The Memory of Midnight (5 page)

By the time she had left to pick Oscar up from school, she had convinced herself that she had imagined her earlier unease.

‘Why don’t you go and see if you can find her?’ she said to Oscar, helping him out of his jacket which was damp with mizzle. ‘Be quiet, though!’ she called after
him as he turned and charged up the narrow stairs. ‘You don’t want to frighten her.’

She was smiling, her hands filled with his jacket and his Spiderman lunchbox, as she watched him climb eagerly up to the inner door. One palm was flat against the wall for support, and his
sweatshirt was bright in the dingy light of the naked bulb hanging in the hallway. It was good to see him growing in confidence, rushing instead of hanging back timidly the way he had done
before.

But just as Oscar reached for the door, foreboding whipped in out of nowhere and grabbed Tess by the throat. The certainty that something terrible awaited her son on the other side of the door
pushed a shout of fear from her mouth. ‘
No!
’ she cried, and at the top of the stairs, Oscar spun round on the narrow stair in fright and teetered on the edge.

‘No! Wait!’ Tess cried again, stumbling up the stairs to catch him before he could fall. ‘I mean . . . I’m sorry, pip,’ she said unsteadily as his mouth trembled.
The vision of him tumbling into darkness was still crowding her mind, but she could tell that she was frightening him, and she made herself loosen her grip on his hand. She swallowed.
‘It’s just . . . you can’t get in without a key. I’ll need to unlock the door.’

Moving the jacket and lunchbox under her arm, she fumbled in her bag for the key. Her fingers shook as she tried to slot it into the door and ignore the voice in her head that was shouting at
her to take Oscar and run back down the stairs.

To go where? Back to her mother? Back to Martin? The key was cold, smooth metal between her clenched fingers. Tess made herself take a breath. She was
not
going back. She had been
through this. There was nothing bad waiting inside the flat. She was getting spooked by nothing.

You’re overimaginative
, Martin’s voice whispered in her head and she shook it away.

Resolutely, she shoved the key into the lock, turned it and pushed open the door before she could change her mind.

‘Here we are,’ she said brightly. Too brightly. ‘Let’s get you some juice and then you can look at –’

She broke off, sucking in a gasp of fright as a figure loomed in the doorway of Richard’s study, and she and Oscar both shrank back instinctively against the door.

‘Sorry.’ The figure stepped into the hallway so that she could see him. ‘I didn’t mean to frighten you.’

She hadn’t seen him for eleven years, but she recognized him straight away.

Clutching the lunchbox and coat in one arm, Tess grabbed hold of Oscar’s hand with the other and stared. She couldn’t catch her breath. Her heart was still ricocheting off her ribs,
her mind scrabbling to deal with the lurch from nameless fear to panic to stunned surprise.

‘Luke!’ Her voice was thin with shock.

He was tougher now, bigger than she had remembered somehow and more solid, but the shaggy hair and lean, beaky features were the same. It should have been an ugly face with that big nose and
those slashing brows but something about the set of his mouth and the sharp intelligence in his eyes made you want to look twice.

‘Hello, Tess,’ he said.

‘Wh-what are you doing here?’

She hated the waver in her voice. It had been impossible not to think of Luke when she came back to York, of course. Memories of him were inscribed on every street corner where she had ever
waited for him; in the dull gleam of the river and the slanting shadows beneath the Minster; in every place where being with him had been enough and life had shimmered with possibilities.

Luke was long gone, Tess had known that. He hadn’t been able to wait to leave York. Still, she had imagined what it would be like to bump into him again, imagined how cool and composed she
would be, how
he
would be the one to stutter and stammer in shock.

She hadn’t imagined
this
, the painful jerk of her heart or the swoop of her breath or the jumble in her head. She had wanted to look as if Luke’s rejection had been the best
thing that had ever happened to her, not drawn and tense and drab, as if every one of her possibilities had long ago disappeared.

Luke’s eyes had narrowed at her expression. She must look dreadful, Tess realized. And sound pathetic with her tremulous voice. So much for cool and composed.

‘Measuring up for shelves,’ he said. ‘Didn’t Richard tell you?’

‘
You’re
the joiner?’

