Rowan played it off as nothing, saying she was sure she’d have felt the same if she had a brother, but when they turned off the light, she lay awake. How could Marianne have done that, scotched things and then lied to her – kept on lying? When the heat went out of the anger, a deep sense of hurt took its place.
She listened to the change in Adam’s breathing as he fell asleep and abandoned her to the silence of the house. The wardrobe loomed at the end of the bed, a black behemoth in the darkness. Marianne’s drawing was in there, stowed right at the bottom of the box, its decade-old Sellotape undisturbed, but nevertheless fewer than ten feet away. What would he think if he saw it? However this worked out, whatever happened, she must make sure that he never, ever did.
The clock’s luminous hands glowed in the dark: three. She’d seen the same time last night, lying here with the echo of running feet in her ears, knowing that as soon as she fell asleep, she would be deaf to the sound of footsteps on the patio, the turn of a door handle, breaking glass. In normal circumstances, she could never sleep in a man’s arms but she pulled Adam’s more tightly around her waist, grateful that tonight, instead of being across the landing, he was here in her bed, his skin sticky and too hot where it touched hers, his chest hair tickling her back.
She didn’t remember falling asleep but as the first weak light began to edge the curtains, she woke suddenly, soaked in sweat, with Marianne’s voice in her ear.
‘Dad’s got a new dolly bird.’
Twenty-one
The next time she woke up, it was much later and the doorbell was ringing. For a second or two – she must still have been drunk, she thought afterwards – she took it for a dream or a particularly vivid bit of déjà vu but then Adam stirred and the night came flooding back. He opened his eyes and smiled. ‘Who’s that? Are you expecting someone?’
The image of Michael Cory, coffee in hand, flashed into her head. Shit. She hadn’t worked out last night if Adam knew about the portrait: by the time she’d thought of it, she’d drunk too much. As she stumbled into her jeans and picked her top off the floor, she tried to think straight. Obviously Adam knew Marianne had known Cory, he’d been at the funeral, but he would have mentioned a portrait, surely, if he’d been aware of it, given how strongly he felt about Marianne’s anorexics. Given Cory’s reputation. And either way, said the dry voice, whether he knew or not, wouldn’t he find it a little odd that she hadn’t mentioned Cory coming here, to their house?
‘It’s probably Jehovah’s Witnesses,’ she said. ‘Nice and early on a Saturday morning.’
‘Not so early – it’s eleven.’
‘Is it?’ She glanced at the clock. ‘I’ll go and get it, anyway, then bring some coffee up. Stay in bed.’
The size of the silhouette on the step did nothing to quell her alarm but when she opened the door, it wasn’t Cory leaning against the porch wall but Peter Turk. His eyes went straight to her silky top. ‘Big night? I like the bed-head look on you.’
In her relief, she resisted the urge to tell him that she liked the ageing-rock-star look on him. Today’s outfit – black leather jacket, black skinny jeans and a torn grey T-shirt with a peeling transfer of a naked woman – was so perfect, it could go on tour on its own. The only thing that detracted from the impression of classic rock debauch was the rucksack at his feet, a new-looking blue JanSport, standard geek issue.
‘Come on then, spill the beans: who was the lucky sod this time?’ he said, coming in and closing the door behind him.
‘No sod at all, I’m afraid – sorry to disappoint – but I’ll admit to a hangover.’
‘I’d worked that out for myself. Got any coffee?’
‘If you’ll make it.’
She sat on Jacqueline’s sofa and drank a pint of water while Turk moved around the kitchen with easy familiarity, opening the cupboard and reaching for the bag of beans without thinking. She thought of Adam in bed upstairs and hoped he hadn’t heard the exchange. Was there any chance she could keep him up there until Turk left? Turk had a world-class nose for gossip. But Adam’s being here wasn’t incriminating, was it? It was his house, for God’s sake, of course he would stay here, and they were old friends so why wouldn’t they go out for a drink? She’d just made up her mind to tell Turk that when she was pre-empted by the sound of movement overhead. He turned to look at her, eyebrows halfway to his hairline.
‘Adam,’ she said.
‘No way.’ His eyes widened. ‘You didn’t?’
‘No, I didn’t. Stop it – just behave yourself.’ She gave him a warning frown as footsteps started down the kitchen stairs.
‘Pete. I thought I heard your voice. How are you?’
Adam looked substantially brighter than she felt. He’d left yesterday’s shirt in its wrinkled pile on the carpet and just put his jumper on, which, with the jeans, was a plausible Saturday-morning outfit. He and Turk gave each other a brief man-hug, a quick squeeze of the shoulders followed by a reassuringly distant clap on the back.
‘Doing okay,’ Turk said. ‘But I think on a deep level I still don’t really believe it.’