‘They’re not famous famous,’ Marianne had said that first week. ‘It’s book fame, which doesn’t count – I mean, no one’s going to recognise them walking down the street.’
Which hadn’t been true, in fact. They weren’t Mick Jagger and Jerry Hall, obviously, but both Jacqueline and Seb were memorable-looking and, in a town with a high concentration of Guardian readers, Marianne’s mother in particular drew attention. It irritated Seb, Rowan had understood even at sixteen, that though he earned far more and his writing was the result of cutting-edge psychological research, his commercial appeal lowered his stock among the academic community. He had the cash but Jacqueline had the intellectual kudos.
From the outside, the house hadn’t changed in seventeen years. The old willow tree still overhung the pale gravel at the front and helped shield the bay window from any passing gawpers, and Virginia creeper still covered the fa?ade. In autumn, its leaves turned flame-red, setting the house on fire, but it was in its winter avatar now, a great network of veins that spidered up from roots outside the kitchen windows. The carriage lamp by the door was on and light shone from the bay, though upstairs the windows were dark and blankly reflected the scudding clouds, as if the house were trying to put on a brave face but couldn’t sustain the effort where no one was looking.
Rowan had taken the long way around to make sure she wasn’t one of the first to arrive but there had been heavy traffic through town and now she imagined she’d be one of the last. As she quickly ran a brush through her hair, the rear-view mirror showed her a man in a waxed jacket getting into the old silver Audi parked behind. It was a second or two before she realised who he was.
At the crematorium there had been a nasty scene. As the service had ended, the rain had stopped for a few minutes and, grateful for fresh air, the congregation had followed Jacqueline and Adam outside. Rowan had been coming through the door when a man’s voice shouted, ‘Jacqueline!’ and, seconds later, there was a scuffle on the far edge of the crowd. She hadn’t been able to see, there were too many people, but she’d heard sharp intakes of breath from those at the front.
Quickly she’d made her way forward and seen Adam pulling Fintan Dempsey off a man with blood streaming from his nose. Ten feet away, and partially screened by a laurel bush, another man, the one now getting into the Audi, had been taking shot after shot: Fintan straining, Adam holding him back, Jacqueline being gathered away into the safety of the group like a wounded animal. A large camera lay in a puddle on the tarmac.
‘Leave her the fuck alone!’ Fintan shouted, trying to shake himself free.
James Greenwood’s voice was low and calm. ‘Let it go, Fint. You’ll just make it worse.’
‘She’s lost her child. Do they understand that? Her daughter is dead.’
‘Yes,’ Greenwood said, flat, and Fintan realised his mistake.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Oh, Jesus, James, I’m so sorry.’
The photographer lunged forward suddenly and snatched his equipment from the ground, triggering a new rush of blood. He swiped his nose with the back of his hand, wincing at the contact. ‘This is assault – I’ll sue.’
‘Do it.’ Fintan’s breath made clouds in the air as Adam and Greenwood led him away towards the car park. ‘Do it,’ he’d shouted back over his shoulder.
Rowan got out of the car now, raised her umbrella and walked over to the Audi. The photographer was biting into a baguette and looked up, startled, as she rapped on the glass. He pressed the button and the window came down.
‘How much do you want for the pictures?’ she said.
‘What?’
‘I want to buy your pictures from the funeral. How much are they?’
‘They’re not for sale.’
‘Oh, come on. Why would you take them otherwise?’
‘They’re not for sale because they’re already sold – sold and emailed. They’ll be in the Mail tomorrow if you want to see them.’
The camera was on the passenger seat together with a laptop. Rowan imagined reaching in and grabbing it. ‘Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?’ she said. ‘Papping a funeral.’
‘Never look at that sort of stuff yourself then?’ he said. ‘Turn the page, do you? Do me a favour.’
‘You’re like a carrion crow.’
He shrugged. ‘We’ve all got to eat.’
She nodded at his sandwich. ‘Well, enjoy your lunch.’ She turned and walked away.
A few seconds later, he called after her, ‘Hey!’ and as she spun around, the flash went off in her face.