She exhaled then nodded. ‘At least now I’ve heard from him I can get on with forgetting him.’
‘Sooner the better,’ Mrs Finch said quietly.
Gloria flicked her wrist to open the folded letter and scanned it. ‘… “best that I cleared off. I don’t think you or anyone else would want me sticking around …”’ Her voice was harsh. Mr Finch dipped his head and studied his toast. ‘He’s right, isn’t he?’ Gloria swept them all with her bold gaze.
William caught Mrs Finch glancing at him. Mr Finch didn’t look up. She ripped the letter in two, laid the pieces next to her plate, and took a gulp of tea.
‘So, William, the Tate. You love it there, don’t you?’ Her skin was still pale, and she hadn’t curled her hair, so it looked longer and thinner than normal, and her head smaller. All William has wanted to do since her return from hospital is hold her. Sometimes the feeling is so strong he has to fold his arms. He imagines nothing in return. He just wants to wrap her up and make her feel safe.
‘I do,’ he replied, ‘I love the building as much as the paintings. And you can get a pot of tea and a cake for two shillings round the corner – a bit pricey, but worth it.’ He was talking too much, but didn’t want to lose her interest. Encouraged by the faint amusement on her face, he asked, ‘Want to come with me? It’s only a short walk from the bus stop.’
‘Why not?’ she said, glancing at her mum and then out at the garden, at the warm July morning. ‘It’s a nice day, isn’t it? About time I got out.’
Mr Finch put his hand on his daughter’s back and gently rubbed it. ‘Good idea.’ He rummaged in his pocket and put a pound note on the table. ‘Tea and cakes are on me.’
Mrs Finch smiled and winked at William.
‘Tea?’ says William now, taking Gloria’s elbow and leading her away from Ophelia.
‘I’ve never been to an art gallery before,’ Gloria says, her heels clicking on the wooden floor.
‘Neither had I,’ he says. ‘There was a lot of art at Cambridge, but it was literally part of the furniture, so I didn’t take much notice.’ They turn left into the next room, past portraits of serious-looking men, and the light-catching gold of an enormous frame surrounding a dark, foreboding landscape.
‘Why did you start coming?’ Gloria cranes her neck before and behind William to take in what’s on his side of the room.
‘To begin with, it was a free-time filler that made me feel I was making the most of London, getting to see its treasures.’
‘And now?’ She turns her head to him.
‘It’s hard to explain.’ He points left as they leave the gallery. ‘I don’t know much about art, but when I come out, I feel better, bigger on the inside. Look, here we are. You find a seat, I’ll get the tea and stop talking rubbish.’
She stops in the cafe doorway. ‘You’re not talking rubbish. You say lovely things.’
He queues for the tea and teacakes, watching the butter dissolving into the teacake as the woman takes his money. As he walks towards Gloria sitting with her back to him, he plans to talk about the tutting lady; he wants to laugh with her again. He has to concentrate on the tray because the metal milk jug has been overfilled, but Gloria turns to look at him and his mouth goes dry. Laying the tray carefully onto the melamine table, he leans across and pats her arm. Her sobs are barely audible, but it must be clear to everyone in the cafe that she’s crying.
‘Sorry,’ she says, touching the corners of her eyes with the pad of her finger. William notices the two women on the adjacent table have only crumbs left on their plates and he hopes they leave soon. He sits down.
‘I’ll be all right, won’t I, William?’
‘Of course you will,’ he says, leaning towards her, ‘it only happened three weeks ago.’
‘I know I was barely pregnant,’ she says, her breath catching, ‘I wasn’t even showing.’
‘You were,’ he says. She’s staring at him and he thinks he’d probably do best to keep quiet, but she looks so eager, he carries on. ‘Everything about you was different.’
Gloria watches him for a moment, then blows her nose on a paper napkin. ‘It’s the guilt.’ She’s matter of fact now. ‘When I knew I was pregnant, I cried all morning.’ She leans towards him, so their heads are almost touching. ‘What if the baby knew I didn’t want it?’ she whispers. ‘What if that’s why I lost it.’
He takes both her hands; she pulls one away to wipe the drips from her chin but slides it back. William’s elbow is nudged by the departing woman next to him, trying to tuck her chair back under the table.
‘That can’t be right.’
‘I did feel like a mother,’ she says, ‘and that mattered more than all the other stuff – the shame, the rubbish wedding.’
‘You’d have been great.’ The words hang heavy and final. ‘And you will be great,’ he adds.
She looks at the table. ‘What if that was my only chance? I’m used goods now, aren’t I?’
‘Don’t ever call yourself that! And anyway, no one even knew you were pregnant. I did, but that’s different.’
‘Why?’ She’s waiting for him. Again.
A waitress has appeared next to them. ‘We’re closing in ten minutes.’
‘Thank you,’ says William, glancing at the pretty young woman. For a brief moment he imagines his heart being free to flirt with her, to start something new and fresh, without all the hurdles that lie between him and Gloria, without all these failures and missed opportunities weighing him down. The waitress clears their table and walks away, her flat shoes squelching on the floor. It’s a fantasy. His heart isn’t free, so why bother imagining it is?
‘Maybe I won’t be able to get pregnant again. Or maybe I will, but I’ll keep having miscarriages.’
‘I’m no expert,’ he says, feeling woefully inadequate, ‘but I’m pretty sure lots of women have miscarriages and then have healthy babies.’ He stands and slides his jacket on, then pulls her coat off the chair and drapes it over her shoulders. ‘I think you should try and be positive, for your own sake.’