AI Rory was carrying a bag of prawn crackers downstairs when she saw Eva at the bar.
She stopped with one foot on the last stair. The bag crackled in her hand.
Eva sat with her coat folded over the stool beside her and a glass of something pale in front of her. Her hair, once a mass of dark curls that had caught in zips and earrings and other people’s fingers, was cropped close to her head. She wore a navy suit. Her hands lay flat on the bar, one on either side of the glass.
For a moment Rory thought she had mistaken a stranger. Then the woman turned her glass a quarter turn, stopped, and turned it back. Eva had always done that, even with empty cups, as though she expected something to appear on the other side.
Silas came out from behind the bar carrying a crate of clean glasses. He glanced at Rory and followed her gaze.
“Friend of yours?” he asked.
“I think so.”
He set the crate down. Eva looked up at the sound, and Rory saw the small gap between her front teeth.
“Rory?”
Eva stood so quickly that her stool rocked. Rory crossed the room before she had decided whether to hug her. They met awkwardly, both reaching with the wrong arm, and then Eva held her tight enough to press the crackers between them.
“Sorry,” Rory said into her shoulder .
Eva laughed and stepped back. “You’ve still got food on you.”
“I was bringing these down for Silas.”
“An important delivery?”
“Life or death.”
Silas took the bag from her. “I’ll leave you to it,” he said, and carried it behind the bar.
Rory looked at Eva again. The short hair made her face seem sharper, though there was a softness beneath her eyes Rory didn’t remember. At twenty, Eva had dressed for an ordinary Tuesday as if someone might photograph her: bright lipstick, enormous earrings, boots she could barely walk in. Rory had once watched her change her outfit three times before going to buy milk.
“You look different,” Rory said.
Eva touched her hair. “That’s one word for it.”
“It suits you.”
“You don’t have to say that.”
“I know.”
Eva studied her for a second, then smiled. “You look exactly the same.”
“I really don’t.”
“Your hair’s shorter. And you’ve got that line.” Eva pointed to the space between her own eyebrows. “Like you’re about to tell someone their maths is wrong.”
“That was always there.”
“True. You were horrible about maths.”
“I was good at maths. You were horrible at it.”
They smiled at each other. The ease of it startled Rory, and so did the quiet that followed. Five years since they had seen each other, and there was Eva’s old laugh, followed by the need to decide where to put their hands.
“What are you doing here?” Rory asked.
“I had a meeting nearby. I was walking to the station and saw the sign.” Eva glanced towards the front window, where green neon stained the wet pavement. “I remembered you lived above a bar. I thought it might be this one.”
“You remembered the sign?”
“You sent me a photo when you moved in. The green bird.”
“That was ages ago.”
“Yes,” Eva said.
Silas appeared at Rory’s elbow. “What can I get you?”
“Whatever she’s having.”
Eva lifted her glass. “White wine. And water.”
“Just water for me,” Rory said.
Silas brought it without asking whether she wanted ice. He knew she didn’t. Rory was absurdly grateful for that small piece of knowledge, offered in front of Eva like proof that she had a life here.
They carried their drinks to a table beneath an old map. The bar was quiet, the early crowd not yet arrived. At the far end, a man in shirtsleeves read a paper beneath one of the black-and-white photographs. Rain tapped against the window in quick, irregular bursts.
Eva folded her coat over the back of her chair before sitting. Even that looked different. She used to let things fall where they would, leaving Rory to gather scarves and gloves from the floor when they left cafés.
“So,” Eva said. “The Golden Empress.”
“You remember that too.”
“I remember some things.”
“I’m still there. Part-time.” Rory took a sip of water. “I deliver for Yu-Fei.”
“On a bike?”
“Sometimes. Mostly I walk. Depends how far it is and whether it’s raining hard enough to make the roads dangerous.”
“And law?”
Rory ran a finger through the condensation on her glass. “No law.”
Eva nodded, but Rory caught the flicker of surprise before she hid it.
“Everyone always assumed I’d go back,” Rory said.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“I was surprised because you never told me.”
Rory looked down at the wet line she had made on the table. Their messages had become less frequent over the last two years: a birthday, a photograph of a dog in an improbable coat, a few words at Christmas. Each exchange had ended with one of them saying they should call. Rory could no longer remember which of them had first stopped proposing a date.
“I didn’t know how to make it sound like a decision,” she said.
“Was it?”
“Eventually.”
