If it occurred to Amy that she was able to disregard Meg’s birthright to privilege while holding her brother to a completely different standard, she didn’t dwell on it. The fact was, she needed as many reasons as she could find to ensure Sam stayed in very specific mental boxes: ‘work colleague’, ‘posh person I don’t particularly like’ and ‘eventual inheritor of estate kept solvent via villagers’ misery’ were chief among them.
As the two of them spent afternoons discussing festival plans and dividing up tasks based on which suited who best, it became clear that Carolyn’s assessment had been right: they made a good team. Even worse, certain parts of Amy– both bodily and spiritually– now seemed to have regressed, inconveniently reincarnated as their former teenage selves. Despite regular admonishments from her brain, these found Sam so physically bewitching that she occasionally struggled to breathe.
If being near him was problematic, being away from him was almost as bad. She thought about him more frequently than could possibly be justified, and his image floated into her brain at the most unsuitable, potentially embarrassing moments. During a discussion with Philippa Fotheringham– who’d now signed on as a Torch author, to Carolyn’s delight– Amy accidentally transposed the name Sam for Thomas. This confusion of a fictional romantic hero with their handsome, very real and now mutual acquaintance prompted a peal of jubilant laugher from Philippa. ‘Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me, bab,’ she’d said with a wink. ‘Though I’m not sure how much of asecretit is, really … I don’t think even I could write the kind of sexual tension that’s permanently sizzling between the two of you.’
For the sake of quelling her crush, Amy regularly refused Sam’s invitations of a drink after work, always insisting that she needed to get back to Grace, cook a meal or attend some other work-related engagement. Being in any kind of social setting with him seemed risky. It would muddy what ought to remain clear waters, particularly if there was alcohol involved.
Amy could no longer deny to herself that she was attracted to Sam, but remained convinced she still didn’tlikehim. They were work colleagues who got on surprisingly well, but they weren’t– and had never been–friends. These were the mantras she repeated daily, and which she’d resolved to chant until such time as RomFest was over and done with … Or until she miraculously stopped wanting to inhale lungfuls of his cologne every time he walked past her.
It was a relief that June’s book club meet-up was cancelled. Amy wasn’t sure how she’d have coped with sitting opposite Sam in a pub, debating the merits and flaws ofThe Loner Next Doorin some wine-fuelled variation of their sixth form altercations. The argument they’d had last month had been bad enough, and that was before she’d been forced to spend time with him– or started fantasising about how his golden hair might feel if she were to run her fingers through it.
However, Amy’s satisfaction was short-lived when it became clear that the decision to postpone discussion of Alex Swift’s latest thriller was so that a group ‘field trip’ could take place instead. According to Nisha, the book club went to the Royal Shakespeare Theatre in neighbouring Stratford-upon-Avon to watch a play a few times a year– and as a relative newbie, Amy was very much expected to join them.
As it turned out, though, tickets for the chosen play– selected by Mr Bradley and as usual a surprise to the rest of the attendees– were unavailable for another couple of weeks. This granted Amy a fortnight’s reprieve from sitting in close proximity to Sam in a dimly lit room, as well as the opportunity to think up an excuse for not attending. For this, she was profoundly grateful.
On the afternoon of 20 June, Amy arrived at Rowton Hall with a sick feeling in her stomach. This was the last place she wanted to be today– and Sam was the last person she wanted to be anywhere near, despite her burgeoning obsession with his lips. She’d accepted his request to meet a few days ago without looking properly at her calendar– and annoyingly, what they needed to talk about couldn’t be put off until tomorrow.
As she skirted the wooded area she’d always loved so much and made her way up the drive past green, carefully manicured grass and a glut of blooming rose bushes, she wished she hadn’t come. She could have said she was ill; in truth, shefeltill. This was the first time she’d ever been in Rowton on the anniversary of Hari’s accident– the first time she’d ever been among other people who’d remember it or want to mark it in some way.
It wasn’t that Amy ever forgot it herself, or wanted to; it was more that the grief she still felt at losing him had form here, in a way it never had in London. It was a conspicuous, weighty absence: a dark, glaring void that followed her around to all the places where she imagined Hari should be. It was a black hole that, today, pursued her relentlessly, threatening to suck her in.
It had started this morning when Nisha– with the very best of intentions– had sent Amy a message to say she was thinking about her on what she knew would be a tough day for them both. This simple, thoughtful act of kindness had seen Amy dissolve into a tearful mess over breakfast, and Grace demand to know why her granddaughter was weeping into her Weetabix.
