‘It’s not th—’
‘Anyway, one day I went there when she’d told me not to and Jacqueline let me in. I went storming up to Mazz’s room and told her that I wanted to help her, I was her friend, but it came out sounding . . . aggressive. She yelled at me – rightly – saying that I shouldn’t have forced my way into the house, that Jacqueline shouldn’t have let me in.’ Rowan shook her head. ‘I was so hurt, I flew off the handle.’ She stopped for a moment and looked at her hands. In the past few days, she’d started biting her nails again and the tip of her index finger was red and swollen, throbbing. ‘I don’t know if Marianne told you but my mother had a heart attack at twenty-eight.’
He frowned. ‘No, I didn’t know that.’
‘It was a congenital problem but no one knew until it was too late.’
‘She died? How old were you?’
‘Eighteen months. My dad brought me up but he was away a lot with work and there were a lot of babysitters and “aunties”. The Glasses became a sort of surrogate family so when Seb died, I grieved, too, but all of a sudden I was on the outside. It was like being bereaved twice: Seb first, and then all of them.’
Greenwood looked pained.
‘But I don’t want to make excuses. I said some unforgivable things and she . . . didn’t forgive me.’
‘Her father’s death obviously affected her very deeply. More deeply even than you would expect.’
‘Peter told me. Turk.’
‘Yes, he worried about Marianne. How hard she pushed herself.’ His attention was caught by a movement under the next table: a pug curled at its owner’s feet, concealed from view from the counter by a tartan shopper. ‘Marianne used to say that about you,’ he said, focusing again. ‘You pushed her – challenged her. She said you made her think.’
Rowan was sceptical. ‘She was surrounded by thinkers.’
‘Of a different kind. Her parents, her brother, were into politics, current affairs, but she said the two of you talked about novels and films. And art – she said you knew a lot, especially for a teenager.’
‘No. I’m interested but I don’t know much. She was fooled by first impressions. The day we first met properly, out of school, we talked about Andrew Wyeth and I’d just read a book on him. Pure chance. After that, I’ll admit, I used to mug up a bit.’
‘She said she worked in images and you worked in words.’
‘Total flattery.’
‘Do you write?’
‘No. Well, I start things, short stories, but then . . . I’m channelling my energy into my PhD. It feels more realistic.’
Greenwood’s hands fluttered on the tabletop, a movement by which he managed to convey, Maybe but is that everything? Now the pug hauled itself to its feet and staggered arthritically in their direction. It went straight for Greenwood, bumping its head against his shin, and he put down his hand and made a surreptitious fuss of it. ‘At some point,’ he said to Rowan, ‘I need to pick up my things but I can’t face it just yet.’
‘No, I understand.’
‘But I do have to come round to the studio soon, I’ve been meaning to ring you. Saul – the gallerist in New York – he’s going ahead with the show and I told him I’d draft some catalogue copy. I always wrote her copy so . . .’ He looked down suddenly and she realised he was crying. To avoid embarrassing him, she put her hand down to the pug but it shied away. In her peripheral vision, Greenwood blotted his eyes with a paper napkin.
‘I’ve got a key but I’ll call ahead. I live in Oxford so it’s not a . . .’
‘Do you?’
‘Yes.’ He was surprised by her surprise.
‘With the gallery being in London, I assumed you lived here.’ His media profile had led her to that conclusion, too, the pictures in Londoner’s Diary and Metro.
‘I moved when I split up with my wife. Marianne was in Oxford, obviously, but, quite independently, my daughter was about to start at St Helena’s. The plan had always been that she would board but, after the divorce, we thought she’d have more stability if she lived with one of us.’
Interesting that he, not her mother, had made the move. But Sophie Lawrence’s job was in London, too, at Channel 4, and perhaps she’d preferred not to live in the same city as her husband’s new squeeze.
He drained his coffee and looked at the clock over the counter, not realising that she could see him in the mirror. Rowan felt a burst of panic: he was going to leave and she hadn’t asked him anything yet.
‘Had Marianne mentioned me recently?’
Greenwood frowned. ‘No, I don’t think so. Would she have? Why do you ask?’ He looked at her with new interest and she shook her head as if to dismiss the query, irritated with herself.