Over by the window stood the Dawsons, the Glasses’ next-door neighbours. They had to be in their late sixties now: Mrs Dawson’s blonde hair had faded to silver and her husband had developed a vulture-like hunch in the shoulders. It was strange to see them again after so long; Rowan felt as if she were watching time-lapse photography, life fast-forwarding to the grave.
With a small start of recognition, she spotted Martin Harriman and Josh Leavis. They were with two women she’d never seen before, their girlfriends maybe – both were good-looking, one very. Martin and Josh had never had any trouble on that front, though: back then, girls stuck to the band like flypaper, and all four of them had cleaned up, or could have. Turk only ever had eyes for Marianne, of course. Josh, Rowan thought, looked better now than he had at nineteen; he’d filled out. She remembered his stomach, the seam of light brown hair that had tapered down from his breastbone to his navel. Sometimes, before he’d had breakfast, his stomach had felt hollow when she ran her hand over it. She looked away before he could feel the pressure of her eyes on him.
But where was Turk? She hadn’t seen him at the crematorium, either, but he had to be here. She turned to check the crowd in the dining room but as she moved, she locked eyes in the mirror over the fireplace with the shaven-headed man who’d been talking to Charlie Gilpin. For a moment they both held the stare. Even reflected, his expression was searching – almost confrontational. The natural thing would be to smile, nod, break the tension, but neither of them did.
After what seemed like several seconds, he took a sip of his water and Rowan reached after a passing tray of canapés, largely as an excuse to move. She was embarrassed, as if she’d been caught eyeing him up, and maybe that was what he thought: he gave an impression of physical confidence even though that wide, full face and heavy brow weren’t what most people would call attractive. Hazarding another glance – he’d turned and was heading into the dining room – she saw that though he was in his early forties at most, he was nearly bald, his remaining hair shaved as a pre-emptive measure. He was one of those men who suited it, though: his head was well shaped, and his neck and shoulders strong-looking, so that rather than prematurely aged, he looked sophisticated. Urbane. Who was he?
Turk would know. Putting her glass down, she sidled back towards to the door. He wasn’t in the dining room so she took the stairs to the lower-ground floor, passing three waitresses who seemed in a particular hurry to come up. When she reached the kitchen, she saw why. Jacqueline was standing at the door to the garden, her back to the room, and she was crying.
Rowan hesitated a moment but then, remembering the hug at the door, she crossed the room and put her arms around her. Jacqueline gave a sob that she seemed to heave up from deep inside; Rowan felt it rise and break, shudder out. She tried to think what to say but nothing would make the slightest difference so she just held on to her and hoped that in the tightness of her arms, Jacqueline would read solidarity and support.
It was a minute or so before she lifted her head and wiped the heel of her hand under her eyes. She pulled a piece of kitchen roll from her sleeve and blew her nose. ‘What did I do wrong, Rowan? What did I do – or not do – to make this happen? Marianne – all of it.’
There was the sound of footsteps on the stairs and Fintan Dempsey appeared in the doorway. When he saw Jacqueline’s face, his creased in distress. ‘Oh, sweetheart.’
Coming back up, Rowan glanced out of the small window at the turn of the stairs. Peter Turk was standing under the dripping eaves of the garden shed, his collar pulled close around his throat with one hand, cigarette smoke curling from the other. She let herself quietly out of the front door and made a dash along the side of the house and through the gate.
‘There you are,’ he said as she stepped under cover next to him, as if it were he who’d been looking for her. ‘I saw you at the crem.’
‘Why are you out here?’
‘I’ve been inside – briefly. I can’t face it.’ He took a long drag on his cigarette and a column of ash joined the small pile of sodden dog-ends at his feet.