‘I know. Especially here.’
Turk nodded, bleak. ‘Rowan says you’re putting the place on the market.’
Adam, taking his mother’s chair at the end of the table, looked at her, surprised.
‘I mentioned the agent from Savills was coming,’ she said.
‘We’re thinking about it,’ he said. ‘Mum can’t bring herself even to come here now. What are you doing up in Oxford?’
‘I’ve just come for the day to visit my mum – she’s got a few things that need mending and I said I’d do them, save her hiring anyone.’ Rowan had forgotten that side of Turk, the surprisingly handy fixer of things. When Dan Whyte had pulled the downstairs sink off the wall during that party, it had been Turk who’d mended the tap and redone the grouting before Jacqueline and Seb got back from Barcelona.
He brought the coffee pot over to the table. At the sight of the three mugs, Rowan, under-slept and still full of alcohol, felt laughter bubbling inside her. It was too much, too strange, to be expected to sit here in last night’s outfit making polite conversation when, only hours ago, Adam’s hips had pressed her down into the bed. Her nostrils flared with the effort of keeping a straight face and she saw Turk’s eyes narrow infinitesimally: What are you up to?
Adam, thankfully, seemed not to notice. He poured the coffee and took what had to be a scalding sip. ‘What have you been doing lately, Pete? Work-wise.’
‘Actually, I’ve been working on a film script. I met this guy who’s a producer and he’s really keen on the story so . . .’ He tipped his head from side to side.
‘Good for you. What kind of thing is it?’
‘A thriller. It’s about a guy who’s approached by someone who insists he’s his brother even though his mother died years before this guy could have been born. It’s pretty dark – gothic, really.’
‘Would we have heard of him, the producer?’ Rowan asked. ‘What else has he done?’
‘Well, nothing yet – he’s just started his own company. But I like him and he’s got a friend who’s a hedge-fund guy and wants to get into film production so, you know, we’re sort of working it out as we go along . . .’ He tailed off.
‘Are you still writing music?’ Adam took a sip of coffee.
‘Sometimes. Kind of. I did a couple of jingles for radio adverts last year.’ Turk looked down and turned the mug between his hands as if he’d never seen such a thing before. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I’ve been feeling a bit . . . I suppose burned out is the best way to describe it. What’s it like for you being back, though? You must be missing the Californian weather. Cambridge is bloody freezing in winter, isn’t it, wind straight from the Urals?’
Adam gave Turk a potted version of what he’d told Rowan over dinner then abruptly put his mug down. ‘Right,’ he said, standing. ‘I’m sorry to have to run off but I’ve got to be in London by two, I’m meeting an old friend. No, don’t get up, Pete.’ He ushered him back into his chair. ‘I’ll just go and grab my stuff then let myself out. Good to see you.’ He put a hand on Turk’s shoulder and then came round the table. Rowan stood, expecting to walk him out, but he shook his head.
‘Don’t let your coffee get cold. I’ll let myself out. Thanks again for everything . . . looking after the house.’ He touched her shoulder but his eyes met hers for only a second before he looked away. ‘I’ll ring you,’ he said.
Turk busied himself with pouring another half-mug of coffee and waited until Adam’s feet crossed the hallway above their heads before leaning across the table. ‘Sure there’s nothing on your conscience? You’re hungover as dogs, the pair of you. Come on, don’t be shy – you can tell your uncle Pete.’
It was clear by the way he was looking at her that he saw the heat in her face. It was shock, though, not embarrassment. How could Adam do that after last night, just get up and go without a word?
‘We went out for dinner,’ she said, ‘and ended up drinking two bottles of wine after a couple of gin and tonics each. Nothing more salacious than that, I’m afraid, unless you count falling asleep in your clothes.’
‘Hmm.’
The front door closed and they heard the scuff of Adam’s feet on the steps then the fading crunch of gravel. Rowan thought suddenly of the night before last, the sound of running feet.
‘Does he know?’ Turk said.
‘What?’
‘Adam, about Cory – the portrait.’
‘No. At least I don’t think so – he didn’t mention it.’
‘Did you?’
She shook her head, making the room lurch queasily. ‘I was going to today, before he went. It didn’t feel like the right time, last night. Too much booze involved.’