Her father gave a smile she could only describe as coy. ‘Well, I promised Jess I wouldn’t say anything because it’s early days and you’re not supposed to tell anyone until the three-month all-clear, are you, but . . .’
She stood up, dimly aware of dragging the tablecloth with her, and on uncertain legs she made her way back across the room. ‘Rowan,’ he hissed, but the restaurant had been almost full by then and he hated scenes. Down the passageway into the gloom of reception and then out, gathering speed as she came down the steps to the pavement and emerged into the full glare of the sun.
She hadn’t had to think about where to go. On legs like heat-softened plastic, she took St Giles’ at full tilt, the lump of risotto a painful pendulum in her stomach. People looked at her – a couple at the crossing near the church turned to stare as she passed, her breath coming hard by then, her back damp with sweat. The soles of her summer shoes had been so thin that she bruised the balls of her feet. It had hurt to walk for days afterwards.
She’d rung the doorbell and while she’d waited, she’d begged: Let them be in. Please, let them be in. The seconds stretched and the door took on symbolic significance: would it open or was she always going to be left outside, belonging to no one, loved by no one?
She’d started to shake by the time she saw the dark silhouette swim up behind the glass. When Seb opened the door, he understood at once that something had happened. He’d put his arms around her and held her tightly. ‘It’s all right,’ he’d said. ‘We’ve got you. We’ve got you.’ When her breathing began to normalise a little, he’d pulled back to look at her face. ‘Bad?’
‘Quite bad.’
He’d frowned, real concern in his eyes. ‘Everyone’s here,’ he said. ‘All four of us. We’re in the garden, doing the crossword. Come with me – come and tell us what’s going on. We’ll get you straightened out.’
When the bells chimed the hour, she stood up and started to make her way along Broad Street. It had worked: just looking through the window and remembering had been enough. Since she’d been back in Oxford, especially since the night with Adam, the old feeling had been pushing at the lid of its box, the insidious idea that she was not just unloved but fundamentally unlovable, that her life before she met the Glasses hadn’t been bad luck, the result of a mother who died too young and a father who couldn’t handle his situation, but her fault, the consequence of some deep essential flaw in her. Tonight, before going to meet Adam, she’d needed to be reminded that she had been loved; that even though her own family had been a disaster, she’d been welcomed into someone else’s. Wasn’t that better, in a way, a stronger confirmation? The Glasses hadn’t needed to envelop her as they had, there had been no biological imperative. They’d chosen to.
On the phone, Adam had given very little away. He’d apologised for the radio silence, saying that he’d needed to think, and then he’d asked if he could drive over and see her. She’d said yes, of course, but she’d suggested they meet at The Turf, a good fifteen-minute walk from the house. Even if it was what he was hoping, which she doubted now, she’d wanted to make the point that after letting four days pass before ringing, he couldn’t just take up where they’d left off at the weekend. As well as a symbolic retrenchment, the distance was practical: he wouldn’t be able to drink much if he had the car, and if they did go back to the house, she’d have a sobering walk in which to ask herself some stern questions.
A stranger to Oxford was unlikely to stumble on The Turf by accident. It was entirely enclosed by other buildings, invisible from the road and accessed only by two obscure alleyways. There was something of the faerie about the building itself, too: timber-framed with crooked windows in an assortment of styles, it was covered by a roof as steeply pitched as the lid of a toadstool.
Inside, the ceiling was ribbed with beams and barely cleared Rowan’s head by a foot. She made her way down the little passage to the back bar and found Adam waiting at the table by the window. He saw her as she came in and stood up immediately.
‘Hello,’ he said, kissing her cheek. ‘Thank you for coming.’
It struck her as a strange, formal thing to say and there was an awkward second or two in which she searched for the right response and failed. After insisting that she take the better seat on the old church pew, he went to the bar and she had a chance to look at him. He was wearing almost exactly the same as he had on Friday: jeans and a round-necked navy jumper though, this time, the shirt just visible at the neck was faded denim. His hair had been cut since then, however, exposing a new quarter-inch of pale skin at the nape of his neck and, when he’d kissed her, his cheek had been smooth, shaved more recently than this morning.
He returned with two glasses of red wine. ‘How’s your week been?’ he asked and she imagined what would happen if she told him the truth.
‘Okay. Yours?’