He’d stepped quickly away.
‘Shit.’ She looked at them both. ‘I’m so sorry, I had no idea you were . . . I just came to get some more music.’ She glanced at the CDs he’d dropped on the bed.
‘Mazz?’ Heavy footsteps on the stairs and Turk appeared in the doorway, too.
Adam held out his hand and helped Rowan down. He gestured at his music collection. ‘Have a look, Pete. Take whatever you want.’
She’d assumed they’d find each other again but somehow, they hadn’t. She couldn’t locate Adam and then he’d come looking for her just as the police arrived to shut them down. At five she’d fallen asleep on Jacqueline’s reading sofa and the next day, he’d given her just a single embarrassed smile. They’d never talked about it and it never happened again, though she’d thought about it for years afterwards.
By then, she’d started to see Seb with adult eyes. The differences between them intrigued her, especially since, in some respects, Adam seemed more mature. He was quiet and calm where his father was extrovert, voluble. It made sense that Adam had become an academic but Seb must have struggled with the mandatory silence of libraries. She pictured him at the Bodleian, words building up inside, levels rising and rising until, sensing he couldn’t hold them much longer, he’d come spilling out onto the pavement to pour them into his mobile in a great bubbling stream. He was constantly on his phone, it was never out of his sight, and the fluency with which he talked made him a natural for his radio and TV work, interviews and commentary and the documentaries he made from time to time.
When she was at college, he was interviewed on Parkinson. He was the first guest, just the opener for the musical act and the big Hollywood star, but from the TV room at Brasenose she’d watched him work his charm as she’d seen him do a hundred times at Fyfield Road. When he listened, he leaned forward as if he were paying attention with his entire body; his responses started out measured and carefully honest, respectful of the questions, but then lightened into self-deprecation and glinting humour. He wove back and forth, picking up themes, riffing on ideas, a conversational jazz musician.
The Tube rattled into Marble Arch and a gang of jostling Italian teenagers filled the carriage. When had Rowan realised he wasn’t faithful to Jacqueline? Not long after she’d kissed Adam: she’d still been pretty young. ‘Na?ve,’ Marianne’s voice corrected, and it was true she’d struggled to understand. She dealt in absolutes then: you either did something or you didn’t, loved someone or not. It was later that the greys began to shade in.
She’d overheard Seb on the phone. They were lying out on the lawn with books but Marianne had fallen asleep, her cheek crushing the pages of her paperback. Maybe he’d thought they were both sleeping or maybe he’d just forgotten his study window was open but she’d heard the phone and then, unmistakable, the low, teasing, confidential tones of a man – a flirt – talking to someone he’d either slept with or was planning to, soon. At first she’d thought it was Jacqueline – she’d heard him talking to her like that as they’d come out of their bedroom one afternoon – but then he’d suggested supper that night in Faringford. Jacqueline was at a seminar in New York.
Despite the sun flooding the garden, Rowan had gone cold. Her first impulse was to thank God Marianne was asleep but, sitting up, she’d looked at her friend’s exposed neck, the fine hairs escaping her ponytail, and had felt a wave of incredulous anger: how could he? He was gambling all their happiness, jeopardising everything. She was furious with him, as furious as if he were her own father. She had to tell Marianne, she decided. They had to stop him before Jacqueline found out.
Hours later, when, freshly showered and shaved, Seb had left, her efforts to find a sensitive way to say it had failed and Rowan blurted: ‘I heard your dad on the phone. I think he’s having an affair.’ Her mouth went dry; she’d expected Marianne to cry or scream at her, kill the messenger, but instead she’d walked to the fridge and taken out a Coke.
‘I know.’
Rowan had been momentarily lost for words.
‘It’s hard not to – I live with him.’ Marianne cracked the can open and took a sip. ‘He’s not subtle. I mean, he goes round with that look on his face, all smug and self-satisfied and conspiratorial, as if there’s something exciting going on and he wishes he could tell us about it but unfortunately . . .’
Rowan had been engulfed by pain, a sense of pure betrayal: why hadn’t Marianne told her? If her father were being unfaithful, she’d have confided in her friend straight away.
Marianne saw her expression. ‘Here.’ She pulled out a chair for Rowan then sat down next to her. ‘He does this,’ she said. ‘It’s not the first time.’
‘You’ve never told me.’ As if that were the issue.