Eva rested her chin on her hand. “Do your parents know?”
“They’ve noticed I’m not a barrister.”
That made Eva laugh, though she covered her mouth halfway through it. Rory remembered her at seventeen, standing on a bench in Cardiff and singing so loudly that a man across the street had applauded. She had taken a bow and asked him for money.
“What about you?” Rory asked. “You said you had a meeting.”
“I work for a funeral director.”
Rory waited. Eva’s expression remained composed.
“You’re serious.”
“Very. It helps in my line of work.”
“Doing what?”
“Arranging funerals. Talking to families, mostly. Sorting out the paperwork. Making sure everyone goes where they’re supposed to.”
Rory pictured Eva in a church aisle, ushering mourners into their seats. She couldn’t make the image hold. “How did that happen?”
“I needed a job. They needed someone at reception. I stayed.”
“Do you like it?”
“Some days.”
“And the other days?”
“I go home and take my shoes off and don’t speak for an hour.”
“That sounds familiar .”
Eva smiled into her glass. “It’s useful work. People are frightened of getting things wrong. You can help with that.”
The man with the newspaper folded it and left. Silas wiped down the bar with a cloth, moving steadily, his left leg stiff when he turned. His silver ring caught the light as he reached for an empty glass.
Rory said, “Did you start there after your mum?”
Eva’s hand stopped on the stem of her glass. “About six months after.”
“I didn’t know.”
“I know you didn’t.”
Eva said it gently , which made Rory wish she had said it another way.
Three years ago, Eva had called to say her mother was in hospital. Rory had been standing in the kitchen of the flat she shared with Evan, waiting for water to boil. She remembered the sound of the kettle clicking off, Eva talking too fast, the word infection coming up twice before Rory understood what she meant.
“I should have come,” Rory said.
Eva watched her. “You said you would.”
“I know.”
Rory had said Saturday. She had even looked up the trains. Then Evan had found the page open on her laptop and asked why Eva couldn’t manage without her. By Friday evening he was furious about the money, about being left alone, about the way Rory had looked at him when he mentioned it. On Saturday morning he was sorry, and she was exhausted , and the train she had meant to catch went without her.
“I thought I could come the next weekend,” Rory said. “Then your mum died.”
Eva picked at the edge of a paper coaster. “You sent flowers.”
“They were terrible flowers.”
“They were fine.”
“They had glitter on the leaves. I didn’t order glitter.”
“They did.” Eva’s mouth twitched, then settled. “The card said you were sorry you couldn’t be there.”
“I was.”
“I know. I just didn’t know why you couldn’t.”
Rory had rehearsed explanations over the years, usually while washing dishes or lying awake. In every version she made herself clearer than she had been at the time. She had wanted to go. She had been afraid of what would happen if she did. Both were true, and neither gave Eva back the afternoon she had spent waiting for her.
“Things were bad with Evan,” she said. “Worse than I’d told you. He didn’t want me to go, and I couldn’t face what he’d do if I went anyway.”
Eva’s eyes filled. She looked annoyed and blinked hard.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I was ashamed. And every time I thought about calling, another day had gone by. I knew what it looked like.”
“I thought you’d decided I wasn’t worth the trouble.”
Rory opened her mouth.
“I know that wasn’t it,” Eva said. “Now. But at the time, I kept thinking I must have done something. I went through our last few conversations trying to find it.”
The thought of Eva doing that, sitting somewhere with her mother dying and searching for an offence she hadn’t committed, made Rory grip her glass.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I left you alone with it.”
Eva nodded. She pulled a napkin from the holder and folded it carefully in half. Rory recognised the gesture now: a way of keeping her hands occupied.
“When you called me the next year,” Eva said, “and told me you were leaving him, I wanted to ask why you hadn’t called before.”
“You told me to come to London.”
“I told you about three times. You kept saying you didn’t know anyone there.”
“I knew you.”
“I wasn’t even living here.”
“You said you’d help me find somewhere.”
“I could do that from Bristol.” Eva rubbed the folded napkin between her fingers. “I was angry with you, Rory. I was angry for a long time. But I wanted you away from him.”
Rory remembered that call too. Eva had given her practical instructions in a voice that left little room to argue: take the documents first, change the passwords, don’t tell him where she was going . Rory had written everything on the back of a takeaway menu. She still had it somewhere in her flat, though she hadn’t looked for it in years.
“I never thanked you properly,” she said.
