Page 47 of Hate You to Love You

‘Then there are at least two people you’ve already made proud.’

‘Who?’

‘You and me.’

Elliot rests his hand on the back of my neck, slowly pulling me forward for another kiss. The kiss grows passionate, and we only break apart when I somehow manage to knock a beer bottle off the kitchen counter with my elbow. Elliot goes to pick the bottle up, and I step back to the entrance of the kitchen, watching him move slowly in the dark as I look over everything left behind by the party.

‘There’s still so much mess,’ I say, laughing as I toss an empty packet of salt and vinegar chips to the side.

‘That can wait until tomorrow,’ he whispers into my ear, tugging my arm and beckoning for me to follow him.

We cross the living room and head into my room. The night might as well be frozen in time. Elliot’s kindness with how he acts around me is so powerful. I collapse onto my bed and Elliot face plants next to me.

‘I’m so tired,’ he mumbles into the pillow.

I angle my head to face him, as he rolls over. ‘But you had fun, right?’

‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘I had fun.’

He shifts towards me and puts his arm around my shoulders as I let my head fall onto his chest. The slow rise and fall of his chest rocks me in and out of a dreamy sleep.

‘I love you, Reyes,’ he whispers, so quietly that I’m not sure he intends for me to hear it. It sounds like a midnight confession that’s for him only. But I do hear it.

‘I love you too,’ I murmur back.

chapter twenty

now

When my eyes snap open, it takes a moment before I remember where I am, and who I’m with. I’m afraid to make any sudden movements just in case Elliot is still hanging around the hotel room, but when I roll over, he’s gone. His pillow and blanket have been neatly tucked into a corner, and there’s a note on the bedside table that informs me he’s gone into the Redhouse Publishing office for the day.

Aside from welcome drinks at Redhouse this evening, my day is clear. So I’m out of the hotel by nine with a list of bookstores I want to visit. There are obvious sights to see, like Big Ben and Trafalgar Square, but for me there’s nothing better than visiting a local bookshop. Daunt Books is my first stop, which leads me to Marylebone. Elegant townhouses greet me as I exit the tube station.

The exterior of Daunt Books calls to me like a literary beacon. Its striking green sign is hard to miss. The selection of books inside is well curated, and every shelf I pass makes me feel as if I’m on the edge of a new discovery. Especially because the store is organised not by genre but by where each book is set. I wander into the contemporary fiction section, curious about what authors they have on display. I’m delighted to see a copy of one of my favourites, Holding the Man by Timothy Conigrave, and I’m tempted to grab a copy but I already own two. After settling on a signed special edition of One Day by David Nicholls, plus an iconic Daunt tote bag, I head to my next stop.

I pause for lunch and coffee at Monocle, indulging in their chicken sandos and a vanilla latte. Another tube ride takes me to King’s Cross Station, a short walk from Gay’s The Word bookshop. Cutting through more quiet neighbourhood streets and admiring the historic architecture eventually leads me to the London Review Bookshop. It takes me around fifteen minutes to decide if I want to splurge on another tote bag. The currency conversion is not working in my favour, but I decide to purchase one anyway, making a mental note to keep the receipt. Surely I could claim this as a tax write-off?

Out the back, there’s a little garden that gives way to a small cafe. The sky is grey, and there’s a slight drizzle of rain, but sipping on a latte instantly warms me up. I bring up the Maps app on my phone to see what other sights I want to tick off before industry drinks tonight.

There’s one place I’ve always wanted to see in London. Notting Hill. While there’s a draw to visit the markets and catch a glimpse of the lively coloured buildings, all I really want is to see the famous blue door from the Hugh Grant movie. But the idea makes me think of Dad. He would have loved to visit the Notting Hill door with me, and it seems wrong to visit it without him.

Foyles pops up on the map as another bookshop that’s relatively close to where I am, so I make my way there. As soon as I enter, I catch a glimpse of the sign that reads, Welcome book lover, for you are among friends. I’m blown away. There are floors upon floors of books, and there’s not a space wasted. By the time I wander out, it’s getting dark and the frigid cold is making me wish that I had worn a beanie and some gloves. Despite the random bursts of rain, the faint glow from billboards of what I realise is Piccadilly Circus is shining like a beacon for me, and the sight dazzles me. I take my phone out to snap a few photos, making a mental note to send some to Addie.

There’s still a bit of time before I need to arrive at the Redhouse drinks, so I decide to find a bar to hole up in. Most of the restaurants and bars I pass are packed, which isn’t surprising, given I’ve found myself in a major tourist hub. I spot a sign for a pub called The Thin White Duke, which turns out to be small but charming inside, and I manage to grab a seat at the bar.

I pass the time by flipping through one of Claudia’s notebooks. I turn straight to the London pages, which is mostly filled with news reports on the whirlwind Summer Memory tour. In between these pages are entries of other times Claudia has been in London. There’s the program from the UK premiere of the final Golden Ruins film, some sketches of what appears to be a park, and a torn tourist map of Greenwich.

I stare at the page, trying to work out what it means, until I realise what time it is. If I don’t leave now, I’ll be late to Redhouse drinks.

One London taxi ride later and I’ve arrived in Shoreditch. I make my way down a flight of stairs to the sliding steel door of jazz-themed speakeasy Happiness Forgets. Inside, brick walls are cast with the warm glow from lamps and candles, and a jazz band plays a cover of ‘It Had to Be You’ by Frank Sinatra.

Redhouse has booked the bar out, and everyone clearly knows each other. So I grab an Old Fashioned from a passing waiter and take a sip, trying my best to look like I belong here, but the cocktail is one of the worst drinks I’ve ever tasted. It’s so bitter that I spit it back out into the glass.

‘Too strong?’ says a man I don’t recognise. He’s got slicked-back grey hair and a silver beard.

‘I should’ve just stuck to the wine,’ I reply with an embarrassed laugh.

‘Charles Durand.’ The man introduces himself by holding his hand out for a shake.