22

The visit was by nomeans a roaring success but it was a start, and they left promising to ‘do it again soon’. Bente was a self-possessed woman and Miriam had gleaned no real sense of her links with, and attitude to, Bing’s family. (The only time they’d been mentioned – at least in her presence – was a passing reference to the baby.) She was crossing fingers that, despite her refusal to get involved, the essence of their fireside conversation would filter back to Pascale and Camille and, with luck, temper their mindset. She waited for Bing to reveal what he and Leon had talked about on their walk and, when nothing was forthcoming, she asked. ‘Oh, the usual,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure what that means. Football? Holidays?’ ‘We didn’t get into our situation.’ ‘I didn’t realise we’re a situation.’ ‘I mean it seemed wise to keep it light. Gain his confidence.’

Invitations to several New Year parties had arrived including one from her parents’ ‘over-the-road’ neighbours but, having spent Christmas with her mother and father, they were off the hook and she was content to go along with Bing’s plea that they batten down the hatches and have their own celebration. In the afternoon, she texted Hazel, Frankie and Callum with cheery greetings, and had a long chat with Naomi who was in nostalgic mood. ‘Remember that brilliant New Year trip to Utrecht, Mum? I was thinking David and I ought to take the kids next year. They’d love it.’

When Naomi wasn’t much older than Max, they’d driven to Holland for New Year. She couldn’t recall why – something to do with Sam’s cousin who lectured at Utrecht University. The city had been a picture. Trees festooned with lights. Musicians on every corner. The canal bustling with decorated boats. Exquisite window displays. A pervading smell of roasting chestnuts. As midnight approached, streets and squares had become thronged with families singing and celebrating into the early hours. It did no harm to be reminded of the good times.

Bing returned from afternoon surgery – the last of the old year – and they meandered into town to check all was in order at the shop. They spent half an hour browsing the shelves, buying each other a book and selling another to a passing regular, leaving an I.O.U. next to the empty till. On the way home, Bing bought her a bouquet of wintry flowers from the florist at the bottom of Angelgate and walking home, flowers cradled in the crook of her arm, she remembered that this time last year she was holed up in her parents’ spare room, cooking up excuses to avoid going to the party.

As part of their stay-at-home pact, Bing was cooking dinner. Miriam offered to act as sous-chef but he would have none of it.

‘In that case I’ll have a bath,’ she said. She turned on the tap and trickled bubble-bath into the flow, swishing it around with her new flannel – part of her Christmas gift from the children. She undressed, caught her hair up in a scrunchie and climbed into the fragrant water. She lay back and closed her eyes. It was raining, pattering on the windows, pinging off the porch roof. It was a relief not to be going out. Doubtless this was a symptom of ageing but, for as long as she could remember, the turn of the year had filled her with apprehension. Ramped up by the media, expectations were impossibly high, outcomes invariably disappointing. Yet there was no denying, for her this had been an annus mirabilis. Against all odds, she and Bing had found each other, something she’d long ago stopped dreaming could happen. As Bente had pointed out, these days, tracking people down was dead easy. The miracle of their reunion was that it had come about by chance, at a time when there was no obstacle, no reason why they couldn’t be together. And now, if that weren’t wonderful enough, Naomi and David appeared to have come to their senses. Yes, life was sweet.

Yet there were still matters to be resolved. This ongoing stand-off with Camille and Pascale for starters. It must be resolved, one way or another. And she needed to find something stimulating to do because, to be honest, there were times when she felt she was marking time. When she broached this with Bing, he’d told her that she mustn’t be impatient, the right thing would turn up.

After Sam killed himself, when she’d been petrified that she would never get back on her feet, everyone – medics included – banged on about it being ‘early days’ and ‘giving it time’, like parrots, squawking the same vacuous phrases over and over, as if their repetition would eventually bring about an epiphany. Good gracious.Why did I not think of that? Their well-meaning attempts at encouragement belittled her plight. Only David – dear, insightful David – came close to understanding that time had the power to kill as well as cure.

Somewhere miles above, a plane murmured as it headed into or away from the coming year. It would be early afternoon on the East Coast – or breakfast time in California. Christmas had passed without word from Danny. It had been heartbreaking to watch her mother flinch each time the phone rang. The fact was, her brother was drifting further and further away. Soon he would be out of sight, and this made her feel both angry and sad. But she mustn’t be greedy. She was happy and she was loved.