“You did, actually. A lot. It got embarrassing.”
“I don’t remember.”
“You were having a fairly difficult week.”
Silas brought over a small bowl of prawn crackers. “They were going stale upstairs, apparently,” he said.
“I bought them this afternoon,” Rory said.
“Then I’ve saved them from a worse fate.”
Eva thanked him, and he returned to the bar. She took a cracker and examined it.
“Do you remember,” she said, “when we tried to make these ourselves?”
“We made paste.”
“We made a great deal of paste. Your mother found it on the ceiling.”
“She blamed me.”
“You told her it was you.”
Rory remembered standing in her parents’ kitchen, Eva behind her, both of them trying not to laugh. She had been accustomed to covering for Eva then. Eva was the one who suggested things; Rory worked out how they might be done and what to say if they went wrong.
“You used to get me into trouble,” Rory said.
“I seem to remember you coming along quite willingly.”
“Not always.”
“No.” Eva broke the cracker in two. “Not always.”
Rory ate one herself. It dissolved against her tongue, faintly sweet and salty.
“Do you still sing?” she asked.
Eva looked surprised . “A bit.”
“Where?”
“In the car, mostly. I drive between branches sometimes.”
“That’s a waste.”
“It keeps me awake on the motorway.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do.” Eva put down the piece of cracker she hadn’t eaten. “I don’t want to perform anymore.”
Rory had been about to ask whether she missed it. She stopped herself.
Eva looked around the bar, at the maps and the photographs and Silas polishing a glass. “I like being good at my job,” she said. “I like that people trust me with things. When I was younger, I was always trying to get someone to look at me. It’s a relief not to need that so much.”
“I used to like looking at you,” Rory said.
Eva’s face softened. “I know.”
“I suppose I miss that version of you.”
“I miss her sometimes too. She could stay up all night and then eat a fried breakfast.”
“She was unbearable before the breakfast.”
“She was.” Eva tipped the last of her wine towards herself but didn’t drink. “You’re different as well, you know.”
“You said I looked the same.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Eva glanced towards the stairs. “You seem settled here.”
Rory followed her gaze. From the table she could see only the bottom steps and the edge of the door to the street. Upstairs, her washing was still on the rack by the radiator. She had left a mug in the sink that morning and meant to deal with it later.
“I am,” she said, and found she could say it without qualification.
Eva smiled. “Good.”
The rain had eased. People began coming in, shaking out umbrellas and bringing the cold with them. Silas greeted two of them by name. Rory checked the time and realised they had been talking for nearly an hour.
“I should go,” Eva said. “I’ve got an early train tomorrow.”
“Back to Bristol?”
“I’m in Reading now. I moved last autumn.”
Rory had known Eva was thinking about moving. She hadn’t known she had done it. Eva must have seen the surprise on her face.
“I nearly told you,” she said. “Then I thought I’d wait until everything was sorted.”
“And then it was Christmas.”
“And then it was.”
They stood. Eva put on her coat while Rory moved the empty glasses to the end of the table. She wanted to ask Eva to stay, or to come upstairs and see the flat, but Eva was already checking the time on her phone.
“Are you working tomorrow?” Rory asked.
“Until four.”
“I’m off.” Rory hesitated. “Could I come and see you? Not tomorrow, necessarily. But soon. I could get the train.”
Eva slipped her phone into her pocket. “I’d like that.”
They both knew what had happened to plans before. Rory took out her own phone and opened the calendar.
“I’m free next Sunday,” she said. “Unless that’s too soon.”
Eva checked. “Sunday’s good. I’ll show you the river, if it isn’t raining.”
“And if it is?”
“There’s a café. I’ve been meaning to try it.”
Rory entered the date. Eva watched her do it, then added it to her own phone. Neither made a joke.
At the door they hugged again, more easily this time. Eva smelled of rain and the clean, powdery scent of her coat. Rory held on for a moment after she felt Eva begin to let go, then stepped back.
“I’m glad you came in,” she said.
“I nearly didn’t. I stood outside for ages.”
“Why?”
Eva glanced up towards the flat. “I thought you might not want to see me.”
Rory stared at her. “I would have come down.”
“I know that now.”
Outside, the pavement gleamed under the green sign. Eva crossed the street, stopped on the far side and turned to wave. Rory waved back. She stayed at the door until Eva disappeared around the corner, then took out her phone and looked at the date once more.
Next Sunday. She would need to check the trains.