don’t think English people realize how great it is to live here. The sandwiches alone are on anotherlevel.)
Mr. Bunce is rubbing his eyes. He’s got a tired face. Up close, his hair is more blond than gray. “Penny . . . you know I can’t keep secrets from your mother.”
“I’m just asking you not tomentionthis,” she says. “I’m not asking you to lie about it.”
“That sounds like a lie of omission,” I point out. “People hate those just as much.”
She goggles her eyes at me. “Shepard.”
Mr. Bunce is looking at me. One side of his mouth is quirked down, but it still seems like he’s smiling. “You’re the American, huh? Martin Bunce.”
“Shepard,” I say, holding out my hand.
He takes it. “Whereabout in America?”
