‘Oh my God.’ Rowan laughed. ‘Were they happy?’
‘Overwhelmed, I think. And then, a month after they were born, Si was seconded to Kuala Lumpur so he had to pack up and ship out leaving her with these three tiny creatures. They didn’t get medical permission to fly for months because they were so small. She used to send me these emails at three a.m., poor girl.’
‘Didn’t you go out with her for a while?’
‘That was Claire With An I.’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘How about you? Who are you in touch with?’
Rowan put down her glass, realising as she did that it was nearly empty again. ‘I saw Alex Busby quite a bit when I was at the BBC – not a surprise that he’s doing so well.’
‘I wondered if he’d be interviewing me about Marley Farm – that would have been really odd.’
‘And actually, a couple of weeks ago, I bumped into Sarah Gingell on Tottenham Court Road. I was on my way to Foyles and she was getting off a bus.’
Theo frowned. ‘How did she look?’
‘Frankly? Terrible.’
‘Was she off her face? What time was it?’
‘Three, maybe half-past. Wasted. Neither of us was saying anything funny but she kept laughing – it was weird. Depressing.’
‘You go along thinking you’re immune, that things like that aren’t going to affect you and your friends, but . . .’ Theo shook his head. ‘You just have to be grateful it’s not you and make sure you take your opportunities when they come.’ He reached round the corner of the table and rubbed the top of her arm. ‘It’s good to see you.’
Out on the empty pavement, Iron Maiden muzzled by the heavy pub door, their voices were suddenly loud. The wind had picked up, driving away the cloud that had smothered the sun during the day and revealing two or three stars bright enough to compete with the light pollution.
‘So.’ He smiled and his breath made a cloud.
‘So.’
He moved towards her and backed her gently up against the wall. His hands were warm around the sides of her face. ‘I’ve wanted to do this since I walked in.’ Rowan smelled the sweetness of beer on his breath as he leaned in another inch and let his lips touch hers. A shiver travelled over her shoulders and down her arms.
‘Are you seeing anyone?’
She shook her head. ‘Not really. Not at the moment.’ She tipped her face up, expecting him to kiss her, but instead he pulled away.
‘Let’s get out of here.’ He tucked her arm under his and they walked down towards Gloucester Green, past the student theatre onto Beaumont Street. The fa?ade of the museum was lit up like an ancient Greek temple. By the entrance to the car park at the Randolph, he led her into the shadows and kissed her properly, sliding his hands inside her jacket, touching the small of her back with cool fingertips. ‘So now just one question remains,’ he said.
‘Which is?’
‘Your place or mine?’
‘Yours,’ Rowan said. ‘It wouldn’t feel right, going back to Fyfield Road.’
‘Yeah, I know what you mean. The thing is, I live out in Wytham these days.’
‘Do you?’ She was surprised.
‘We can’t drive, we’ve both had too much to drink and, frankly,’ he pulled her against him, ‘I can’t wait that long.’
‘It’s funny,’ he said, smoothing a strand of Rowan’s hair over the pillowcase. ‘I have a really distinct memory of looking at your hair. It was the morning after Worcester Ball – do you remember?’
‘I remember going in the lake in a dress that was dry-clean only. It was ruined – I had to throw it away.’
‘Your hair was still wet when we got back. I remember looking at it on the pillow like this and trying to work out what colour it was. It’s not blonde, is it, but it’s not really brown, either. There’re bits of copper but you don’t see them unless you look quite closely. Perhaps tawny’s the word.’
‘Tawny? I like that.’
Repositioning his elbow, he leaned over and kissed her slowly. ‘Why did we never go out?’
‘We were young and stupid?’
He pulled her closer and she turned onto her side. Cheek resting on his shoulder, she gently stroked the fine hair on his chest. They lay in silence for a minute or two, enjoying the warmth of the bed in the cold room.
‘You know what you said about Marianne being alone?’ she said.
‘Hmm.’ He’d closed his eyes.
‘What made you so sure?’
He shifted a little, not falling asleep, Rowan realised, but concentrating on the sensation of her hand on his skin. ‘The snow,’ he said. ‘There was one set of footprints going into and out of the house and she made them both.’
‘Oh.’
‘She had wellies on – navy blue Hunters. She was wearing them when she died and we’ve got CCTV footage of her in them buying cigarettes in North Parade a few hours before, after the snow fell, so . . .’
‘Were there prints on the roof?’