foot of it trailed rakishly out. He'd been to the barber's, I noticed, and his hair was cut tightly against his neck. I walked up behind him quietly and put my arms round his waist.
'Hello,' he said, turning round and kissing me. He handed me a book. 'Look, this is out in paperback now.' It was Under Jupiter's Eye, a novel written by a guy who had been three or four years ahead of us at university. We had gone along together to see him read from it when the hardback first appeared about six months previously.
We browsed for a while and then I found an empty chair and settled down to start the collection of John Cheever short stories I'd bought. I'd meant to get it out of the library but there was something so appealing about the chunky virgin paperback that I'd given in to temptation. Lucas could take hours in a bookshop but I didn't mind at all. It was one of the things we had in common and besides, watching him move between the tables reading the backs of the books was like observing an animal in its natural habitat. This was Lucas's world, much more than a corporate law firm. I had always known he wanted to write, but having a father like his had left its mark. He was proud of the fact that he was managing what Justin hadn't: working hard at something, achieving success through application, even when it bored him, even now, when there was no financial necessity for him to do it. Twenty minutes or so later I looked up and saw him making his way to the till. I packed away my book and went over. 'Shall we walk back?' he said, sliding his purchases into the bag he had slung across his body. 'I feel like it tonight.'
We crossed Piccadilly, less busy now, and walked up Sackville Street. At the top, I felt a pressure on my hand. Lucas pulled me with him and we took a left towards Cork Street and stood outside the gallery. It was empty. The Heathfield name had been removed from across the front and there was nothing at all on display, not even a single picture on an easel to keep up appearances. There was a discreet card in the bottom left-hand corner of the window giving a telephone number and email address for enquiries. Lucas stood still, looking through the glass. Only his chest moved, inflating and deflating, pushing out regular clouds into the night air. About five doors down there was a burst of noise as a door swung open then shut again. Someone was having a private view, like the one we'd been to in the empty building in front of us. Lucas paid no attention. I squeezed his hand, not knowing what to say but wanting to remind him that he wasn't there on his own.
He turned to me, as if coming round. 'Let's go,' he said. 'I'm sorry. I just wanted to see what it looked like.'
We walked a little way up the road without talking. 'Do you want to stop for a drink?' I asked, hoping it might lift his sudden melancholy.
'Let's keep going.'
I waited a minute or so before speaking again. 'Lucas, have you had any more thoughts about why ...?'
'You know I haven't. I told you, didn't I? He was successful, he wasn't ill, he had friends, he had me. I don't know. I don't want to talk about it, OK?'
We walked on again. He had dropped my hand and despite my nudging it against his hopefully while we waited to cross Regent Street, he didn't try to hold it again.
'Did he have a girlfriend?'
He stopped in the middle of the pavement, causing loud annoyance from the man walking behind who stumbled in the effort to avoid him. 'What is the matter with you? I said I don't want to talk about it. Why does no one listen to me?'
I felt as if someone had reached in and given my stomach a hard squeeze. The thought that I had upset him hurt me more than the sharpness of his tone. I was ashamed of myself and embarrassed. I lowered my head and carried on walking, a little further apart from him. I took my bag off my shoulder and carried it in my arms, held tight against my chest. We crossed Soho in silence.
We walked without talking for about a
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