Three weeks after the wedding, Kit arrived in rain so heavy that Lena didn't recognise him through the café window until he shook himself under the awning.
He had taken a train. She'd offered to meet him at the station, but her shift ran late and he said he'd find her. She was still in her work clothes, with a little strip of dried glue stuck to her sleeve.
He came in, saw her and smiled before he took his coat off.
It did something to her chest. Not the sharp shock of the hotel entrance. Something slower, with space around it.
'You look dry,' he said.
'I've worked very hard at it.'
He hung his coat on the back of a chair. Water gathered beneath it almost immediately. He looked down, apologetic, and a waitress brought a tray to put underneath.
'I've created a feature,' he said.
'A water feature.'
'Exactly.'
Lena passed him the menu. He sat opposite her, rubbing his hands together. They'd talked on the Sunday they'd agreed, and twice since then. No midnight calls. One evening he had cooked while they spoke and burnt something because Lena was telling a story. Another time she had been too tired to talk properly and said so. He had called the next day instead.
Now he was here. She could see the faint bruise on his wrist, the damp hair by his ears. A screen hadn't prepared her for how much she wanted to move to his side of the table.
He ordered soup and the largest sandwich they had. She ordered another coffee though she'd already had two.
'How's the display?'
'I've made a city out of cereal boxes. It's better than it sounds.'
'I want to see it.'
'You can. The cinema's five minutes away.'
He looked at the window, where rain ran in sheets. 'Swimming distance.'
She took the umbrella from her bag and put it on the table.
'We'll manage.'
They ate slowly. He told her about a stage floor which had made every step sound like thunder through his microphones. She told him about a little boy who'd walked into the cinema, seen her half-finished cardboard city and asked whether the film was about recycling. Kit laughed with his whole face. She could have stayed at the table listening to it all afternoon.
Instead they went out under her small umbrella. It covered neither of them properly. Kit took the handle and held it high enough for Lena to walk beneath his arm. At the crossing a car sent water onto their shoes.
'Low-budget disaster film,' she said.
'Last two survivors. One umbrella.'
'Neither has sensible footwear.'
He looked at her boots. 'Yours seem sensible.'
'Continuity error. Cut round them.'
She laughed against his shoulder. His arm came round her, steadying her as they stepped off the kerb. They remained close after the road was crossed.
At the cinema Lena took him through the side entrance. The afternoon show had started. The foyer was almost empty, quiet enough to hear the rain strike the high windows.
Her city stood in the corner, windows made from gold paper, little streets painted in deep blue. She had fixed a light behind one building so it glowed from inside. Kit crouched to inspect it.
'That's good,' he said.
'You don't have to sound surprised.'
'I'm not surprised.' He looked up at her. 'It's really good.'
She touched the edge of one roof, pretending it needed straightening. Praise was different from him here, in the place she'd refused to leave. He had walked round it, looked at it, not asked whether it could fit in his car.
'I used the big delivery boxes at the back,' she said. 'It was going to be bigger, but I ran out of corner.'
'I like the little one.'
'Everyone likes the little one. It's the only one I didn't have to plan.'
They stood beside the display until a member of staff came through with a tray. Lena stepped aside. Kit offered to help, was politely refused, and tried to make himself smaller against the wall.
She liked that too.
They went to her flat when the rain eased. Kit had booked a cheap room near the station because neither had wanted to assume where the visit would end. He put his overnight bag in the hall and took off his wet shoes.
Lena made tea. He stayed in the kitchen with her, not yet comfortable enough to wander through rooms he'd never seen. His hands lay flat on the counter while she poured.
'Is this strange?' he asked.
'Yes.'
'Bad strange?'
'Not so far.'
She handed him a mug. It wasn't the old blue one. He smiled at it anyway.
They sat on the sofa with room between them. He showed her a photograph of a tiny dog standing on an enormous mixing desk. She showed him a picture of the cardboard city before the windows went in. The spaces grew smaller as they passed the phones back and forth.
When his hand settled beside hers, she looked at him.
'I'm not seeing anybody,' he said.
'Neither am I.'
'I know.' He smiled, a little nervous now. 'I thought I should say it.'
She put her mug down. 'Good idea.'
He leaned towards her slowly enough that she could see he was asking. This time no one was upstairs waiting for either of them. Lena met him halfway.
The kiss was gentle at first, unfamiliar for a few seconds because they were being careful. Then he made a small sound she remembered, and her hand went to his neck. His hair was damp under her fingers. She laughed softly against his mouth, overwhelmed by how ordinary it felt to want him and have him there.
He pulled back. 'What?'
'Nothing. I'm happy.'
He looked at her, then kissed her again.
They stayed on the sofa while the rain started again outside. Eventually Lena's leg went numb and she had to move. Kit laughed, rubbing warmth into her foot through her sock. She fetched a blanket. He reached for the abandoned tea and discovered it was cold. All of it was good, even the awkward parts.
He left for his booked room at ten. She walked him downstairs, not ready to invite him to stay and pleased he hadn't tried to persuade her.
At the door he said, 'Come to me next weekend.'
'Where?'
'Contract town. I've got a place there for the next month. Saturday, Sunday. There's a brilliant market.'
'I'd like that.'
He smiled. 'Good. I'll work it out.'
She went upstairs still feeling his mouth on hers.
The plan broke two days later.
Lena had agreed to an installation shift on Saturday evening, before Kit had come. She had forgotten it when he asked. Now the cinema needed her, and the work paid more than her usual hours.
She called him from the kitchen.
'I could come on Sunday,' she said. 'Early.'
'I've got the sound check Saturday. I'd meant for you to come after it. If you came Friday—'
'I work Friday. I can't lose the Saturday shift.'
'Can they get someone else?'
'They could, but I want to do it. I said I would.'
He was quiet, then said, 'Right.'
'Could you come here again? We could do Sunday together.'
'It's another train. I'd be getting in late Saturday and going back early Monday.'
'You'd see me.'
'I know. I'm just trying to make this easy.'
Lena looked at the dried glue on her cuff. 'It's easier if I lose work.'
'I didn't say that.'
'You asked me to.'
'I asked if someone else could do it. You're making it sound like the same fight.'
She gripped the edge of the counter. 'It sounds like it to me.'
Neither of them spoke for several seconds.
'Leave it this weekend,' he said at last.
She wanted him to offer another route. He wanted her to change the answer. She could hear both of them waiting.
'All right,' she said.
They ended the call carefully, with no slammed phone and no promise that the next weekend would solve it. The visit she'd imagined—the market, the room, his face when she arrived—was simply gone.
On Saturday she worked until half past ten. She made the new display exactly as planned, then went home alone. She took her phone out twice on the bus. Both times she put it away without writing anything.