Martha pressed her nose against the glass of the kitchen door, looking at the terracotta pot she had planted with daffodil bulbs to brighten up the patch of concrete behind the house. As yet growth was slow, limited to four sharp green javelins that the compost had stuck forth in response to the weather’s martial approach. She sat back down at the table and filled in the answer to a clue in the crossword we had been stuck on. ‘It’s the change of scene,’ she said. ‘Always gives you a new perspective. If you do the washing-up you’re bound to get another one.’
‘Nice try,’ I said.
‘The next place we live, we’re getting a dishwasher. I won’t move anywhere that doesn’t have one.’ She flicked back through the paper to see what was on television. ‘Do you think you’ll move in with Lucas?’
‘What?’
‘Things are going well, aren’t they?’
‘It’s a bit early, isn’t it?’ I said.
‘You’ve known each other for years, you’ve secretly wanted each other for years, he’s your best male friend. There has to be a good chance that you’ll end up together.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Come on, Jo.’ She reached forward and grabbed my knees. ‘Tell me about it. You’re like a bloody clam.’
I loved it when Martha said bloody. It sounded totally different in an American accent, as if she were playing an English part in a film, badly. ‘He told me he loved me,’ I said.
‘That’s great, isn’t it?’ She looked delighted for me and I was touched.
‘Well, yes.’
‘So what’s the problem?’
‘I don’t think I fall in love that quickly.’
‘Is that all it is?’ She looked concerned.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Yes. You know me. Things just take me longer, that’s all.’ I smiled to reassure her.
The pace at which things were moving wasn’t my only concern, though. I couldn’t stop thinking about Danny. The memory of my conversation with him was so surreal I’d wondered whether I might have dreamed it. It seemed to have come out of nowhere, a dragon’s tongue of rage. I asked myself whether I was to blame: had it been wrong of me to try to talk to him about Lucas? Had I embarrassed him by pointing out his insensitivity? Perhaps, but even so, his reaction was incommensurate with the hurt I could have inflicted, surely?
‘My God, Lucas said he loved you. That’s great! I’m all up for falling in love but I never meet anyone I like.’
‘You will,’ I said, feeling more comfortable as the spotlight moved away.
She shrugged. ‘The only men I meet are the wife-beaters who come to the shelter to find their families.’ To some extent, I could see her point. Her feminist politics had put her in a world where she was surrounded almost exclusively by women. She worked as a fundraiser for a women’s refuge in Hammersmith and her commitment to it left her little time for anything else, beyond her friendship with the members of our group. I admired her dedication, though.
I laughed. ‘Come on, it’s not that bad. It’ll happen. Let’s go and watch the news. The washing-up can wait until tomorrow.’
On Wednesday I had to go into the West End to do some research for an article so I arranged to meet Lucas after he finished work. I was running late by the time I reached Piccadilly. At a quarter to seven the place was still busy with tourists and people making their way home, streaming down the steps into the tube as I fought my way up and clotting on the pavement by the bus stops. I wove along as fast as I could, hating that odd winter feeling of being too hot in my coat but cold in my feet and hands. I could feel my nose starting to run. One of the late-night hotdog-stands was already in situ and the smell of frying onions reminded me of how hungry I was.
In Waterstone’s I couldn’t immediately see Lucas and I wondered if he’d gone to look for me in another part of the shop. Then I caught sight of him further back, partially hidden by some free-standing shelves. He was wearing his long black woollen coat and had stuffed his scarlet scarf loosely into a pocket so that about a foot of it trailed rakishly out. He’d been to the barber’s, I noticed, and his hair was cut tightly against his neck. I walked up behind him quietly and put my arms round his waist.
‘Hello,’ he said, turning round and kissing me. He handed me a book. ‘Look, this is out in paperback now.’ It was Under Jupiter’s Eye, a novel written by a guy who had been three or four years ahead of us at university. We had gone along together to see him read from it when the hardback first appeared about six months previously.
We browsed for a while and then I found an empty chair and settled down to start the collection of John Cheever short stories I’d bought. I’d meant to get it out of the library but there was something so appealing about the chunky virgin paperback that I’d given in to temptation. Lucas could take hours in a bookshop but I didn’t mind at all. It was one of the things we had in common and besides, watching him move between the tables reading the backs of the books was like observing an animal in its natural habitat. This was Lucas’s world, much more than a corporate law firm. I had always known he wanted to write, but having a father like his had left its mark. He was proud of the fact that he was managing what Justin hadn’t: working hard at something, achieving success through application, even when it bored him, even now, when there was no financial necessity for him to do it.
Twenty minutes or so later I looked up and saw him making his way to the till. I packed away my book and went over. ‘Shall we walk back?’ he said, sliding his purchases into the bag he had slung across his body. ‘I feel like it tonight.’
We crossed Piccadilly, less busy now, and walked up Sackville Street. At the top, I felt a pressure on my hand. Lucas pulled me with him and we took a left towards Cork Street and stood outside the gallery. It was empty. The Heathfield name had been removed from across the front and there was nothing at all on display, not even a single picture on an easel to keep up appearances. There was a discreet card in the bottom left-hand corner of the window giving a telephone number and email address for enquiries. Lucas stood still, looking through the glass. Only his chest moved, inflating and deflating, pushing out regular clouds into the night air. About five doors down there was a burst of noise as a door swung open then shut again. Someone was having a private view, like the one we’d been to in the empty building in front of us. Lucas paid no attention. I squeezed his hand, not knowing what to say but wanting to remind him that he wasn’t there on his own.
He turned to me, as if coming round. ‘Let’s go,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. I just wanted to see what it looked like.’
We walked a little way up the road without talking. ‘Do you want to stop for a drink?’ I asked, hoping it might lift his sudden melancholy.
‘Let’s keep going.’
I waited a minute or so before speaking again. ‘Lucas, have you had any more thoughts about why… ?’
‘You know I haven’t. I told you, didn’t I? He was successful, he wasn’t ill, he had friends, he had me. I don’t know. I don’t want to talk about it, OK?’
We walked on again. He had dropped my hand and despite my nudging it against his hopefully while we waited to cross Regent Street, he didn’t try to hold it again.
‘Did he have a girlfriend?’
He stopped in the middle of the pavement, causing loud annoyance from the man walking behind who stumbled in the effort to avoid him. ‘What is the matter with you? I said I don’t want to talk about it. Why does no one listen to me?’
I felt as if someone had reached in and given my stomach a hard squeeze. The thought that I had upset him hurt me more than the sharpness of his tone. I was ashamed of myself and embarrassed. I lowered my head and carried on walking, a little further apart from him. I took my bag off my shoulder and carried it in my arms, held tight against my chest. We crossed Soho in silence.
We walked without talking for about a quarter of an hour and I began to wonder how long he could keep it up. He was striding up Charing Cross Road and I struggled to keep pace in my work heels. I considered going home. Obviously he didn’t want me around now. I imagined what it would be like, going back alone on the tube and having to explain to Martha why I was home when she wasn’t expecting to see me until the following day. I began to feel very low.
As we rounded the corner into Lucas’s road he stopped again and turned to face me. His face looked sad and serious in the halogen glow of the street lighting. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be unkind. I’m still raw.’ His eyes were bright, with a suggestion of tears in them.
I nodded. ‘I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have asked. It’s none of my business.’ I wanted to comfort him but something held me back.
‘I want you to be involved in my life. Everything. Just give me time on Patrick, OK?’ He blinked quickly and gestured towards the pub. ‘Shall we? I feel like I need a drink now.’