Hari had been more than a friend to Amy– more than someone to hang out with after college or talk to endlessly about favourite bands. Having lost his own father at around the same time John Perry died, Hari had been Amy’s partner in navigating grief; a comrade in the same desolate, interminable trenches– someone who truly understood. His death had inspired mourning all of its own, but it had also sharpened the pain of her dad being gone. Suddenly, there was no one in Amy’s life who knew what it was like to occasionally wake up in the morning, smell fresh coffee from downstairs and think he might be sitting at the kitchen table, reading the paper and preparing to berate her for sleeping in so late.
Somehow, her sadness over Hari always stirred Amy’s deep reserves of heartbreak for her father. As she stood on the threshold of the Hall and rang the doorbell, she brushed away tears and cursed herself for putting on mascara that morning.
Sam greeted her with his usual warmth, offered her a cup of tea and gestured for her to make herself comfortable at the large old table they often sat at during RomFest meetings. She’d seen recognition in his eyes when she first walked into the room, despite his attempt to make sure things felt normal: he knew that she was sad, and he understood why.
This clear comprehension of her feelings didn’t comfort Amy. In fact, it made her powerfully, irrationally angry. If he understood what Hari had meant to her, why had he stayed away immediately after his death? Why had she been left with no one to cry with, reminisce with, be fuckinglividat the universe with? Throwing her an empathetic glance now was the textbook definition of too little, too late. To her surprise, and feeling stung, she found herself wishingif only itwasn’t.
During their conversation, which took in final decisions on catering and confirmation of the day’s line-up of guest speakers, Amy was reticent and occasionally combative. Ordinarily scrappy and opinionated, she crossed the line into belligerent and sullen– but in a feat of forbearance that was enough to make Amy wonder whether he’d had a personality transplant, Sam didn’t rise to her criticisms or sarcasm.
His calm resignation to her bleak mood did nothing to allay it. If anything, it darkened it further. When they’d finally come up with a physical layout and timeline for RomFest– the meeting’s main objective, and the blueprint that would allow on-the-ground preparations for the event to begin– Amy closed her notebook, shut the lid of her laptop and swept them, along with her collection of coloured fine-liners, into her tote bag.
‘Amy …’ Sam said, his voice low and urgent but gentle. ‘Stay. Have a drink with me.’
Amy bit her lip and shook her head, but it wasn’t a gesture that meant ‘no’. It was more a plea for him not to say anything further, a signal that she didn’t want to hear anything that might start her crying.
Seeming to understand this, Sam crossed the room– a modest home office space with Ikea furniture, a microwave and a kettle– and pulled an already open bottle of Pinot Grigio from the fridge beneath the countertop. He looked at her to check her reaction, lifting the bottle aloft by way of enquiry. When she didn’t speak, he opened a cupboard, took out two glasses and poured large measures of the wine into each.
He set one down on the table next to her, then drew up the nearest chair and turned it so he was facing her. They were so close their knees were almost touching. The gap between them was like a synapse: a space across which electrical impulses flowed, invisibly but irresistibly.
‘It’s always a shit day,’ said Sam heavily. ‘Never not awful. My guess is it’s hitting harder for you than usual, being here?’
Amy sighed and nodded, her eyes filling up despite all admonishments. She took a gulp of wine as tears began to course down her cheeks.
Sam sipped from his own glass. ‘I still miss him, too. He was the best of us.’
Amy nodded again and sniffed, then berated herself as the knowledge that she was not a pretty crier made its way to the forefront of her mind. As if she shouldcarewhether Sam might think she looked awful while she desperately tried not to sob.
‘I should have been a better friend to him,’ Sam stated. Amy lifted her head, her eyes connecting with his. She couldn’t understand the regret that was written in them; to her knowledge, he and Hari had been thick as thieves right up to the end. In the fictional movie of their lives, Hari had always been the quietly handsome, clever best mate to Sam’s flashier, more confident main character, but Hari preferred it that way. He’d never felt overshadowed or unseen– at least, not in a way he didn’t want.
Was Sam worried he’d somehow eclipsed Hari, to his detriment? Amy was confident that wasn’t the case, and for a split second contemplated offering Sam that reassurance. Then she remembered how little comfort he had offered her in the aftermath of the accident, and her anger at him flared again.
In a few massive mouthfuls she saw off what was left of her wine, feeling it go to her head almost immediately.
‘I should go,’ she said, her voice scratchy and tight. She stood up too fast but righted herself before she could stumble. She snatched up her bag and jacket and made for the door.
