My attempt to match his own jokey tone just sounds passive-aggressive now.
‘Well, I’m sorry,’ he says finally. ‘I think those lines must have been covered up.’
I nod. ‘Leaves.’
‘Right.’
This excruciating exchange makes me feel a sudden and acute affinity with twelve-year-old me, stepping on the bus with all eyes on her too-tight perm. There is a beat of silence in which I can feel my blush deepen.
‘Well, you’ll be glad to know I’m on my bike today,’ he smiles.
‘Good!’ I say.
‘Have you been in Roeburyallthis time?’ he asks, a combination of delight and disbelief in his voice
‘No,’ I shake my head. ‘My husband and I lived in London for fifteen years. We moved here just before our daughter started school.’
‘You’ve got a daughter? Wow.’ He looks like this is both wondrous and unexpected. Clearly, in his head, I had remained a teenager all this time.
‘Yes. Francesca. She’s eighteen. What about you? Any kids?’
‘I’ve got a son. Toby. He’s in Sydney doing a PhD in climate science.’
‘Ah. He inherited your brains then,’ I say, resisting the urge to add that he’s clearly putting them to far better use.
‘How do you two know each other?’ Jeff pipes up.
Sam seems to shift on the spot then turn to me again. Something catches inside my breastbone as a smile appearson one side of his mouth. ‘We were in the school orchestra together,’ he says.
‘Oh, God, not the French horn? I’m surprised your hearing’s intact.’
‘I don’t think either of us were much good,’ Sam says.
‘Let’s face it, there wasn’t a huge amount of hidden talent at St Cuthbert’s,’ Jeff agrees. ‘Though the drama teacher did go onto bigger and better things.’
‘Really?’ asks Sam.
‘Yes, he went to work on a cruise ship. Admittedly, it was never clear if he was an entertainer or deckhand.’
As they continue to chat, my gaze drifts to Sam’s wedding finger. Which is bare. A series of stupid thoughts instantly shuffles through my brain like I’m Sherlock Holmes piecing together clues to a murder . . .
The absence of the ring alone isn’t necessarily meaningful, I decide. I once read that Prince William doesn’t have one. And my dad, who was an electrician, stopped wearing his years ago, despite being very married to Mum for five decades. I don’t even wear mine anymore – though only because I was sick of people leaping to assumptions when they saw it, forcing me into a torturous explanation of how I was once married to a wonderful man, who then died – and,no honestly, please don’t worry, you haven’t put your foot in it at all...
The point is, this proves nothing. Especially as Sam is holding his racquet in his left hand, so he could feasibly have removed it simply to play tennis. Possibly before kissing his beautiful wife goodbye, just before he left the house . . .
‘Crisis averted!’ Denise calls out, as she returns and heads onto the court. ‘I’m going to warm up my serve. Are you coming, Sam?’
He turns back to Jeff and me.
‘We could always play doubles?’ he suggests.
My brother’s face brightens. ‘That’s a lovely idea.’
But he’s silenced by Denise’s ‘practice’ serve, which flies over the net like an Exocet missile, at the kind of speed that could take out a passing pigeon.
‘On second thought, I need to see a man about a bouncy castle. Thanks anyway,’ Jeff says, grabbing his bag to sling over his shoulder.
For a moment, I’m rooted to the spot as a vivid memory floods my mind in glorious technicolour: a stifling hot day. The touch of soft hands on my young skin. The feel of his lips as I accidentally brushed them with my tongue . . .
