Rowan was ambushed by a memory so vivid she saw the exact position of her hands on the damask cloth. The hum of the restaurant around them, the carousel-whirl of candlelight and jazz, glinting silverware, the cascading laughter of a woman on the other side of the room. Jacqueline’s armful of bangles had made a musical sound as she’d fallen back against the banquette and looked at them. ‘Lovely, lovely girls,’ she’d said, shaking her head a little. ‘I’m so bloody proud of you both.’
Without warning, Rowan’s eyes filled with tears. Mortified, she fumbled for the napkin on her lap only to discover it had fallen to the floor. As she moved to reach for it, however, Adam leaned across, took her hand and squeezed it gently. She expected him to let go, take his own hand back, but he left it where it was, on top of hers on the table. She looked at him, face flushing, and saw that he was crying, too. ‘Don’t be embarrassed,’ he said.
They were almost the last to leave the restaurant and Rowan wondered if Adam had wanted to put it off, too, the moment of standing up and walking outside, forgoing the protection of the glasshouse and its circle of light. As she put on her coat and scarf, she had the idea that she was putting back on the distance between them.
Outside, the Banbury Road had gone quiet enough that they heard the whirr of an approaching bicycle for some seconds before it overtook them, and when the lights at the crossing turned red – so bright to Rowan in her wine bedazzlement – there were no cars to stop. Frost held the garden of the hotel on the corner in icy paralysis. Apart from an exclamation at the cold as they came outside and a brief remark about how much he’d always liked the violin-maker’s shop two doors down, where the curvaceous wooden shapes of instruments-to-be hung pale and unvarnished in the window, Adam said nothing. They walked eighteen inches apart. She’d been right about the distance being reinstated, Rowan thought: the hand-holding at the restaurant had been about comfort, that was all. But of course: how could it be anything else? And the reason for the dinner had been made plain from the outset, he’d even told her explicitly: a thank you from us both, Mum and me.
As they passed the Maison Fran?aise, however, he reached for her hand again. She remembered the night of the party, the feel of his fingers on hers as they picked their way round the people on the stairs, and she told herself to stop. Even if he was attracted to her – and there was no evidence: he hadn’t flirted or asked if she was seeing anyone – it wasn’t fair. He was grieving, vulnerable. And drunk.
Still hand in hand, they reached the corner of Fyfield Road and Adam stopped in a pool of streetlight. He turned to look at her. ‘Okay?’ he asked. Rowan hesitated. What was the question? Was she okay now, not still upset? Or is this okay, whatever ‘this’ was? He watched her, waiting for her answer.
‘Yes,’ she said.
He nodded, Good, then moved on, pulling her with him beyond the spot of amber light. No need to look before crossing the road here, nothing stirred, and their footsteps were the only thing that broke the silence as they crunched across the drive. At the top of the steps, Adam let go of her hand to find the keys in his pocket and while he unlocked the door, she watched a ragged moth dance a deadly pas de deux with the carriage lamp. The bottom of the shade, she noticed for the first time, was filled with the bodies of earlier suitors.
He motioned for her to go in. As she reached for the switch on the inside wall, however, he stopped her hand. She turned, surprised, and the door shut quietly behind them. The faint glow of the lamp through the glass panels cast muted colours on one side of his face; the other side, except for the shine of his eye and teeth, was lost in the darkness.
He moved closer and along with the wine on his breath, she caught the scent of subtle aftershave, fresh and green, like newly cut wood or the floor of a pine forest. He found her hand again, intertwined his fingers with hers and lifted them into the faint light.
Rowan felt a surge in her chest, an expansion, and – had he seen it on her face? – Adam stepped forward and kissed her. At the touch of his lips, a shiver went through her, almost a shudder, and he pulled away, startled. ‘God, I’m sorry. I—’
‘No, don’t be,’ she said. ‘I mean, nothing’s wrong. The opposite – it’s tension. I . . .’