‘Don’t worry. I’m a big girl,’ said Sam more good-naturedly.
‘Have fun tonight. Say hi to Brian.’
‘I will. Make yourself at home.’
‘Thank you. Thanks again for everything,’ said Ros as the door closed behind Sam.
When the front door slammed shut fifteen minutes later, Ros peered out of the window and watched the tail lights of Brian’s Hillman Minx disappearing into the encroaching night.
She frowned, still not able to understand how she had been blindsided by Sam’s revelation, but decided to unpack before she gave it any more thought.
She squatted down on her haunches and popped open her suitcase, pulling out the contents and arranging her clothes into piles on the bed. She was not a naturally organised person, but sometimes she liked bringing strict order into her life to make her feel more in control.
She hung up her skirts and blouses and her one good coat in the small wardrobe, put everything else in the oak armoire, then sat on the bed feeling restless.
Sam’s Primrose Hill house suddenly felt very large and quiet. She picked up the bottle of wine and went to go and find the kitchen, pausing at the bookcase in the hall to pick something to read; her own box of books was due to arrive on Sunday, when her father had promised to deliver the rest of her possessions.
A short rummage around the kitchen drawer yielded a corkscrew and a goblet. She opened the bottle, poured herself a glass and took a sip, feeling her shoulders slump.
She had been excited about moving into Sam’s, not just because it resolved a problem, but because she secretly liked the idea of more freedom. Even at university, she had lived at home, aware that money was tight, aware that a student flat share was profligate and that staying with her parents was the more practical solution. She had thrown herself into student life as much as she could, but having to get the last train home to Teddington had certainly limited her opportunities.
Now that she had moved to Primrose Hill, she didn’t exactly want to make up for lost time – how could she possibly lead the Direct Action Group if she had a midweek hangover? Even so, she’d had visions of spending weekends with Sam discussing books and jazz and art and visiting clubs, museums and galleries to make those conversations come alive.
Now that Brian was on the scene, that particular fantasy was unlikely.
A distant ringing of the phone shook her from her thoughts. Locating the sound in the hall, she ran to answer it, picking up a pen in preparation for taking a message.
‘Hello, Campbell residence,’ she said as politely as she could.
‘Is it possible to speak to Rosamund Bailey?’ came the reply.
She put the pen down in surprise.
‘This is she.’
‘It’s Dominic Blake. From Capital magazine.’
‘Dominic Blake?’ she said in confusion. ‘How on earth did you find me here?’
‘You gave me this number.’
‘I did,’ she responded quickly, remembering the copy she had filed and the accompanying note with her new contact details.
There was a moment’s silence.
‘Thank you for the piece.’
‘How was it?’ she replied anxiously.
‘You didn’t let me down.’
‘You liked it?’ she said, her voice rising in excitement.
‘It needs a bit of editing. Perhaps a couple of paragraphs need expanding to extend the points you make, but I enjoyed it very much. We should probably arrange a time to knock heads to discuss it. Are you in a rush? Are you still at work?’
‘No. Our office doesn’t have its own phone. This is my home number.’
‘Then I’m sorry for intruding. On a Friday night as well. I lost track of the time. Sometimes we work ridiculously long hours here because of the small team.’