At least she managed not to stammer that time, but the sound of her middle-class vowels made her flinch inwardly. Did she always sound that la-di-dah? Martin approved of the way she spoke, but
Luke had always teased her about her prim upbringing and her ‘affected’ voice. He’d always exaggerated his own Yorkshire accent when he talked to her mother, knowing how much it
irritated her. Susan Frankland had abhorred his scruffy clothes and unshaven face. No wonder she had been so delighted with Martin, who was always immaculately groomed and wore a suit and tie. Tess
looked at the dark stubble prickling Luke’s jaw, at the ripped jeans and faded T-shirt, and was obscurely glad to see that he hadn’t succumbed to conventionality after all.

‘Yeah, I’m a joiner.’ His lip still curled in the same defensive way too. ‘Is that a problem?’

Oh, God, now she had offended him . . . Ever-present guilt clutched at Tess’s gut, which was still swooping with the shock of seeing him so unexpectedly on top of that strangeness on the
stairs. He thought she was sneering, and when she remembered that last bitter exchange, when she had accused him of not wanting to make anything of his life, Tess couldn’t quite blame him.
Luke wasn’t to know just what a mess she had made of her own.

What did he see when he looked at
her
? Was he remembering the awkward girl who had plunged so desperately in love with him, or the one who had slimmed down and smartened up at
university, who had opted for convention after all?

Or was he shocked by the way she looked now: brittle thin, with a bruised look under her eyes and the long, dark hair he had loved so much now cut short and choppy?

And why should she care?

‘Of course it’s not a problem.’ Tess let go of Oscar’s hand and pressed her fingers against her temple while she struggled to contain her swirling thoughts.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said after a moment. ‘I just moved in this morning. I don’t know if I’m coming or going, and I wasn’t expecting to see you.’

To her relief the grim expression relaxed very slightly. ‘I thought Richard would have warned you.’

‘He didn’t give me a name. He just said that someone would be here.’

An awkward silence fell. At least, it felt awkward to Tess. Luke seemed unbothered by it, but then it had always been hard to tell exactly what he was thinking.

They appeared to have dealt with the initial misunderstanding, but there were so many more questions swirling in Tess’s head that she didn’t know where to start. Why had Luke come
back to York? What had happened to his determination to be a photojournalist? Had he settled down with a wife and family or was he still restless and impatient? Did he remember her as well as she
remembered him? Had he thought about her over the years? What was he thinking now?

If only they could have both laughed at the coincidence and relaxed straight away into do-you-remember? Once she had found him easy to talk to; now she stood stiffly, clutching the lunchbox
under one arm and Oscar with the other. Silent and owl-eyed, Oscar had shrunk into her side at the sight of Luke. When Luke looked at him, he hid his face against Tess’s stomach and tugged at
her jeans.

She bent down to hear what he was saying. ‘Speak up, Oscar,’ she said. ‘And say hello to Luke. He’s . . . an old friend of mine.’

Oscar only shook his head and clung tighter, whispering something about finding the cat.

Forcing a smile, Tess straightened to look at Luke again. ‘Look, Oscar hasn’t been here before and it’s all new to him.’ She sounded brittle, she knew, but at least it
was better than quavery. ‘I need to get him settled in first. Would you excuse me a minute?’

‘Sure.’

‘Would you like some tea?’

Amusement flashed in his face at her formal tone and Tess fought the blush that mottled her throat. She might be coming across as an uptight executive’s wife, but Luke wouldn’t have
forgotten a time when there had been no need for politeness.

Anyone would think they had never tugged at each other’s clothes, or tumbled frantically onto his bed, never rolled together in the dunes with the North Sea wind brushing sand along the
beach. In spite of herself, Tess’s blood heated at the memory of how it had been between them. They’d been so different, Luke a biker, playing his bad boy image to the hilt, she the shy
solicitor’s daughter who’d broken training for a brief, glorious period of rebellion.

Convention had won out in the end, of course, the way Luke had always said it would. He wouldn’t be at all surprised to see her now, offering tea with frigid formality, Tess knew. She
half-expected him to roll his eyes and tell her to take the stick out of her arse, but he was turning back to work already.

‘Sure,’ he said again. ‘When you’re ready. No hurry.’

