Having shelved thoughts of Barb, Dave and Jed in favour of sharing her views on the latest must-see TV, several (non-romantic) books she and Sam had both read and the transformation of the village cafe from greasy spoon to stylish brunch spot, she’d managed to relax. In fact, despite the stressful drive, the double-booking disaster and the presence of someone she’d long considered her nemesis, she felt more serene than she had in weeks.
Perhaps it was the wine– a full bottle of which had recently appeared on their table after Sam’s trip to the bathroom. More likely, it was the fact that she’d drunk it on a pretty empty stomach; the bar snacks still being served by the time they got there were tasty, but nowhere near as substantial as Amy would have liked.
It would also have been dishonest of her not to admit that Sam was good company, so long as she could put aside all her very valid reasons for feeling hostile towards him. It was a long while since she’d been forced to confront several inconvenient facts: first, that he was clever and funny, and able to talk about pretty much anything. He’d argue his point if he felt strongly about an issue, but– unlike most of the men Amy had spent time with in her London life– didn’t feel the need to pretend expertise where he had none.
Secondly, Sam was an attentive listener. Amy was used to dealing with people– particularly the men in her professional environment– who seemed not to pay attention to anything she said. By contrast, Sam asked pertinent questions and actually listened to her responses. He seemed genuinely interested in the vagaries of the publishing industry, as well as her vivid report of meeting Philippa Fotheringham.
Thirdly, he still had that face, those eyes, thatmouth. Those uncompromisingly square shoulders. Regarding him over the top of her wine glass, Amy noted a sharpening of the features that, in youth, had lent Sam an air of wholesome, boy band loveliness. During the years when she hadn’t seen him, they’d become more characterful versions of themselves. They came together to form a whole that was greater than the sum of its parts: the sort of beauty you could paint or photograph, but never properly render in only two dimensions. Up close and in person, it was compelling.
Foolishly, and in no small part thanks to the alcohol she’d consumed, Amy decided to test her feelings– tread on the thin ice that separated her common sense here and now from the deep-water memory of her teenage crush on him. What would it be like to kiss him again, she wondered, allowing her eyes to linger on his full lips for a moment? Her heart thumped, and the sudden sense that her stomach was dissolving confirmed what she already knew: it would be electric. Alchemical. It would change her state, transform her from one thing into another– morph her into some soft-centred, boneless person she barely recognised. The idea should have horrified her, but it didn’t quite manage to. Instead, she shivered in nervous fascination.
‘Amy …?’ Sam said. ‘Are you still with me?’
‘Sorry. What?’
‘You were miles away,’ he said, brow furrowed in concern. ‘Are you tired? D’you want to head back and go to bed?’
At the wordbed, Amy jumped and stifled a hysterical laugh.
‘Sorry, I’m fine,’ she insisted. ‘What were you saying?’
‘I was just saying that my niece is apparently obsessed with you. According to Meg, she thinks you look like Snow White but– and I quote– you’re “way too cool to hang around waiting for a handsome prince to kiss you”. I told Meg to let her know she has your number.’
Amy laughed. ‘That’s terrifying. Summed up by a seven-year-old. And I’ve only met her a couple of times!’
‘She’s a smart cookie,’ Sam said fondly. Amy’s heart clenched involuntarily at the sight of his proud smile.
‘You two are close?’ Amy asked, though she already knew the answer.
‘Very,’ Sam said. ‘I adore her.’
Amy nodded. Despite having met up with Nisha and Meg several times lately– and having crossed paths with Pearl during coffee dates or Prosecco-fuelled film nights– she was none the wiser about the little girl’s parentage. She didn’t like to ask, but it was clear that– whatever the reason for Pearl’s father’s absence– Sam had stepped in as a male role model for her.
‘I don’t suppose you know the whole “Meg and Pearl” story, do you?’ said Sam. ‘You’re too polite to pry, and Meg struggles to talk about it.’
‘Oh– no. I haven’t asked her anything,’ Amy confirmed, pleased that he’d read her correctly. She wasn’t uninterested in other people’s lives, but having grown up without her mother– and then during her father’s illness– she’d been the object of more impertinent questions than she could ever have hoped to count. This was one of the reasons she’d found city anonymity so appealing. It wasn’t in her to mete out the same treatment to others who might have experienced trauma; in general, she reasoned that people would tell her as much as they were comfortable with in their own time.
As if to prove the point, Sam said: ‘Meg got pregnant with her at nineteen– she was living at home but up and down from London a lot at that stage. Partying too hard, in with the wrong crowd, generally just sad and lost … All the posh girl clichés.’ He flashed her a knowing look.
Amy grimaced– out of sadness for a lonely-sounding Meg, rather than judgement of her behaviour. She hoped Sam could tell the difference.
‘When she told her wanker of a boyfriend she was expecting,’ Sam went on, ‘he made it very clear he wanted nothing to do with the situation. He’s barely ever seen Pearl, which suits us just fine: last I heard he was coked up to the eyeballs and running some members-only nightclub in Ibiza.’
‘Wow.’
‘Yeah. At the time, I was living in New York. I went over there for a few years after graduating, did a few different jobs in advertising and tried to work out what to do with myself. I’d decided I was going to study for an MBA and was all set to head back to London– I knew she wasn’t doing well, that I’d left her too long … Then I got this desperate call from her and realised I had to get back to Rowton immediately.’
‘I don’t quite understand,’ Amy said, treading as carefully as she could– fearing she might step on a conversational landmine at any second. ‘Where were your parents at this point?’
Sam took a sip of wine, then set down his glass and looked at her levelly. ‘Pressuring her to have an abortion she definitely didn’t want.’
Ah.Boom.
Amy blanched and closed her eyes. ‘Because they thought she was too young?’
Sam laughed bitterly. ‘God, no– because they were worried about the scandal it might cause. They’d wanted her married off by twenty-one to a duke, or the scion of some multibillion-pound business– not that they were fussy aboutwhichbusiness. A baby born “out of wedlock”, as they put it, was not part of their plan for keeping up appearances.’
‘That’s awful.Beyondawful. I’m so sorry she went through that,’ Amy said. She meant it, too: the thought of terrified, teenage Meg being browbeaten by her pompous, puffed-up father made Amy feel sick.
