‘That was exactly when I wouldn’t have got in touch. We don’t speak for a year then you have a hit and, lo, here I am again? How much of a star-fucker would I have looked?’
‘God, you’re weird. How about a friend congratulating another friend on their success? Can’t you see it that way?’
‘I’m sorry, Pete.’
He rolled his eyes. ‘It was a long time ago now – just ask my agent.’
‘What a mess. The whole thing.’
They sat in silence until Turk picked up the plate. ‘Have another biscuit,’ he said, and the sheer absurdity of it made her laugh. He started, too, and then it was as if a lid had come off and they laughed until they were weeping, far beyond the point of knowing why they were even laughing at all.
Rowan got a grip first. ‘I’d forgotten how ridiculous you are,’ she said, running the pad of her thumb under her eyes.
‘Speak for yourself.’ He handed her a tissue.
‘How well do you know James Greenwood, Pete?’ she asked.
‘A bit. Quite well now, I suppose, but only through Mazz.’
‘What do you think of him?’
‘Much as it pains me to say it, I think he’s all right. Solid. Surprisingly bullshit-free for that world, too.’
‘Jacqueline seems to like him.’
‘Yeah, she does. And for all the tabloid furore about the break-up, he’d been with Sophie – his wife – for years; they might even have been at college together. He isn’t some Lothario sleaze-bag who dangles big promises to get into impressionable young artists’ knickers. And you saw Bryony, his daughter. He’s a really good dad, Mazz said; he fought tooth and nail to get joint custody. Sophie – or Derry, probably – hired those people who did the Mills-McCartney divorce and it sounds like he had to hand over a kidney on a golden platter.’
‘How old is she?’
‘Seventeen. No, eighteen – her birthday was just before Christmas. She’s leaving school this year.’
‘Is she?’ She’d looked younger. ‘Did they get on, she and Mazz? She seemed pretty upset at the funeral.’
‘They were best buds.’
‘Even though Marianne split her parents up?’
‘I met them for lunch in town a couple of months ago when they were shopping together. They’d been to a gig at the Roundhouse the night before. Marianne used to take Bryony to events, private views, all that; they used to share clothes and shoes. It was more a sister thing than Mazz being the evil stepmother.’
‘Well, she was nearer Bryony’s age than Greenwood’s.’
‘Meow.’
‘It’s true, isn’t it – just? If he’s forty-eight – is that right? – and his daughter’s eighteen?’
He shrugged. ‘Bryony loved Marianne because she treated her like an equal. That was Mazz’s thing, wasn’t it? She made you feel like when she looked at you, she really saw you. The real you, not the . . .’ A rasp of stubble as he scratched his cheek, embarrassed. ‘You know, even though I knew she wasn’t like that at all, I wanted to believe Greenwood was a career move for her.’
‘Oh, Pete.’
‘But she was happy with him. Whatever she needed, he had it. I never did.’
She reached across the table and put her hand on his arm.
‘Poor sod,’ said Turk. ‘Can you imagine how he’s feeling?’
Down the hallway came the sound of a key in the front door. Rowan looked at him. Was he living with someone? A woman? Turk had turned away, though; she couldn’t catch his eye.
The ticking of a bicycle being wheeled into the hallway then, ‘Hello?’
‘In here, Martin.’
Rowan raised her eyebrows.
‘Friend of a friend. He’s staying for a few days, that’s all.’
Footsteps down the corridor and then in the doorway there appeared an ectomorph in an electric-blue Lycra all-in-one. He had a neat round skull with neat light-brown hair and a face that was strangely innocent for a man of thirty or thirty-five, an impression reinforced by the two pink patches in his cheeks. A na?ve but friendly accountant, she thought, describing him for Mazz.
‘Martin, this is Rowan, an old friend of mine from Oxford.’
‘Lovely to meet you, Rowan. Are you staying for dinner? Thought I’d make the time-honoured chickpea curry, Pete, if you fancy it. I like to cook on Saturday nights,’ he explained. ‘Don’t get much opportunity in the week, alas, by the time I get back from the office.’
Turk, Rowan noticed, was mortified. ‘That’s very kind,’ she said. ‘But I’ve got to get back. Flying visit.’
‘Oh, that’s a shame. Next time.’
Turk was still standing on the pavement as she turned the corner. She wound down the window and waved, and in the rear-view mirror he raised his arm in a kind of salute.