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‘Shall we walk back to Belgrave Square?’ Mary asked, pulling on her gloves as she and Tom left the restaurant after a pleasant lunch.
He glanced around the street. ‘Are you sure you know the way?’
‘Of course, I do. I’ve been coming to Rosamund’s for years now.’
‘All right,’ he said, falling into step beside her. ‘Lead on because I don’t have a clue.’
Half an hour later, they were still walking, and Tom’s suspicions were growing.
‘We’ve been down this street once before.’
‘What? No, we haven’t,’ Mary said, immediately on the defensive.
‘Yes, we have. I recognise that house over there with the red door.’
‘Lots of houses have red doors.’
‘Not with a knocker in the shape of a stag, they don’t.’ He flashed her a knowing look. ‘You’re lost, aren’t you?’
‘I’m not lost! I know exactly where we are!’ she protested, casting around for a landmark she recognised.
He raised an eyebrow, silently disbelieving.
‘All right, I know roughly where we are.’
He said nothing, still looking sceptical.
‘I do!’ she insisted.
‘Well, come on then; it’ll be getting dark soon.’
She huffed in irritation, squashing the worry that she didn’t really know where she was going, and set off again, Tom following in her wake.
They stopped again at the red‑doored house.
Tom gestured with mock solemnity. ‘Well, here we are again. Our old friend, the stag.’
Mary glared at him, her cheeks flushed. ‘Fine! Yes, we’ve passed it before. Happy now?’
‘I’m not trying to win an argument, Mary. I just – ’
‘You think I don’t know I’m lost?’ Her voice cracked, and she pressed a hand to her forehead, suddenly overwhelmed.
Tom took a step forward, his tone softening. ‘Mary, I – ’
She interrupted him again, almost talking to herself, not him. ‘I don’t seem to know where I’m going anymore. Not here, not… anywhere.’
Silence hung heavy between them. Tom’s chest tightened as her hidden vulnerability came into tight focus, throwing him straight back to those hollow days after Sybil died, when every street, every road felt unfamiliar. Mary’s divorce was different, but it still signalled a big change, pulling the rug from underneath her in more ways than one.
He reached out, resting his hand on her shoulder, watching the anger drain from her, replaced by exhaustion.
‘Then let me help you find your way again,’ he said gently.
Biting her lip, Mary let out a shaky breath and nodded. He crooked his arm, offering it to her. For a moment, she hesitated, and then she took it.
Looking up and down the street, she let out a small, rueful laugh. ‘We’re not going to find Rosamund’s like this.’
He shrugged. ‘There’s no shame in admitting defeat.’
Mary nodded, pulling herself together. ‘Then let’s find a taxi, shall we?’
Relieved to see a flicker of her old composure returning. Tom smiled. ‘Come on then. But if we find ourselves walking past that stag once more, I’m inviting him to dinner.’