In The Boss's Castle. Jessica Gilmore
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hunt than a treasure hunt?’
‘A mix of the two. Every destination is accessible by Tube or bus to make it easier, at least to start with, and we’re putting the nearest stop with each clue with directions from that stop. On the app and on the online version you won’t get the next clue until you put in an answer for the current quest but that would be impossible on paper. The discounts you get will be linked to how many correct answers you have in the end.’
‘And what’s to stop people going online and cheating?’
‘Eventually? Nothing. But hopefully the fun of the quest will stop them wanting to find shortcuts. And the discounts will be the kind you get with most standard tourist passes so nice to have but not worth cheating for.’
‘Have you thought about randomizing it? You know, every fifth hundred correct—or completed—quest gets something extra? Just to add that bit more spice into it.’
‘No.’ He stared at her. ‘But that’s a great idea. I’ll plan that in. Good thinking, Maddison.’
‘Just doing my job.’ But that same swell of pride flared up again. ‘So, what’s the plan? Where are we starting off? Literary? History?’
Kit held up a map and grinned. ‘Neither. How do you feel about seeing the wild side of London?’
* * *
‘When you said wild...’ Maddison stood still on the path and stared ‘... I thought you meant the zoo!’
‘Nope.’ Kit shook his head solemnly but his eyes were shining with suppressed laughter. He seemed more relaxed, more boyish out and about. It was almost relaxing. But last night’s words beat a warning tattoo through her head. There was a darkness at the heart of him and she needed to make sure she wasn’t blinded by the veneer.
Not that she was attracted to Kit. Obviously not. A handsome face and a keen brain might be enough to turn some girls’ heads but she was made of stronger stuff. No being led astray by blue eyes and snug-fitting jeans for Maddison, no allowing the odd spark of attraction to flare into anything hotter. Think first, feel after, that was her motto.
Speaking of which, she was here to think. Maddison looked around. She was used to city parks—Central Park was her gym, garden, playground and sanctuary—but the sheer number of green spaces on the map Kit held loosely in one hand had taken her aback. London was surprisingly awash in nature reserves, parks, heaths, woods and cemeteries. Yes, cemeteries. Like the one lying before her, for instance. Winding paths, crumbling mausoleums and trees, branches entwining over the paths as they bent to meet each other like lovers refusing to be separated even by death. Maddison put one hand onto the wrought-iron gate and raised a speculative eyebrow. ‘Seriously? You’re sending people to graveyards? For fun?’
‘This is one of London’s most famous spots,’ Kit said as he led the way through the gates and into the ancient resting place. Maddison hesitated for a moment before following him in. It was like entering another world. She had to admit it was surprisingly peaceful in a gloomy, gothic kind of way. Birds sang in the trees overhead and the early-summer sun did its valiant best to peep through the branches and cast some light onto the grey stone fashioned into simple headstones, huge mausoleums and twisted, crumbling statues. ‘There’s a fabulous Victorian cemetery near you in Stoke Newington too but there’s no Tube link so I didn’t include it in the tour.’
‘You can save it for the future, a grave tour of London.’
‘I could.’ She couldn’t tell whether he was ignoring her sarcasm or taking her seriously. ‘There are seven great Victorian cemeteries, all fantastic in different ways. But I love disused ones best, watching nature reclaim them, real dust-to-dust, ashes-to-ashes stuff.’
‘Don’t tell me.’ She stopped still and put her hands on her hips. ‘You wore all black as a teenager and had a picture of Jim Morrison on your wall? Wrote bitter poetry about how nobody understood you and went vegetarian for six months.’
‘Naturally. Doesn’t every wannabe creative? You forgot learning two chords on a guitar and refusing to smile. Does that sum up your teen years too?’
It certainly hadn’t. She hadn’t had the luxury. People didn’t like their waitresses, babysitters, baristas and cleaners to be anything but perky and wholesome. Especially when their hired help had a background like Maddison’s. She’d had to be squeaky clean in every single way. The quintessential all-American girl, happy to help no matter how demanding her customer, demeaning the job and low the pay.
‘Not my bag,’ she said airily. ‘I like colour, light and optimism.’
Kit grinned and began to pick his way along the path. On either side mausoleums, gravestones and crumbling statues, some decorated with fading flowers, formed a curious honour guard. ‘What was your bag? Let me guess: cheerleader?’
Maddison tossed her hair back. ‘Possibly.’
‘Mall rat?’
‘I would say Mall Queen,’ she corrected him.
‘Daddy’s credit card, a cute convertible and Homecoming Queen?’
‘Were you spying on me?’ she countered. Actually it had been a rusty bike she had saved up for herself and then repaired. Not a thing of beauty but she had been grateful at the time.
He fell into step beside her, an easy lope to his stride. Her brightly patterned skirt, her neat little cashmere cardigan and elegant brogues were too bright, too alive for this hushed, grey and green world and yet Kit fitted right in, despite his casual jeans. He belonged. ‘So where did you spend your cheerleading years?’
‘You wouldn’t have heard of it. It’s just a typical New England small town.’ Maddison was always careful not to get too drawn into details; that was how a girl got caught out. She didn’t want anyone to know the sordid truth. She much preferred the fiction. The life she wished she had led. So she kept the generalities the same and the details vague. ‘How about you? Have you always lived in London?’
He looked surprised at her question. ‘No, I’m from Kilcanon. It’s by the sea, on the coast south of Glasgow on a peninsula between the mainland and the islands. Scotland,’ he clarified as she frowned.
‘You’re Scottish?’ How had she not known that?
‘You can’t tell?’
‘You don’t sound Scottish, you sound British!’
He laughed. ‘We don’t all sound like Groundskeeper Willie, well, not all the time.’
‘Do you miss it?’ She only had the haziest idea about Scotland, mostly bare-chested men in kilts and romantic countryside. It sounded pretty good; maybe she should pay it a visit.
‘Every day,’ he said so softly she almost couldn’t hear the words. ‘But this is where I live now.’
‘I love living in New York but I wouldn’t want to raise my children there.’
‘Children?’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘How many are you planning?’
‘Four,’ she said promptly. ‘Two girls, two boys.’
His mouth quirked into a half-smile. ‘Naturally. Do they have names?’
‘Anne, Gilbert, Diana and Matthew. This week anyway. It depends on what I’ve been reading.’ Actually it was always those names. They gave her hope. After all, didn’t Anne Shirley start off with nothing and yet end up surrounded by laughter and love?
‘Let’s hope you’re not on a sci-fi kick when you’re actually pregnant then, or your kids could end up with some interesting names. Why so many?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Four children. That’s a lot of kids to transport around. You’ll need a big car, a big house—a huge washing machine.’
‘I’m an only child,’ she said quietly.