‘Your father’s not here any more?’
‘No, he moved years ago – ten or eleven years. He remarried and his new wife – not so new – is from Kent. Just outside Canterbury.’
‘Oh, of course, that’s right – I remember now. But, Rowan, yes. If you’re absolutely sure and it really would help you, too, then we’d be very grateful if you’d come and be here for a while. Incredibly grateful.’
Five
It was dark when she let herself out of the flat, sunrise still more than an hour away. She’d been awake since four, her humming brain making it futile even to attempt getting back to sleep. In the end, she’d got dressed and made some coffee.
The grilles were still down at the corner shop so she walked on, hoping the newsagent on Replingham Road would open at six. Only a handful of houses showed lights in their upstairs windows and the streets were quiet. The Tube clattered by behind the little blocks of flats across the road, overground here.
In the spill of light from the window, the newsagent’s son, a boy of sixteen or seventeen already dressed in his school uniform, was loading the papers into the stand on the pavement. She waited while he cut the binding on a bale of Independents and stacked them in the last empty cube, weighting them against the breeze with a grubby block of wood. He nodded as he bounced back inside, the automatic door releasing a gust of warm air.
Fintan was on the front page of the Mail. The photographer had caught him mid-lunge, eyes ablaze with righteous fury. Leave My Woman Alone: Fintan lashes out at funeral of lover’s daughter. New agony for Jacqueline as art world gathers to pay tribute to Marianne. Full story, pages 4 and 5. The Express had a picture of Jacqueline holding Adam’s arm, her face gaunt, eyes staring as if she’d just witnessed the end of the world: The Lioness Who Lost Her Daughter.
Inside, the newsagent put the papers in two bags. ‘A lot of reading here.’
‘Work,’ Rowan said.
Back at the flat, she microwaved the last of the coffee then laid the papers out next to Marianne’s card and the copy of the Mail she’d bought at the Tube station the morning after Jacqueline’s call. She’d said on the phone there were photographers at the house, but Rowan hadn’t expected the story to make the front page. With her shining hair and full mouth, though, her soft eyes, the editors had known Marianne would sell papers. Oblivious to the commuters elbowing past, Rowan had stood at the kiosk and stared at her. Marianne had stared back, demanding engagement: Look, Rowan. Look at me. Her card had arrived that evening.
Today the Mail gave the story a whole double-page spread, a long report and several pictures. One close-up showed the photographer with a bloody nose; another Jacqueline and Adam, her head bowed with grief, his usually gentle face grim. The three photos of ‘celebrity mourners’ included Peter Turk.
The largest picture was captioned Happier times: Marianne and James Greenwood at last year’s Venice Biennale. Taken at a party, it showed them standing together, Greenwood in a dinner suit, Marianne wearing a yellow cocktail dress and tuxedo jacket that by rights should have looked awful. They were pressed together and smiling, her head tipped towards his shoulder, his arm round her waist. It was an odd way to describe a man but as she looked at James Greenwood, the word ‘radiant’ came into Rowan’s mind. His eyes were shining, every nuance of his body language expressing pride and love.