‘Okay.’
He let her go and turned towards the window as if to follow Theo with his eyes. ‘That policeman,’ he said. ‘Was he a good friend of yours?’
‘Not good – not really. He was kind of on the edge of our group at college.’
‘Did anything ever happen between you two? Did you ever go out or . . . ?’
‘With Theo? God, no. And he’s married now. He’s got a son.’
‘I didn’t like the way he looked at you,’ Adam said. ‘It was . . . predatory.’
Thirty-four
Before going back to bed last night, Rowan had turned off Bryony’s phone and put it on the kitchen table so they’d see it in the morning. Now, as she let herself out of the house, she put her hand in her pocket and touched its cold metal back.
Rain was forecast, and the bellies of the clouds had a bruised grey hue. A woman cycled past, bat-like in a plastic poncho. Gee’s was busy, lunch evidently having struck a lot of people as a good way to deal with an overcast February afternoon, and she glanced through the window at the table she’d shared with Adam.
Waiting to cross Woodstock Road, she watched a couple come out of the chemist on the corner of Observatory Street, a little girl aged three or four holding their hands. Outside the hairdresser, the woman kissed them both and the man unlocked one of the cars at the kerb and lifted his daughter into the back seat. So normal, so ordinary and so completely alien – the old longing echoed behind her ribs. And yet – and yet . . . In Rowan’s mind, something was taking shape. She couldn’t see it, it wasn’t fully formed, but it was starting to glimmer, to pull at the corner of her eye like a twitching muscle.
She’d reached the old Eagle Ironworks when her mobile started ringing. On the empty street, the tone sounded especially shrill and she took it out quickly, hoping to see Adam’s name on the screen. Number Withheld. She hesitated then answered.
‘Rowan? Hello, it’s me again. Theo.’
His charming, summer’s-day voice, as if he hadn’t just tried to slut-shame her in front of Adam. Anger supplanted the alarm. If he’d been there, she’d have struggled not to hit him. She held herself in check: she couldn’t afford to lose control.
‘Sorry to bother you again so soon,’ he was saying. ‘It’s just a quick one. I’m trying to get a few things straight – work out a rough chronology. When we were talking about the vertigo this morning, you told Adam that you hadn’t spoken to Marianne for years, and I remember you said the same thing to me at the pub, more or less. I just wondered, how long was it exactly?’
Could she fudge it, obfuscate? No, there were too many people who knew the truth – Turk, Jacqueline. Adam himself. ‘Ten years,’ she said. ‘The summer we graduated, actually.’
‘Oh, as long ago as that.’ Was the surprise in his voice genuine, Rowan wondered, or a move in whatever game he was playing? There was a pause, a rustle of paper. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I’m just going back over some notes. That was the same summer her father died, wasn’t it? Seb Glass?’
Fuck. She was on the point of launching into the old story – her insensitivity; Marianne’s irrationality in grief; the bust-up that ensued – but at the last second she stopped. With every word that came out of her mouth, she laid herself wider open. ‘Yes,’ she said.
‘Right.’ Another pause, as if he were jotting something down. ‘Okay,’ he said, thoughtful. ‘That’s it. For now.’
He hung up without signing off and she stood on the pavement and felt fear crawling up her back, down her arms. Should she try to make a run for it, throw her things in the car and go? She could get on a ferry – there was probably still time. She could lose herself in Europe somewhere; go to ground. If it came to it, she’d thought last night as she’d lain awake, she didn’t know if she would be able to stand life in prison. Day in, day out, grinding towards a date in the distant future when she would be let out – to what?
But perhaps she was being premature: perhaps, like the flurry of police activity after Lorna’s death, this would all come to nothing. Let Theo think she was a tart: it wasn’t a criminal offence. And there was no surer admission of guilt than running, no more certain way of pulling all police attention in her direction. And if she stayed, she thought, chest aching, even if it all went wrong later, she could have a little longer with Adam, a few more hours or days. Leaving meant leaving him.
At the door an hour ago, she’d struggled not to give herself away. Please don’t go, she’d wanted to beg. Just ring Jacqueline: you don’t have to see her in person. She’d wanted to put her arms round him and hold on forever but she’d limited herself to one quick hug. ‘Drive safely.’
He’d kissed her. ‘Always. I’ll see you tonight.’