I quickly put on a smile. “I hear you’re from America,” I said. “You don’t sound very American.”

He laughed. “I’m not. Just spent two years teaching over there – the University of Vermont. Do you know Vermont?”

I shook my head.

“But I’m really from here, from England,” he went on. I watched the smoke he’d inhaled seep out from between his lips and drift off in a wavering blue scarf that dissolved into the twilight. “From London. You live in London, is that right?”

“Yes, sort of Crouch End area. I have a flat there.”

“In Crouch End?” He pronounced it with the ironic French accent that every Londoner affects when they talk about the area – croooche en.

“Now I know you’re a real Londoner. They all say it like that.”

“Well, there you go. The Yanks haven’t crushed old Blighty out of me yet.”

I laughed. “You definitely don’t have an American accent, either.”

“God forbid,” he said and our eyes met. I felt an odd tremor that, for a second, made me catch my breath. I blinked and looked away.

“Anyway,” said Matt, as if I’d just spoken. “Crouch End is very nice, I hear.”

“Well, actually, it’s really more Highgate,” I said.

He looked amused. “Well, you’re doing alright for yourself, aren’t you? What do you do?”

I smiled, rather brightly. How much did he know about me? And was he just making small talk, or was he really interested? Was he patronising me? “Oh, this and that. I work at a charity. Only part-time at the moment.”

“Interesting,” said Matt.

“It’s really not,” I said, grinning. “But thanks for being polite. Want another drink?”

“Not just now,” he said, which slightly annoyed me as it meant I couldn’t go and get one for myself. “Stay and talk to me.”

“About what?”

“About – about vampires,” he said. I gave a little huff of laughter and his smile widened. “Highgate Cemetery,” he said “That’s where the vampires are, aren’t they?”

“So they say.”

He looked at me with one corner of his mouth turned up. “Not been bitten yet, have you?”

My hand went up to my throat automatically and made us both laugh.

“Not yet,” I said, and we laughed again.

*

After we’d left the pub, I fell asleep almost as soon as we rejoined the motorway. It must have been very boring for Matt, having to drive the rest of the way home with no one to talk to, but he let me sleep; I think he could see I needed it. He shook me awake gently when we were parked outside the flat.

“Wakey, wakey,” he said. “You were dead to the world. We’re home now.”

I stumbled blearily out of the car. In the lift on the way up to the flat, I looked at myself in the mirrored wall; mussed hair, pouched eyes. My scar looked very red. I shifted my gaze to Matt, who was rubbing his face, dragging a hand over the bristles of his chin.

“God, I’m bushed,” he said. “That drive never gets any easier.”

I dropped my gaze to the floor. I wondered whether he was thinking the same thing; that perhaps we wouldn’t have to do that drive anymore. Despite that, as we walked into the living room I went automatically to the phone and picked up the receiver, ready to call Angus to tell him we’d got home safely. Then I remembered and dropped the phone with a little cry and burst into tears. Matt was by my side immediately.

“Maudie–”

“I’m fine,” I said, choking. “Just – just let me be for a bit.”

“But–”

“Please.”

He stepped back warily. I lay down on the sofa and pushed my face into a cushion.

“I’ll get you a drink,” he said.

I nodded into the pillow. I couldn’t see what he was doing but I heard his footsteps move away from the sofa and into the kitchen. There was the creak of the refrigerator door and the chink of a glass bottle, the glug and trickle of liquid into a glass. Soon I heard his footsteps walking back.

“Here you go,” he said tenderly, like it was medicine. I sat up. He was holding out the brandy glass to me. I took it, rubbing the tears from my face.

“Thanks.”

He watched me drink it. Then he sat down beside me and pulled my head down onto his shoulder. I could feel his stubble catch on my hair as he rubbed his cheek against my head.

“One thing about grief,” he said. “You’ll never again feel as bad as you do right this moment. And tomorrow night, you’ll never feel quite as bad as you do tomorrow morning. And so on, and so on. That’s what they mean by time being a great healer.”

I nodded but I could have told him it wasn’t true. Time heals all wounds. It was a kind-hearted lie, a benevolent myth. Unless it took more than twenty-five years to come true.

Chapter Three

“Darling...”

I could hear Becca’s voice from across the room. I turned in my chair, watching her plough through the restaurant like a galleon in full sail.

“Darling!” Her voice went upwards as she spotted me. I grinned and waved and, two seconds later, was enveloped against her chest, the fronds of her lacy scarf muffling my face as she pressed me to her. For a moment I smelt Chanel Number Five and the sweet powdery scent of her make-up before she released me and I staggered back.

“How are you, darling? I was so worried about you, at that ghastly funeral. It’s so hard to lose a parent, it doesn’t matter how old you are. No, sit down, sit down. Have you ordered? Christ, we can’t even smoke here anymore – darling, let’s just pop out for a sec – I can have a quick smoke and you can tell me all about it – what do you say?”

As always, I felt slightly breathless. Becca has that effect on people. I always feel like throwing my hands up and saying ‘whoa, whoa’. Bless her.

“Go on, then. I can see I’m not going to get any peace until I let you have your nicotine fix.”

We took up our stations outside the entrance, huddled alongside with the other smokers who were talking and shivering and breathing out great long streams of smoke into the icy night air.

“Go on then, hon,” said Becca, inhaling with a gasp. “Are you okay? I’m so sorry I couldn’t come up to be with you, but those bastards at work would just not hear of me missing that Boston trip...”

I rolled my eyes. “Don’t worry about it, Becs. It’s fine. It’s not as though you and Angus really got on or anything, did you?”

Becca protested. “Darling, that’s a bit harsh. I only met him a couple of times. I thought we got on perfectly well, what little time we spent together. Why, did he say differently?”

I cursed myself mentally. “No, not really. You know what he was like though. Or rather, what I told you he was like. Oh, you know what I mean–”

Why had I said that? I could hear Angus’s summation of Becca clear as day in my head, after I’d taken her with me to Caernaven that one time. Too tall, too loud, too unfeminine. It was my own fault, I’d wanted to know what he thought of her. I’d wanted him to approve of her and our friendship. I should have known better. Had there been anyone in my life that Angus approved of, ever? I had a sudden unwelcome thought: if Jessica had – had lived, had been known to us as an adult, would he have approved of her?

“Becca, I’m fine. Really. I know you would have come if I’d asked you to.”

She smiled and took another lung-busting drag on her cigarette. I regarded her with affection. Darling Rebecca; henna-haired Amazon, cloaked in cigarette smoke; fond of emphatic statements; fiercely intelligent, bossy, extrovert. I’d known her five years; she was my best friend.

“Let’s go inside and order, if you’re done,” I said.

Becca gave me a strong, one-armed hug. “We need to feed you up,” she said. “Look at you, skinny-malinky. Matt’s not been taking care of you. Where is he, anyway?”

“At home. He sends his love but he had a paper to do for next week’s conference.”