He sighed. Thinking about Michael caused a tightening in his chest. ‘I miss Michael. I’m losing him. Forgetting him. His daft smirks, his particular voice. I used to dream about him all the time, but now I don’t. I wish I did.’ She put her hand on his arm and caressed it. She nuzzled into his shoulder, like a pet, fusing her existence into his. He pulled her a fraction closer still.

At four in the morning, he started to pull his clothes on. She didn’t ask him to stay, which was fine. He didn’t want to leave her but couldn’t imagine sleeping in Aubrey’s house. Not sleeping. He realised that there was a level of hypocrisy in his attitude, considering everything, but it was how he felt. He wondered where they could be together. How they might be. Not just for one night, but again and again. His head was too thick with the need to sleep for him to be able to see an answer.

He pulled the blanket tightly about her shoulders. The skin around her mouth had been made red with his kisses, her eyes were heavy as she fought sleep too, but he thought she was beautiful. Amazing. She walked him to the door on tiptoe. He carefully moved the latch and turned the handle; the door squeaked open and they both thought of Cook for the first time. The cool, clear early-morning air filled the hall like an enormous brush sweeping the night away. The sky was a delicate pink that had a frail hint of creamy yellow around the edges. The houses and hills were black against the soft promise of a new day. He stood for just a minute or two absorbing the beauty of the sunrise. The pink faded and the yellow light became more certain. He turned and kissed her one last time.

‘When in June?’

‘Sorry?’

‘You jumped in the skipping game in June. When is your birthday?’

‘The seventeenth.’

‘That’s the day you came to Richmond.’ How could he forget that date?

She smiled and glanced out into the early morning light. ‘That’s right.’

‘That wasn’t much of a birthday.’

‘No one here at Blackwell knows when my birthday is, and how would I tell them? I expected nothing from it, had almost forgotten myself. My birthdays used to be about wonderful dresses, sometimes jewels, certainly flowers. Last year my sister, Susan, sent a handkerchief; as my only gift, it was surprisingly welcome.’

‘Now you are trying to make me feel sorry for you.’

‘Not at all. Why would I do such a thing?’

‘So that I get you a belated gift.’

She giggled; he thought it was because she did not take him seriously, but then she asked, ‘What more could you give?’

He walked down the path away from her, considering her question.

37

SHE RETURNED TO the parlour and cleared the debris that would give her away to Cook: the wine bottle, the glasses. Before she folded up the tartan rug, she held it to her face and tried to breathe him in; she couldn’t find the scent of him on it, although he lingered on her fingers and even in her hair. She pulled on her underwear and carried the rest of her crumpled clothes upstairs in her arms. She didn’t wash at the enamel bowl but fell straight into bed. She was hungry for sleep because she was sure she’d dream of him.