As she turned them over, her own phone vibrated with a text from Adam: Wish I could teleport myself to North Oxford this evening. Tomorrow . . . The familiar buzz was tempered this time by a new awareness of how much she had to lose.
She made a cup of tea, lingering in the window for Martin’s sake while she waited for the kettle, then went upstairs to Seb’s study. After Cory had gone that day he’d broken in, she’d taped up Marianne’s drawing carefully and brought the box here. She couldn’t risk putting it back in the wardrobe where he could have gone straight for it again, but here in the study, on the stack of other boxes and packs of printer paper at the side of the desk, it was hidden in plain sight. She should have kept it here all along. She slid it out again now and put it on the desk. Then, finding the drawing and Marianne’s card, she carried them to the bathroom.
She dropped the card into the basin and took the matches from her pocket. Marianne’s heartbeat handwriting pulsated up at her from the basin. I need to talk to you. Rowan felt a flare of anger. This was all her fault. If she hadn’t felt the need to talk, to start unburdening herself to Cory and digging into a past that had lain peacefully for ten years, none of this would have been necessary. Marianne had made her do what she’d done today – she’d left her no choice. With another burst of fury, she remembered how she’d prevented her going out with Adam years ago. Well, not this time, not twice. Opening the box, she struck a match and, in the mirror, she watched it burn. When it was almost at her fingertips, she dropped it onto the card. A dark circle ate Marianne’s words, then burst into flames. They flared and died in seconds; Rowan turned on the tap and washed the embers away.
She picked up the drawing and dropped it in. She paused to look at it one last time. Thousands of people – hundreds of thousands, probably – would look at Marianne’s paintings and drawings in years to come but only she and Michael Cory would ever see this one: the barge, the fire licking out through the shattered glass, the prow window filled with the tiny agonised face.
The crunch as the stone hit his skull . . . As Rowan had gone through his pockets, she’d been struck by the enormity of it. Two minutes earlier, he’d been alive, talking to her – lying to her – and then he was dead, face down in that icy water. It had been easier last time, less personal: there’d been no physical contact, she hadn’t even had to see Lorna, just check the windows were closed and turn on the gas. And this time, she’d had to do the whole thing on her own; whatever Marianne claimed afterwards, really, last time, they’d done it together.
Looking up, she caught her own eye in the mirror and felt a burst of painful longing. I need to talk to you, Mazz, she thought. Despite all this, Cory, the trouble, I really wish I could talk to you.
She’d missed her so much over the years; every time anything had happened – whenever she’d met someone or been promoted; when she’d had to leave the BBC – it had been Marianne she’d wanted to tell. She’d made do with talking to her in her head, imagining what she’d say. And of course, once a year at Christmas as she had posted her card, she’d let herself hope that this would be the year she’d get one in return.
She’d tried very hard to keep the lines of communication open. Despite the state Marianne worked herself into that afternoon at Vicarage Road, she’d finally managed to make her see a degree of sense. ‘What would people think?’ She had asked her. ‘How would it look if suddenly, after all these years, you and I stopped being friends the very same day your dad’s girlfriend died? Think, Marianne – try to be logical. The police are going to find out they were having an affair, there’s no way it’s going to stay a secret. Everything’s got to look as normal – as uneventful – as possible.’
She’d seen the reason in that, at least, but the burden of carrying it out had fallen almost entirely on Rowan. In the fortnight that followed, during those horrendous days when the police seemed to circle Fyfield Road like vultures, Marianne had sequestered herself in her bedroom and left Rowan to keep up appearances, drinking tea and talking to a shell-shocked Jacqueline in the kitchen or sitting upstairs watching black and white films while Seb worked his way through a bottle. Jacqueline’s reaction had taken Rowan by surprise; she should have been relieved, at least.