The right-hand side of the dresser was empty but the left, she’d discovered, was still filled with Seb’s things: socks, cotton boxers, white T-shirts, jumpers that she remembered. The short top drawer held his reading glasses and a dark leather wallet with some old credit cards, a paper driving licence, and a creased white-bordered photograph. Opening the wallet, Rowan eased the picture out again.
Twenty-five at the most, Jacqueline stood on a beach in winter, boots planted firmly on shingle, the backdrop a mass of leafless trees and a turbid sky rendered hyper-real by the film and the print’s high-gloss finish. She wore a woollen greatcoat, her hands thrust deep in the pockets, and her hair streamed sideways in the wind as she looked at the photographer, her face soft with love. Twenty-five – before Adam and Marianne, before she was married. Rowan looked at her with a skein of emotion: nostalgia, love of her own, pride – here was her Jacqueline, a woman of substance even then – and yet, knowing what the future held, Rowan felt pain, a protective urge so strong she wanted to reach into the picture and grab her, King Kong-like, pull her out of the narrative that was already being written for her. Rowan felt her determination strengthen: she would do what she could. She would protect her now.
Putting the picture back in the wallet, she closed the drawer and went to the window where she positioned herself out of sight behind the curtain.
The street was empty, people at work, children still at school. There were five or six cars parked at the kerb, her elderly silver Golf among them, but none moving. The heavy glazed-cotton curtains smelled dusty. When she held her breath, the only thing she could hear was a single bird in the tangled branches of the willow.
As St Giles rang the hour, however, a sleek silver car, a Mercedes, came down Crick Road, paused at the junction then pulled sharply round the corner and parked. A few seconds later, the driver’s door opened and she saw jeans, a dark coat, a shaved head. He locked the car with the fob, the lights flashed, then he turned and strode across the street. On the pavement, he stopped to look up at the house just as she’d done on the day of the funeral. What was he thinking? His face, upturned, gave nothing away.
Staying out of sight, she moved away from the window and made her way quietly downstairs.
Through the coloured glass panels, his silhouette was round-headed, square-shouldered. The tips of his ears stuck out slightly, as if primed for listening. She had the advantage of the step but he was still taller than her by several inches. Taking a breath to compose herself, she opened the door. A momentary impression: grey needle-cord shirt, black coat. Grey eyes.
‘Michael? Hello, I’m Rowan.’
The hand he extended was dry and callused but of course, she realised, he worked with his hands, pencils and paints, brushes. Knives.
He made an infinitesimal movement forward into her body space. The natural thing was to stand aside, let him in, but she stood her ground, obliging him to shift back, wait.
‘We’ve seen each other before, haven’t we?’ he said, looking her in the eye. ‘At the wake.’
‘Yes.’ Now she opened the door wider and stepped back. ‘Come in.’
‘Thanks.’ A twitch in his eyebrow said he’d registered the exchange, made a note.
In the hallway, he took off his coat. Rowan waited to see whether he would give it to her or, without thinking, turn to the pegs himself. How familiar was he with the house? Thwarting her, however, he did neither, and instead put it over his arm. He glanced into the sitting room and then up the stairs as if he expected Marianne to appear.
‘Would you like some coffee?’
‘Sure.’
On the way down to the kitchen, she felt his eyes on the back of her neck as plainly as if his gaze had physical weight. While she made the coffee, he moved around the room, and from the corner of her eye, she saw him tip his head to look at the books stacked by the sofa. Her computer and papers were at the end of the table and he stopped and picked up Catholic Gentry, turned it over to read the back. His self-assurance was striking: other people would hover, make awkward conversation, but he seemed to feel no need for that sort of social nicety.
‘You’re studying?’
‘For a doctorate. History.’
‘Where are you doing it? Not here.’
Was that last part a question or not? Rowan wasn’t sure. ‘No, not here,’ she said. ‘London.’
‘Which college?’
‘You’re well informed. People don’t necessarily think of London as being collegiate.’
He gave a half-shrug. ‘I have a friend who’s a professor at Imperial. She’s American, an old friend from California, but she lives here now.’
On the point of saying something about it being good to have old friends around, living overseas, she stopped herself. Confident as he was, he’d no doubt be baffled by the idea of needing familiar faces. The kettle whistled and she filled the pot. Cory pulled out a chair at the table and dropped his coat over the back.
When she brought the coffee over, he gave her a crooked sort of smile, one side of his mouth lifting but not the other. His eyes were on her face again. ‘Thanks for doing this,’ he said. ‘I appreciate it.’