From London With Love

22 | for whom the bellend tolls

Ophelia couldn't do it.

These ginger biscuits, for one.

But also moving in with Digby.

She nibbled on the corner of a biscuit, listening as Digby paced in the kitchen, barking into the phone about some Swedish stock. His business phone, clearly. His other phone — the personal one — sat on the table in front of her, envious of its twin sister's importance.

Ophelia pulled a face.

God. This biscuit was awful.

She set it down on the plate, her stomach churning. She had thought it was a chocolate bourbon when Digby set it down, but she had been tricked. Who came up with ginger biscuits, anyway? Satan?

Ophelia rubbed her sweaty palms on her jeans.

She had hoped to avoid this conversation. When Digby first asked her to stay in London and move in with him, she had assumed that it was a spur-of-the-moment decision. But then Digby had asked her again, two days ago, and Ophelia knew that she had to confront it head on.

She loved London. Truly, she did.

But she didn't love Digby — and that was a problem.

Ophelia sighed, rising to her feet. Abandoning the heinous ginger biscuit, she drifted closer to the bookshelf, scanning the titles to distract herself. Dickens, Austen, Kant — Digby's battered copy — Thackeray... She smiled as she recognized an autobiography on Van Gogh; Andrew's book, obviously.

She reached for Kant's "A Critique of Pure Reason," flipping it open to the first page.

Property of Andrew Hazelton-Scott.

Ophelia frowned. What the...?

She flipped it over, baffled. A terrible sense of foreboding was creeping over her skin, and she re-shelved the book. She reached for "A Tale of Two Cities" next; it had the same phrase scrawled at the beginning.

She tried another book. Then another one. They all had the same phrase: Property of Andrew Hazelton-Scott.

What the actual hell?

Digby stalked into the room. "I'm so sorry, darling." He kissed her on the cheek. "Swedish people are so god damn sensitive. I made one comment about his hair needing a cut soon, and suddenly he's—"

"Do all of these books belong to Andrew?"

Digby froze.

Ophelia could see it all play out on his face: the panic, the guilt, and then the fear. Digby's eyes flicked to the copy of Kant in her hand. He seemed to be assessing how much she knew. How much he could get away with.

"I shouldn't have lied," Digby said quickly. "But I wanted to impress you, Ophelia. You're so smart and I—"

"Have you even read Kant?"

"Er." He paused. "No?"

Ophelia closed her eyes. Rage was building like a tidal wave, and she stalked to the bookshelf, ripping out the copy of Dickens. "And this?" She waggled it in his face. "You haven't read this either?"

"Well," he hedged, "I watched the film."

That was the last straw.

"You know what, Digby?" she snapped. "I hate fancy restaurants. Hate them. I think oysters taste like slimy boogers."

Digby stared at her as if she had started shouting at him in Latin. "Okay, then. We'll try somewhere more pedestrian. There's no need to get so worked up about it, darling."