Diane looked at the painting. Then at Rory. Then at the painting again.
‘Very nice,’ she said. The temperature of the words: sub-zero.
‘Mr Cavanaugh teaches art at my school,’ Freddie said. ‘He's the BEST teacher.’
Rory dried off. Turned. ‘Mrs Ashworth. Nice to meet you. Happy to be here.’
He extended his hand. Open, steady. Diane took it. Brief. Correct. Polite as a weapon.
‘You're the art teacher. Freddie mentions you.’
‘He's a talented kid. Bold with colour.’
‘Bold.’ She tasted the word, kept it on her tongue. ‘He's certainly that.’
The kitchen was small. Rory by the sink. Diane by the door. Neil between them, instinctively, as a buffer.
It didn't go wrong in the kitchen. It went wrong in the hallway.
Half past two. Children collecting paintings. Parents arriving for pickup. Departure: coats located, shoes matched, paintings held at arm's length to avoid smearing. A mother asked Neil if the paint was washable. It was. Another asked if Mr Cavanaugh did private lessons. He didn't. A father shook Rory's hand and said ‘My daughter won't shut up about the mural. Whatever you're doing, keep doing it.’
The party was winding down. The zones had held. Malcolm was in the garden packing his shears. Diane was in the living room with Freddie on her lap, reading the engineering book. Rory was in the kitchen. The geometry had survived.
He was in the hallway, saying goodbye to Martin Clarke's wife, when Rory came through from the kitchen. Paint on hisjaw, cadmium orange, a smear along the bone. Always paint on his jaw.
His hand rose. Thumb to Rory's jaw. Wiped the paint. One stroke. Done.
Rory didn't lean in or register it as an event. Neil's hand returned to his side. His hand didn't know it was standing in his own hallway, in a corridor Rory had never walked through until today.
Diane stood by the coat hooks at the far end. She collected her coat from the hook. Her back to them.
She turned.
The expression that crossed her face was not surprise. It was confirmation. The press of her lips. The slight widening of the nostrils.
You don't wipe paint off a colleague's face.
Neil's body turned cold.
Diane put on her coat. At the third button her fingers paused. She looked at Malcolm once, across the hallway, and the look said nothing. Then she buttoned the rest. Pulled the collar straight.
‘Malcolm,’ she called. ‘We're leaving.’
Malcolm appeared from the garden, shears in hand. ‘Already?’
‘Book club.’
‘It's half two. Book club's at four.’
‘Malcolm. We're leaving.’
The tone. Neil knew it. The silence would last until Diane decided it was finished, which could be hours or days or years.
She kissed Freddie. Tenderness, the kind she reserved for the grandson. ‘Happy birthday, darling. Grandma loves you.’
She did not look at Neil. She did not look at Rory. She walked to the front door. Malcolm followed, bewildered, shears swinging.
The door closed.
