Had anyone at street level seen us, standing with our arms around one another, they would have thought us oddly affectionate for two workmen up on a roof. A car turned under the arch at the end of the mews; it stopped at a doorway and a couple emerged to unload shopping from the back, absorbed in what they were doing, unaware of us watching from above.
He turned to examine the roof. 'You can see where the water's been coming in. Over here, look.' He pointed to where the edge of a metal sheet covering the flat roof on which we stood had lifted to make a small gap.
'Doesn't look much. Are you sure that's it?'
'Pretty sure. Can't see anything else that might be causing the leak. I'll flatten it, stick it down, and we'll see if that sorts it.'
We had yet to talk about his car thefts, but we both knew that the subject was too important to ignore. In the early days of our relationship, in the pub, over meals, lying together after sex, we had told each other all the significant events of our lives. Now whenever we passed a Mercedes, a Jaguar or another expensive car in the street we were reminded that part of his life remained secret from me. We would glance sideways at one another, knowing that we could not put off discussing the subject for much longer. However difficult talking might be for him, until we did my not knowing would remain a barrier between us.
Understanding one another completely, absorbing everything we possibly could about each other, was essential. More than once, after listening to part of my life story, he had said, 'I know how that must have made you feel. Sometimes it's as though what's happened to you has happened to me.' I felt the same about his experiences; sharing our pasts was as important as the physical pleasure of making love. How could we be truly close, think of ourselves as a couple, or expect to know what the other would want even when we were physically apart, until the gap was closed?
The subject raised itself when the hotel guest Andrew had told me about, the one who had visited his son in the same prison as Tom, reserved a room again. In a quiet voice I mentioned the booking to him. He was silent for perhaps half a minute. 'Probably turn out he won't even recognise me. Just coincidence that he saw me at all in the visiting room, we never spoke.'
'If you'd rather, I could cancel, say we've had a flood or something and suggest he tries Housmans Hotel. If you're unhappy about him coming.'