“Tom,” she said dully when she opened the door. “This is a surprise. . . .”
She noticed he looked disheveled, had dark circles under his eyes, his face unshaven—very different from his usual buttoned-up, carefully groomed demeanor. “I heard about the van,” he said, following her into the living room. “My mother phoned me last night. I can’t believe—” He broke off, looking around himself in alarm. “Christ, what happened here?”
“We had a break-in,” she told him. “You didn’t know, then?”
“Break-in? No, I— When did . . . ?”
“I came home this morning and found it like this.”
His eyes widened. “My God.” He sank into a chair, then listened as she told him about the scene she’d been met with earlier.
She continued with her tidying as she talked, aware of his gaze following her as she moved around the room. She had never been alone with him before, she realized, and she felt oddly exposed in his presence, her movements slow and clumsy beneath his scrutiny. She noticed him pick up the picture of her and Luke on Hampstead Heath and stare down at it, his expression unreadable. She wished that he would go. “What brings you here, Tom?” she asked.
He looked up, the cool blue of his eyes meeting hers. “I had to be in town to see a client, and I wanted to see how you are.”
“Really?” She was unable to hide her surprise.
“I’m conscious that you’re very much on your own down here, Clara. My parents and I have each other, but . . . well.” He stopped before adding quietly, “I’m sorry if you thought I was less than sympathetic when Luke first went missing. I assumed he’d just taken off for a while—you know how impetuous he can be. I had no idea that . . .” He trailed off again, then cleared his throat. “Do the police have any inkling who might have broken in?”
“No. They’ve searched for fingerprints, but I guess it’ll be a while before I hear anything.” She surveyed the mess hopelessly. “The problem is there must be so many prints here. And if whoever it was wore gloves, then . . .” She shrugged. “I got the impression they were just going through the motions. They haven’t got a clue. Not a fucking clue.” She realized that she was going to cry and, desperate not to do so in front of Tom, excused herself and hurried to the bathroom, where she held a towel to her face as she stifled her sobs.
It was some minutes before she felt able to return, and she found him standing by the window, staring out at the sky, apparently deep in thought. The silence stretched and though it was in her nature to feel obliged to fill it, she sat on the sofa without speaking, unable to summon the necessary energy. She glanced at him, taking in his appearance. He was so different from Luke. They’d both inherited Oliver’s tall, broad-shouldered physique, but whereas Luke had his dad’s olive skin and softer, more boyish face, it was Rose’s pellucid blue gaze, blond hair, and strong, symmetrical features that had been passed down to Tom. Even their dress sense was different: Tom’s all sharp suits and expensive shoes, the polar opposite to Luke’s laid-back style of jeans and T-shirts. He was a solicitor, she knew, and it was a job she’d often thought suited him, associated as it was in her mind with a certain dry meticulousness.
He turned suddenly. “Didn’t the neighbors see or hear anything?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Apparently not. The woman upstairs has been away for a couple of days.” She reflected again how strange that was—seeing as she was usually there all the bloody time, playing her music, night and day. “The people on the floor below say they didn’t hear anything. I guess it must have happened during the night.”
To her surprise, he came over and took the seat next to hers on the sofa, and she leaned away slightly, a little taken aback by his sudden proximity, the intensity of his gaze. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Maybe I shouldn’t have come. I didn’t mean to disturb you—I wanted to make sure you’re all right.”
“Well, uh, you know. I’ve been . . . better,” she mumbled.
“Sorry,” he said. “Stupid thing to say.” After a moment he asked, “What will you do now?”
She shrugged. “The police want me to help with a press appeal. Then I guess I’ll stay at a friend’s tonight. Mac’s, maybe.”
He nodded. “If there’s anything I can do to help, or you just want to talk, I’m here. I’ll leave my number and you could . . . Well, anyway—” He broke off and she watched him pull a pen from his pocket, then scribble his number on a train ticket.
She tried to hide her surprise. “Thank you,” she murmured as he passed it to her.
“No problem.”
And then to her relief he got up and began to move toward the door.
They stood awkwardly in the narrow hallway. She would normally say good-bye to Rose or Oliver with a kiss or a hug, but that felt unthinkable with Tom. She tried to remember if this dilemma had ever occurred between them before and realized that it hadn’t: greetings and farewells were always a nod or a wave from across a room. He cleared his throat. “Well . . .”
To cover her confusion, she darted in front of him and opened the door, saying in a ridiculous, overly bright voice, “Okay, then! Nice to see you!”
He nodded. “Bye, Clara.”
And then he held out his hand, and thrown by the awkward formality, she took it, with a small, embarrassed laugh. She felt the coolness of his fingers in hers and something about the way he was looking at her now, his gaze so
