have been how it sounded to anyone who overheard, but not to Heather.
"With a capital P," she cried.
"I expect he'll need one of those, or she will."
Heather felt as if the entire restaurant had brightened-as if her face might be capable of lighting it up. "So you didn't just bring yourself home."
"Right, I've got a passenger."
"When did you know?"
"Not long. No need to whisper, Heather. Soon everyone's going to realise."
Nevertheless Heather kept her voice low. "Does the father?"
"I don't see any reason."
"He won't be entering the picture, then."
"He's already in it as much as he's going to be."
"Does he have a name at least?"
"Sure, and he'll be keeping it. I don't need to take it from him. Are you saying you want it?"
"Not if you'd rather I didn't have it."
"Let's try not to keep things from each other except that one." Sylvia stared at the laden table and rubbed her lips hard with her knuckles. "Do you mind if we make a move? I've looked at enough food for a while. Pretty soon I guess I'll start eating for two and then I won't have much choice."
Heather took her elbow to guide her between the tables. The sisters' breaths turned to mist as they stepped out of the restaurant, and she wished Sylvia had worn a coat instead of a denim jacket. At least she should have clothes for every season now that her three cases of luggage had been delivered. Heather was ushering her towards the refuge of the university, though not so fast it might make her ill, when Sylvia said "How do you think mom will take it?"
"I'm sure she'll be as delighted as I am. She was when Sam was the news."
"You were married though, weren't you? You had a husband to show her."
"I don't think she's ever been that old-fashioned. Not too many people are these days."
"I don't want to get her agitated when she's exhibiting next week. Do you think we should leave telling her till she's finished meeting her public?"
"All right, it can be our secret," Heather said, reaching for Sylvia's hand. It was colder than she liked, and thin as twigs. "It'll be like old times," said Heather.
"Here's to their return," Sylvia said and gripped her hand until Heather felt her sister's bones.
12
More Than a Shadow
THE Tottenham Gallery was on Tottenham Court Road. Though - the thoroughfare was almost as busy as Oxford Street at one end and Euston Road at the other, Heather had the impression that it was being visited by trees. As she followed Margo up the shallow concrete steps to the plate-glass doors, a second car with a Christmas tree strapped to its roof passed in the midst of the traffic, while in the window of an electronics shop at least a dozen televisions were displaying a tree in a snowstorm as though they were ornaments that had just been stirred up.
Even the top of the Post Office Tower above the roofs resembled a tree-stump elevated towards the frostily glittering sky. Through the tall wide knee-high window of the gallery Heather saw a gratifying crowd of people bunched in front of Margo's paintings or gathered around her glassed-in carvings. A few viewers had brought their glasses of champagne onto the steps for the duration of a cigarette. Heather did her best to overhear comments on the exhibition, but nobody seemed to be talking about it; one slim young woman in a long dress as black as herself was wholly occupied in fingering a whine out of the rim of her glass. Heather thought the doorman, a bulk in evening dress but with a bouncer's shaven head and studiedly neutral flattened face, might have intervened on behalf of the glass instead of halting Margo with a thick upraised palm. "May I see your invitation, madam?" he said in not too much of an East End accent.
"Lucinda didn't send any," Margo said. "I'm Margo Price."
"That's the artist."
"The girl of the moment, that's me."
His immediate response was to render his face still more noncommittal before opening the left-hand door for her. Sam was letting his
"With a capital P," she cried.
"I expect he'll need one of those, or she will."
Heather felt as if the entire restaurant had brightened-as if her face might be capable of lighting it up. "So you didn't just bring yourself home."
"Right, I've got a passenger."
"When did you know?"
"Not long. No need to whisper, Heather. Soon everyone's going to realise."
Nevertheless Heather kept her voice low. "Does the father?"
"I don't see any reason."
"He won't be entering the picture, then."
"He's already in it as much as he's going to be."
"Does he have a name at least?"
"Sure, and he'll be keeping it. I don't need to take it from him. Are you saying you want it?"
"Not if you'd rather I didn't have it."
"Let's try not to keep things from each other except that one." Sylvia stared at the laden table and rubbed her lips hard with her knuckles. "Do you mind if we make a move? I've looked at enough food for a while. Pretty soon I guess I'll start eating for two and then I won't have much choice."
Heather took her elbow to guide her between the tables. The sisters' breaths turned to mist as they stepped out of the restaurant, and she wished Sylvia had worn a coat instead of a denim jacket. At least she should have clothes for every season now that her three cases of luggage had been delivered. Heather was ushering her towards the refuge of the university, though not so fast it might make her ill, when Sylvia said "How do you think mom will take it?"
"I'm sure she'll be as delighted as I am. She was when Sam was the news."
"You were married though, weren't you? You had a husband to show her."
"I don't think she's ever been that old-fashioned. Not too many people are these days."
"I don't want to get her agitated when she's exhibiting next week. Do you think we should leave telling her till she's finished meeting her public?"
"All right, it can be our secret," Heather said, reaching for Sylvia's hand. It was colder than she liked, and thin as twigs. "It'll be like old times," said Heather.
"Here's to their return," Sylvia said and gripped her hand until Heather felt her sister's bones.
12
More Than a Shadow
THE Tottenham Gallery was on Tottenham Court Road. Though - the thoroughfare was almost as busy as Oxford Street at one end and Euston Road at the other, Heather had the impression that it was being visited by trees. As she followed Margo up the shallow concrete steps to the plate-glass doors, a second car with a Christmas tree strapped to its roof passed in the midst of the traffic, while in the window of an electronics shop at least a dozen televisions were displaying a tree in a snowstorm as though they were ornaments that had just been stirred up.
Even the top of the Post Office Tower above the roofs resembled a tree-stump elevated towards the frostily glittering sky. Through the tall wide knee-high window of the gallery Heather saw a gratifying crowd of people bunched in front of Margo's paintings or gathered around her glassed-in carvings. A few viewers had brought their glasses of champagne onto the steps for the duration of a cigarette. Heather did her best to overhear comments on the exhibition, but nobody seemed to be talking about it; one slim young woman in a long dress as black as herself was wholly occupied in fingering a whine out of the rim of her glass. Heather thought the doorman, a bulk in evening dress but with a bouncer's shaven head and studiedly neutral flattened face, might have intervened on behalf of the glass instead of halting Margo with a thick upraised palm. "May I see your invitation, madam?" he said in not too much of an East End accent.
"Lucinda didn't send any," Margo said. "I'm Margo Price."
"That's the artist."
"The girl of the moment, that's me."
His immediate response was to render his face still more noncommittal before opening the left-hand door for her. Sam was letting his
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