‘Sorry about that.’ It was some time before Tess elbowed open the study door, holding two mugs of tea. Luke was leaning over, measuring a skirting board. His
T-shirt had ridden up to give her a glimpse of bare back. She could see the bumps in his spine. Martin didn’t like to be seen less than immaculately dressed, even by his own wife, and for
Tess the sight of Luke’s exposed skin felt shockingly intimate now. Hastily, she averted her eyes.

‘I had to find the cat. Oscar’s been desperate to meet her, and of course she chose now to go out. But fortunately she comes when you shake her biscuit box, and she let him stroke
her, so he’s thrilled and . . .’ She was babbling. Tess made herself stop and take a breath. This was Luke. There was no reason to be nervous. ‘Anyway, here’s your
tea.’

Luke straightened at her words, scribbled a measurement down with the stump of a pencil, then took the mug she held out with a nod of thanks. He always had been a man of few words.

She had left Oscar watching television with Bink tucked under his arm. He had climbed up onto the sofa and sat with his legs stuck straight out in front of him. He hadn’t liked Luke. He
was wary of all men, Tess had noticed, but it wasn’t hard to see why he found Luke particularly unapproachable, with those scowling brows and the surly expression she remembered so well. It
was a shame Oscar couldn’t see him smile. Luke looked quite different then.

He wasn’t smiling now as he took a sip from the mug. ‘You remembered how I take my tea,’ he said.

Her face warmed. ‘My head’s full of useless information like that.’

It had seemed easy in the kitchen. Take Luke tea. Have a chat about ground rules. Be adult. But now she was there, facing him, the room was jangling with memories of the things they’d done
together, the things they’d said to each other.

The things they’d felt for each other.

She studied him surreptitiously over the rim of her own mug. He had filled out over the past ten years and grown into that beaky nose. Where once he had been thin and wiry, now he was lean and
hard. But that shuttered, self-contained air was exactly the same. He was leaning back against an empty bookcase, drinking his tea, and something about the way he filled the space set a burn
spreading from her chest to her throat.

She swallowed, made a big thing of drinking her own tea. ‘So . . .’ She cleared her throat. ‘How are you, Luke?’

‘I’m good. You?’

‘Fine.’ She smiled a brittle smile and knew he didn’t believe her. She had looked in the mirror. There were shadows under her eyes and she looked gaunt and older than her
thirty years. Funny how she had used to long to be thin. Now she would happily trade her hollow cheeks and jutting shoulder blades for the bloom a few extra pounds would give her.

She kept the smile. Just because they’d once been lovers didn’t mean they couldn’t be polite. ‘How long have you been a joiner?’ She hated the way her voice came
out with that undercurrent of unconscious condescension.
A joiner? How marvellous.
She hadn’t actually said it, but that was the way it would sound to Luke, she knew. He had always
had a massive chip on his shoulder about her solidly middle-class background. He would have had her down as a yummy mummy the moment he saw Oscar.

It hadn’t mattered before, not to her. But now she was so attuned to gauging how Martin was going to react that she existed in a state of constant fretfulness, wondering if she had said
the right thing or the wrong thing. Look at her now, Tess thought, exasperated with herself, tying herself into knots wondering what Luke thought of her. What did it
matter
what he
thought? Chances were he wasn’t thinking of her at all.

His expression hadn’t even flickered. ‘Just since I came back to York,’ he said. ‘My mum died last year, and Dad’s not managing very well on his own. He had a
stroke a couple of years ago, and refused to have any help, so one of us had to be around. I flipped a coin with my brother, and I lost.’ He shrugged. ‘I was freelance so it was easier
for me.’

‘I’m sorry about your mum,’ said Tess honestly. She remembered Betty Hutton, a sparrow of a woman with shrewd eyes and a disconcerting cackle of laughter. ‘I always liked
her.’

‘So did I. Dad . . . well, he’s the same miserable old bugger.’

A miserable old bugger he had put his life on hold for, thought Tess. Luke hadn’t been able to disguise the rough affection lurking in his voice.

There was a tiny pause.

‘You’re still taking photographs?’ she persevered. Luke had always taken the most wonderful pictures. She had liked to listen to him talk about the work he would do as a
photojournalist, his sullen features lit with passion at the outrages he would expose.