It’s as quick to walk back from the ring road through the park to the hotel and pleasanter away from the traffic so we take that route from the bus stop. A group of children are coming our way, six of them with an adult. They all wear red neckerchiefs.
‘Hello, hello.’ One starts the chorus.
‘Hello,’ Tom says, ‘hello.’ And then as we pass, he calls, ‘Bye-bye.’
And there are peals of laughter.
We cross the bridge. The wide grey river gleams, harsh and dull. Men on the promenade are sitting with flywheels big as dinner plates, like fishermen but the lines go up in the air. I’m trying to puzzle this out when Tom points to a kite, up far, far above, the size of a stamp. There are others even higher, tiny black diamonds against the pewter sky.
We built a kite once, Lori and I, from a kit with coloured paper, bamboo dowel and a long plastic tail. And it flew. We took it to the meadows near the Mersey. Lori was delighted.
‘The kids OK?’ Tom says, as we walk on.
‘I think so, missing me. I promised to talk to them tonight. What about you? Anyone waiting to hear from you?’
‘Nosy.’ His eyes are bright.
‘Coy,’ I return. ‘Or is it a secret? Is she married?’
‘Jo.’
‘It has been known,’ I say.
‘Single, as it happens.’
‘Moira?’ I ask.
‘What?’ he says.
‘There was a Moira,’ I say.
He laughs. ‘She’s a business partner, deals with Liverpool. Why are you so interested?’
‘Just making conversation,’ I say, sounding defensive, and I don’t know why, except I’m tired, my skin feels greasy and there’s a blister growing on the back of my heel.
‘Aphrodite,’ he says.
‘Seriously?’
‘She’s a model,’ he says.
‘Course she is,’ I say.
‘A hand model – watches, rings, nail varnish.’
‘Is she Greek?’ I say.
‘Brummie, actually. Lost the accent, thank God.’
I laugh, back on safer ground. Since he left, the longest time we’ve ever been together was the day of Lori’s graduation. We had dinner in Glasgow the night before, Lori and Tom, Nick and I, then went to the ceremony the next afternoon and out for cocktails. No wonder our interactions simmer with antagonism: we don’t know how to be with each other any more.
‘There’s a Cultural Relics bit,’ Tom says, looking at the sign near the park entrance. ‘We could take a look?’
Sightseeing? Is he mad?
‘What?’ he says. ‘It’ll only be a couple of quid.’
