Amy shook him off, overwrought. Being stuck in the car with him had been bad enough; the prospect of trying to sleep in the same room as him was horrendous. Being anywhere near Sam, she’d begun to understand, muddied what ordinarily felt clear: that she did not, and never could, like him.Somehow in his presence she seemed to forget this.
She was minded to call Carolyn right now and shout the odds, demand an apology for this epic, embarrassing screw-up– but she knew there was no point. Carolyn and melodrama were like oil and water: they simply didn’t mix. However justified Amy’s ranting might be, it would glance off her boss’s Teflon-tough carapace without leaving the slightest mark.
‘I can set you up wi’ a camp bed,’ Matthew said warily. ‘I know it’s not ideal, but it’s probably t’ best we can do. You take your key and I’ll follow you up, if that’s all right.’
‘That would be great, thank you,’ Sam said.
Taking this as permission to escape, Matthew handed Sam a long, old-fashioned silver key with a label stating ‘Room Three’ attached to it, then shuffled off up the corridor. Sam shouldered both his bag and Amy’s, then moved in the direction of the spiral staircase Matthew had bobbed his head at before disappearing.
Amy’s shoulders sagged. ‘This is a disaster,’ she moaned.
But for lack of any other option, she followed Sam up to the first floor and into their room.
It was one of those spaces with too much furniture, too much wall art and a profusion of scatter cushions that– if Amy were being uncharitable– she’d have said gave the room the air of a padded cell. Everything was cream, beige or rose pink.
It was pleasant enough: clean, fresh-smelling and neat. However, when her eyes drifted to the bed, she emitted a yelp of horror. A smattering of deep red flower petals had been arranged in a gigantic heart on top of the soft velvet bedspread, and there were chocolates on both the pillows.
‘Don’t. Say. Aword,’ Amy hissed as she began sweeping the petals into a tiny wastepaper basket she’d pulled from the corner. Wisely, he didn’t– but she couldfeelhim laughing.
This whole situation was catastrophic; the room’s self-consciously romantic vibe the worst imaginable backdrop for a night spent in forced proximity to someone from whom Amy was determined to keep a safe distance.
Aside from anything else, Gran and Barbara had extracted more promises of silence from her before she’d left Rowton this afternoon– and it was respect for them that had so far convinced her not to take Sam to task. Barbara insisted he was doing his best to help, and had muttered some explanation of how Sam was supporting Jed with a plan to try and keep the pub. Privately, Amy was of the view that ‘regularly propping up the bar’ probably didn’t amount to much practical assistance aside from boosting its profits– but she kept this to herself.
At that moment, a rap on the door signalled Matthew had arrived with the promised camp bed. He shouldered the thing into the room with some effort. It looked ancient, rickety and positively unsafe– but by the time it had been dressed with sheets, pillows and a duvet, it at least resembled a bed. It was squeezed alongside the small double that sat in the centre of the room, in the only area with enough available floor to accommodate it. The set-up was hardly going to make for a clear demarcation between one bed and the other, but it seemed that, short of reconfiguring the whole place, there was nothing to be done.
With an air that suggested he’d discharged his duty, Matthew asked if that was all for now. When Sam confirmed he could be on his way, the boy smiled the beatific smile of one who had just been granted salvation and no longer had reason to fear the eternal fires of hell.
‘I’ll sleep on that,’ Amy said after he’d left, gesturing at the camp bed and then asking herself why she was being so noble. By rights, she should have looked forward to the spectacle of Sam’s six-foot-something frame hunched on top of a structure that was much too short for his legs and very possibly wouldn’t take his weight.
‘You absolutely won’t,’ Sam told her. ‘I couldn’t let you.’
‘Let me?’ Amy demanded, both eyebrows up in defiance. ‘Aside from you very muchnotbeing in charge here, there’s the small matter of me being quite a lot smaller than you. That bed is clearly designed for a child– not an actual adult man.’
‘An actual adult man,’ Sam said, smiling. ‘I think that’s probably the politest way you’ve ever described me. I seem to recall being referred to as “that upper-class arsehole” for at least six months at one point– and that was only when youweren’tpissed off with me.’
‘Where was the lie?’ Amy asked, shrugging her shoulders.
‘I like to think I’m not an arsehole, if I’m honest,’ he said, sincerely enough that she squirmed slightly. ‘As to the other thing … I’m not going to argue that I didn’t grow up obscenely fortunate– at least in some ways.’
Amy bit her lip to save launching into a ‘poor little rich boy’ tirade. While her foray into Rowton Hall’s dusty, dilapidated corners– and Sam’s brusque, uncomfortable references to his parents– implied the Ainsworths might not be the happiest of families, this hardly compared to the heartbreak Barbara, Dave and Jed were facing.
In the end, all she said was, ‘Good of you to admit it.’
Sam looked at the ceiling and sighed. ‘I’ve never denied it. But like I said to you during our argument at the bake sale, I don’t want to be defined by it. Privileged isn’tallI am. Though I suspect thinking of me in those terms always made things easier for you.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Amy asked, frowning.
‘Nothing,’ Sam said briskly, shaking his head. ‘It meant nothing. Forget I said it. I don’t know about you, but I could do with a drink. Shall we try the pub next door?’
‘I … Er … Oh,fine,’ said Amy, finally losing the will to protest at this reminder that there was chilled white wine just a short walk away.
‘After you,’ Sam said, holding the door open for her to walk through.
Amy mock-simpered at him as she passed, still wondering what he’d meant– and feeling somehow, very annoyingly, as though he’d won this particular argument.
Chapter 17
By the time she’d made her way through a large glass of Sauvignon Blanc, and Sam had sunk a cold beer, Amy had arrived at the troubling conclusion that she was enjoying herself.