It was tempting to slip back into jeans and sweater but today was significant in the chronicle of their reunion. She chose a dress bought for an interview four or five years ago. She hadn’t got the job but the dress was flattering and, Naomi assured her, made her look younger. She wore her hair down, the way Bing liked it, and dabbed his favourite perfume at the base of her neck. There.

‘My God,’ he said when she returned to the kitchen, ‘I’d forgotten how beautiful you are.’

She laughed. ‘I’ve been gone all of half an hour.’

‘That’s as maybe but each time I see you, you’re even more beautiful. I love you so much it makes my heart ache. D’you know what? If the world were to stop this minute, that’d be fine with me.’

‘Don’t say things like that,’ she said. ‘You’re scaring me.’

After they’d eaten, they took coffee and brandy into the living room. While he tended the fire, she studied him. How handsome – ageless – he looked in his white shirt and jeans. He was whistling. In the candlelight, his grey hair might be taken for blond, and he the twenty-year-old Bing she’d lost.

They flicked through the TV channels, pausing to watch snatches of things they’d seen before, eventually switching off and salvaging the half-finished crossword from yesterday’s paper. The brandy had left them pleasantly slow-witted and they made no progress but it was enough to be together on the sofa watching the flickering coals, thoughts in free fall.

‘I’ll sort out a drink,’ he said as midnight drew near. ‘Don’t go away.’

She plumped the cushions and snuggled down. Whatever Bente might think, there was a ‘right person’. And if there were seven million people on the planet, she couldn’t imagine Bente making a mistake, odds were that a handful would, at this very moment, be re-connecting with their soulmate.

Bing returned and set a bottle of champagne and two glasses on the coffee table. She patted the sofa but he remained standing, fiddling around with the fire irons.

‘I’ve been mulling something over,’ he said.

‘Am I going to like it?’

‘I’m not sure.’

He pulled an envelope from his back pocket and held it out for her to see. On the front was written ‘A Brief History of Miriam’. She’d thought it rather witty but before she had time to comment, he turned it over. It was still sealed.

‘You haven’t read it?’ she said.

‘I get why you wanted us to do this,’ he said, ‘but I’ve decided I don’t want to know about you and Siskin. I’m only interested in us.’

With that, he leaned forward and tossed the envelope onto the coals and they watched it scorch, curl and catch fire, burnt shards of paper rising and floating above the coals like black feathers.

Flopping down beside her, he spread his arms across the back of the sofa and let out a sigh. ‘That’s better.’

She waited, anticipating the question that would follow, knowing there was no ducking it.

‘Have you read mine?’ he said.

‘No, I haven’t.’ She pictured his envelope, tucked at the back of a drawer in the spare room. ‘I’m not even sure where it is. I have loads of stuff still waiting to be sorted.’

The fib – the lie – had popped out. So far, she’d felt no temptation to delve into details of his life with Eloise and whatever else he’d chosen to write. In all likelihood she never would. All the same, she wasn’t going to be pressured into emulating his dramatic gesture. His history could stay where it was for the time being.

They toasted the coming year with champagne and kisses, intertwined on the sofa, listening to the whoosh and crackle of fireworks in neighbouring gardens. They lingered in the fire glow finally hauling themselves up the stairs when the embers had turned grey.

When she came out of the bathroom, he nodded towards her phone which was lying on the chest of drawers. ‘It was pinging. Anything important?’

A glance at the screen showed that Frankie and Moat had sent texts. ‘The usual New Year stuff,’ she said.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed with his back to her. ‘So who’s this Moat?’ he said.

Her stomach flipped. He’d checked her phone. That wasn’t on. In fact it was completely unacceptable. But making a big thing of his invading her privacy would invite too many questions. ‘Moat? I’m sure I’ve told you about him. He’s a painter. Pictures not walls.’ Stop there. ‘He used to come in to the college occasionally. To talk to the students.’ Leave it. ‘He’s quite well-known.’

He nodded and she thought they were done with it. But she was mistaken. ‘Why would he be texting you?’

She shrugged. ‘Perhaps I’m included in one of those group message thingies.’

She scanned the text. May the coming year exceed your expectations. Moat. Her explanation might have been plausible were it not for his postscript. Don’t forget, if you should change your mind…

‘Tsk. He must have sent it to the wrong person,’ she said. ‘I imagine everyone’s a bit tipsy tonight.’

Slipping off her nightdress, she kneeled on the bed and rested her chin on his shoulder. ‘I do love you, Paul Crosby. You know that, don’t you?’