Page 151 of Deep Blue Sea

Rachel giggled. ‘Well I did, but my heart was set on London – that was where everything seemed to be happening. Not that I could really afford to study anywhere.’ She stopped short of saying ‘not like some people who have everything laid out for them by their rich parents’; she couldn’t really blame Adam for the accident of having bee

n born a Denver. ‘I got a job in the Green Room restaurant in Soho to pay the rent. Actually, that’s how I got into journalism.’

‘How come?’

She pulled a face. Nowadays she wasn’t exactly proud of her behaviour. The restaurant on Dean Street had been at the centre of the mid-nineties Cool Britannia surge, its tables and bars buzzing with celebrities and hedonists, and she had paid attention: who was snogging who, who was popping off to the toilets every five minutes, who had spent a year’s wages on vintage champagne and had to be poured into a taxi. A lot of the staff made a few quid on the side ringing it in, tipping off the tabloids, but Rachel had taken it one step further and had actually written up the stories, taken photos on the sly.

‘It’s a long story,’ she said.

‘Ah, well, that’s perfect timing,’ he said, leading her down a side street and out into a wide cobbled square.

‘Bloody hell!’ gasped Rachel. ‘What’s that?’

In front of them was a tall domed building standing right in the centre of the square. That was impressive enough, as were the many arches and pillars covering it, but the most arresting thing about the building was the fact that it was entirely circular.

‘That is the Radcliffe Camera,’ said Adam. ‘It’s actually part of the Bodleian Library, one of the oldest in the world.’

‘It’s like an enormous stone cake,’ said Rachel. ‘And I mean that as a compliment.’

Adam smiled. ‘That’s the Palladian style, actually. The building was started in 1737. There are over half a million books in there and in rooms underneath the square.’

Rachel gave him a sideways look. ‘Are you sure you’re not academic?’

They sat down at a table outside a café to the side of the square and Adam went inside for a jug of Pimm’s. They watched as the last of the light slid across the square and up the yellow walls of All Souls College, and Rachel told the story of her arrival in London and her climb up the rickety ladder of Fleet Street, then Adam told her how he’d ended up as head of the hotel division.

‘I’ve always preferred hotels to houses. I suppose it’s because we spent so much time in them as children and they seemed to be magical places – like ice-cream sundaes could just appear in your room, or if you wanted a book, they’d go out and get you one.’ He raised one eyebrow. ‘Well, they would when we were staying in them, anyway.’

He looked over at the library.

‘I went to art college for a year. Mum and Dad didn’t know what to do with me. Thought I needed a bit of time to mature before I started working for the company. I got hooked on architecture: I loved the idea of design for living, that form could also have function. And to me, hotels seemed to be the epitome of that. They were pleasure palaces, constructed entirely with a single purpose: to service the guest.’

‘I had no idea you were such an idealist, Adam Denver.’

They left the café and wandered out into the winding streets of Oxford, just enjoying the warm evening, the yellow light spilling from Dickensian pubs and restaurants on to the worn flagstones of the pavements. It was impossible not to get caught up in the romance of it all, and Rachel found herself stealing a glance here and there at her companion. He was handsome, that went without saying, but he seemed to be surprisingly sensitive too. Some people just didn’t fit the stereotype.

As they passed another equally impressive circular building, this one surrounded by railings upon which the heads of stone giants appeared to be impaled, Rachel could see a crowd gathered.

‘What’s going on here?’ she said, tugging at Adam’s arm. ‘Let’s go and see.’

As they approached, she could see it was a walking ghost tour. The guide was dressed as an undertaker in a long black coat and a top hat. His skin looked pale – Rachel suspected artificially so, as was the voice, which was a Christopher Lee-type baritone. They paid their money and joined the back of the group, following it through dark narrow back streets and passageways.

‘This is actually quite creepy,’ she whispered, as they stopped by a college gate to listen to a story about a spectre who had risen from the chapel grounds.

‘I thought you Fleet Street hacks were tough as nails,’ Adam hissed back.

‘Ex-Fleet Street hack, remember?’

She was making light of it, but as the tales of murders and torture continued, she became increasingly uneasy and nudged Adam.

‘I’m not sure I want to be here any more.’

She didn’t mention Julian, but she didn’t have to. Adam simply nodded and they drifted away from the pack, back towards the main drag.

‘I feel a bit stupid,’ she said sheepishly.

‘Don’t be silly,’ he replied. He took her hand and wrapped his arm around hers, a gesture more of reassurance and solidarity than intimacy. ‘Listen, you came here to find out why Julian killed himself; it’s only natural that it’s going to get to you after a while.’

‘I know, I just feel like an idiot getting freaked out by a man in a top hat.’