eyes. She’d only listened to his deep voice and the words he’d said. Calm and sensible, that was how she’d come to think of him. This felt different.
‘Chloe said you looked nice,’ she said on a rush, hoping it would make him feel better.
‘She looks incredible. I don’t know what I was expecting, but she looks so…so healthy.’
Lucy heard the wistful tone in his voice. Even that must be difficult for him, she remembered. Eloise had been anything but healthy, apparently. Did Chloe look like she would have done if she’d been well?
‘I’ve booked a table at the White Horse since it’s so near. I’ve no idea whether the food is any good, but I liked the idea of sitting on the terrace and watching the water.’
‘The food’s lovely,’ Lucy volunteered quickly, glad he’d chosen that restaurant. She loved sitting where she could see water, watching the way the colour changed and shifted on the surface, but this time she liked the idea of having a distraction. Something easy to talk about if the conversation became too difficult, too strained.
They walked in silence for a time. Lucy was aware of the way he kept glancing down at her and she could feel the tension in his body. It didn’t surprise her. What they were having to do was impossibly difficult.
‘I used to go to the White Horse with Michael,’ Lucy remarked, breaking the silence.
He seemed grateful. ‘When you were dating?’
‘No. We couldn’t afford it then. Michael and I met at school and were married by the time we were nineteen. This is grown-up stuff, with grown-up prices. We went there for our last anniversary. A couple of months before he died.’
Dominic stopped and turned to look at her, the angled planes of his face pulled taut. ‘Is this difficult for you? Look, if you’d rather go somewhere else please say so. This is awkward enough as it is.’
‘It’s fine, really. It’s a happy place. I’ve really good memories of coming here.’
‘Really?’
She nodded. ‘Excellent.’
‘What was he like?’
‘Michael?’ She saw the slight inclination of his head, saw his reluctance to ask the question in case it hurt her. Strangely, it didn’t hurt to talk about Michael. What hurt was not being allowed to. Being widowed made other people uncomfortable, and sometimes it felt as if Michael had been erased. ‘He was a lovely man. Very sporty, loved sailing. Always wanting to do the next thing, take on the next challenge. It was an incredible shock when he was diagnosed with the tumour. Of course he’d left it far too late. Wouldn’t go to the doctor. He was the last person you’d ever have thought would…’
‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.’
‘No, it’s fine. I like to talk about him sometimes,’ she reassured him quickly. ‘We were really happy together. So many of my friends are splitting up now, getting divorced. I know I’ve already had more than some people have their whole lives. If he hadn’t died he wouldn’t have left me, and I know he loved me right up to the end. Me and Chloe.’
‘Do you find that difficult?’ His shoe kicked at a stone. ‘That Michael died believing Chloe was his natural child?’
Lucy watched it skim into the bramble bushes. ‘I’m glad about that. It’s difficult for me to cope with, but Michael would have found it harder still. And if it had come when he was ill…That would have been unbearable. As it is he died happy, knowing I wouldn’t be alone and believing something of him was going on.’ She swallowed painfully. ‘And it still is. Except in your Abby—not in Chloe, as we thought.’
Dominic held open the gate for Lucy to pass through before him, thinking once again how remarkable a woman she was. How did you reach the point where you could be glad for the little time you’d had? Every time he caught sight of an article celebrating someone’s diamond wedding anniversary he felt angry. Every time he saw a mother with her child he remembered Eloise hadn’t had that chance. Was it possible Lucy didn’t share his anger—and guilt?
He waited until they were seated at one of the tables overlooking the canal before he spoke again. ‘Have you ever been on the canal?’
Lucy tucked her handbag beneath her seat and looked up to see a burgundy-and-blue narrow boat passing, small crochet circles hanging in the round windows. ‘Absolutely. I grew up near here. My mum and dad owned a narrow boat for most of my childhood. They had a seventy-two foot boat which they called Little Beauty.’
‘An odd choice for a big boat.’
Lucy smiled and his breath caught in his throat. Her skin seemed to glow with pure life, even her hair crackled with energy. The first time he’d seen her, outside the hospital, he’d recognised she was a beautiful woman but he hadn’t anticipated his reaction to her smile. He’d no business thinking about her that way. Even so, when she smiled she took on a luminosity that was quite staggering. Her expressive eyes sparkled and her soft full mouth…What? He caught himself up on the thought.
‘Little Beauty is such a ridiculous name. I was always embarrassed by it until I read H E Bates.’
He frowned, trying to pick up the threads of her conversation.
‘Darling Buds of May. Little Beauty is the boat owned by Pop Larkin. Once I knew that, I loved it. The biggest mystery is my dad going along with it. He wasn’t that kind of man.’
‘Wasn’t?’ Dominic prompted.
‘He died when I was twenty-three. He was a very careful man. Little Beauty was his only extravagance. He believed life was too difficult to be reckless with it. He was so worried when I went to art college.’
So there was the answer to one of the questions he’d wanted to ask her. She was an artist. That fitted her image perfectly. With her dark hair pulled up on the top of her head in a haphazard manner, long wispy tendrils curling around her face, she looked slightly bohemian. Messy.
‘What about you? What do you do, Dr Grayling? What are you a doctor of?’
He smiled. He’d suspected she’d no idea who he was. It was refreshing. It was difficult to live down the description of being the ‘thinking woman’s crumpet’, and London was full of women who liked the idea of being with a man who made intellectual television programmes. It had led to hours of spurious conversations with people who’d no idea what they were talking about but who hoped to impress him with their knowledge.
‘History.’
‘Revolting. A truly horrible subject. There were far too many essays to write in History—and almost all of them were about war, I seem to remember.’
His smile broadened. ‘You obviously had some appalling teachers.’
‘So what does a doctor of History actually do?’
‘I’m more of a writer now, but history is still an overwhelming passion,’ he answered evasively, not really understanding his strange reluctance to tell her what he actually did. ‘I see myself as an educator.’ He broke off as the waitress arrived at their table. ‘Are you ready to order? Have you had time to decide what you’d like?’
‘No debate. Scampi and chips,’ she answered with determined cheerfulness. ‘I’ll worry about the calories tomorrow.’
That made a change, Dominic thought. Both his wife and his mother would never have let a sentiment like that enter their heads, let alone passed their lips. Rigid control at all times. He’d even come to believe they actually preferred lettuce and steamed broccoli.
‘If it comes that highly recommended I’ll have the same. What would you like to drink?’
‘I’ll have a glass of dry white wine, please.’
The waitress scribbled frantically. ‘House white?’
‘Will