This Book Made Me Think of You(72)

She blinks up at him, her face so open and lovely that Alfie has to look away. It suddenly feels hard to breathe.

“Shall we keep walking?”





Forty-Five




The smell of melting raclette, truffle, and freshly baked bread fills the air. Tilly and Alfie stand at the entrance to Borough Market beneath a bridge where trains rumble overhead. The food market heaves with stands and crowds of people. The floor is dark and cobbled, making it easy to imagine sawdust on the ground and horses and carts trundling by, and yet the shining geometric shape of the Shard rises up, old and new London colliding.

“It looks…busy,” says Tilly hesitantly. “For someone who chose to move to the UK’s most populated city, I’m not a fan of crowds.”

“I grew up in London, and I’m not a fan of crowds either. But I’ve been coming here since I was a kid. You’re going to love it, I promise. The trick is to just go with the flow of the crowd. Embody driftwood. If you want to find somewhere specific here, chances are you’ll get lost. But if you just let yourself go with it, you’ll find yourself stumbling over the most amazing places.”

“Got it,” replies Tilly. “I can be driftwood. I think.”

“Oh, and another very important rule,” adds Alfie. “Say yes to samples.”

“Well, obviously.”

“Ready?”

He holds out his arm, and Tilly loops hers through his, his body reassuringly warm and solid against hers as he guides her into the throng. She squeezes his arm, trying to silently transmit reassurance back to him too. If she ever saw Freya, she’d have some things to say to her.

At first it’s overwhelming, the onslaught of sounds and smells and the press of people crowding each stall making her head spin. But then Alfie’s face lights up and he points at a nearby cheese stand. “Ooh, look at that!”

An enormous half wheel of Gorgonzola oozes invitingly. At a nearby stand, barrels of olives glisten in marinated herbs, and sun-dried tomatoes swim in oil. Alfie grabs a sample from a board. “Try one of these.”

Tilly takes the cocktail stick with the large green olive he’s presenting, the taste of lemon, garlic, and the most delicious, buttery olive she has ever tasted filling her mouth.

“Oh wow. I didn’t know olives could taste like that.”

“I know, right?”

Arm in arm they push their way through the market, spotting stands selling everything from piles of fresh vegetables, to cured meats, to cinnamon buns sparkling with sugar. They take their mission of trying every sample seriously, passing each other tasters of crumbling cheeses, salty focaccia, and gooey cookies.

“You can spot the best places by the length of their queues,” explains Alfie as they venture further into the market. “See, look at that huge line over there. That’s for the Black Pig. They do these incredible slow-roasted pork ciabatta rolls.”

“Stop. That sounds insanely good—my mouth is watering.”

“And there’s another queue over there for Maria’s Market Café—this really old-school place where the traders get their breakfast.”

“It’s amazing to think this market has been here for such a long time, but that there are all these new stallholders too.”

“That’s one of the things I love most about London,” Alfie replies. “It’s always changing, always new. But the important things stay the same. Or at least, they should…”

There’s suddenly a strange look on his face, but then a large group of tourists surges past, separating them. Alfie reaches out and grabs hold of Tilly’s wrist gently but firmly, pulling her back toward him.

“Sorry,” he says gruffly as he wraps an arm around her back, pulling her closer. “I didn’t want to lose you.” Warmth spreads up her neck as she tilts her face up toward his.

“That’s all right. I didn’t want to get lost.”

The crowd surges around them, but they are perfectly still, pressed up against one another. Her mouth turns dry, and a shiver rushes up her spine. And then the tourists have passed and Alfie steps away again.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m ready for something more substantial,” he says, not meeting her eye.

“Same,” she replies, steadying herself. “I’m ready to eat something that can’t be fitted on a toothpick. But how will we possibly pick—there are so many good options…”

“I’ve got somewhere in mind for lunch, if you like? It’s a restaurant just around the corner. We might have to queue, but apparently it does the best fresh pasta in London.”

“Pasta?” Tilly replies, her eyes lighting up.

“I hope it’s not going to be too much of a disappointment after eating handmade pasta in Tuscany. I know it’s your favorite, and Time Out were raving about it, but you’re a pasta connoisseur now.”

Tilly’s face grows warm.

“But if you want to go somewhere else, that’s fine too,” he adds hurriedly. His cheeks are pink when he glances at her.

“No, that sounds amazing.”

The only table they can get is at the bar, sitting on stools facing the open kitchen. It’s so tight that their knees knock against each other as they eat bowls of pasta that really are close to what Tilly ate in Italy. At first it feels a little awkward. Tilly can’t shake the memory of his arm wrapped reassuringly around her in the market and the way she’d had to tilt her head to meet his eye. He is taller than Joe, and as she’d taken a breath, she’d caught his smell of eucalyptus and coffee, different than Joe’s woodsy scent but equally enticing…