‘Since when do you wear a suit two days in a row?’ George says. ‘Has someone else died?’
‘I’ve got a meeting,’ Reubyn replies, dabbing at his jacket with a napkin.
‘What about?’
‘A work thing.’
‘Don’t be so bloody coy, Reubyn, what’s it about?’
‘I’ll tell you after. I don’t want to jinx it by talking about it already.’
George rolls his eyes and drains the remainder of his beer. He raises his empty pint glass. ‘Shall we have another? My round.’
‘I think we should call it a day,’ Polly says firmly.
George’s lips twitch, as if he’s about to say something, then he breathes a sigh. Whatever glib statement he was about to make will remain unsaid. It’s a rare and welcome showing of self-restraint on his behalf. The others respond by finishing their drinks and grabbing their coats; they’re all in agreement – an hour here is more than enough. They’ve paid their respects, and now it’s time to get going before there’s any trouble. Although the Pritchard-Joneses haven’t vocalised any resentment yet, that doesn’t mean for certain that no bad feeling exists. And with drinks being consumed at a liberal pace, the chances of any suppressed hostility revealing itself will only increase the longer they stay.
Polly has another reason for her haste: she could really do with getting on with some work. Although she only has a few clients at the moment, she still hasn’t replaced Callie, and so they’re a little thin on the ground.
They return their glasses to the bar and make a French exit. George and Reubyn lead the way, the former pestering his friend for more details about his upcoming meeting.
Polly walks slower, falling in step with Miles along the pavement. He walks at a weary pace but there’s no point in hurrying him – the next train doesn’t depart for half an hour. Miles is quiet, like he has been all day, and Polly walks silently next to him, allowing him space for contemplation.
A few minutes go by before Miles chooses to speak. ‘I think I might abandon the whole acting thing.’
‘What?’
‘I’m not very good at it, Pol, let’s be honest.’
‘Yes, you are.’ Polly gives him a look of robust encouragement. He might not be Daniel Day-Lewis, but he isn’t talentless.
When Miles doesn’t respond, she wonders if he might be serious. ‘What would you do instead?’
‘Something more worthwhile. I’m thinking maybe I could do social work.’
Polly raises an eyebrow but says nothing. Miles has been extremely emotional today, and he can be prone to fanciful thoughts like these. He’ll come to his senses soon enough.
They walk back under the motorway and turn a corner towards the railway station. It’s close to sunset and most of the street is in shadow; only a single pavement and the terraced houses on one side are bathed in the wintery yellow light. Polly grabs the cuff of Miles’s coat and guides him across the road to the sunny side. It’s still cold, but the delicate rays have just enough strength to provide a mellow warmth on their skin.
‘We’re lucky, aren’t we?’ Miles says.
‘You’renot.’
‘Are you sure about that?’
Polly gives him a look. Now isn’t the time for a deep philosophical discussion on fate and privilege awareness.
‘When are you going back to London?’ Miles asks.
‘I’m not sure yet. There’s no massive rush.’
Miles frowns at her. ‘But what about the business, your flat, your tenant? There’s a lot to look after, isn’t there?’
‘Ah, Miles.’ She slings an arm around his shoulders, nudging him forward, and they continue moving slowly down the pavement. ‘We’ve known each other for more than three decades, and you still don’t see what’s going on here.’
He squints at her, gives the slightest shake of the head. ‘I don’t?’
‘All those things you just mentioned, they largely look after themselves. There’s only one thing I’ve ever really had to look after, and that’s my little brother.’
