Page 92 of Leaning In

“I’ve been here a few times without her,” I continue. “And the membership means you get early ticket access.”

“Remind me to keep you around,” he teases. “Beautiful and good at organising trips to history exhibits.”

The moment I read about the opening of the new Nelson exhibit in an email a few weeks ago I knew that Tom would love it. He teaches the Battle of Trafalgar to one of his classes, and last month he spent an entire day reading a newly released Nelson biography. The moment I started it I promptly became obsessed too.

The other nice thing about opening night is that it’s an excuse to dress up. I’m in trousers and a silk blouse, my hair carefully curled. Tom’s in chinos and a collared shirt he was ironing again before we left the house, because he apparently didn’t want to let himself down in front of Nelson.

“Do you remember the last museum we went to?” I ask.

“I think this is a distinct improvement on having to herd around a group of forty school children,” he mutters.

I elbow him gently. “You love it really.”

“Hmm,” he says, but he’s already stopped listening. His attention has been snagged by the towering model ship in the centre of the hall.

He drifts towards it without thinking, like a history-obsessed moth drawn to a very nerdy flame.

I follow him, weaving through the crowd until I stand at his shoulder. Tom spends a moment gaping at the model, and then spotting my interest, he launches into an enthusiastic explanation of ship rigging.

“Technically,” he says, “this is a mizzenmast—”

“That’s a stick,” I tease him, squinting at the model.

“It’s not a stick.”

“It looks like a stick.”

“It’s naval engineering, Claire.”

“Sure. Because you know all about that.”

Tom elbows me and then leads me to the next bit of the exhibit. He reads every information board, eyes glued to the new nuggets of information.

I look down at my phone and see a text.

Mum: Lunch sometime? Your father misses you. And I want to talk to you about something.

My thumb hovers. It’s been three weeks since the lunch Tom and I walked out of. This is her second attempt at pretending it didn’t happen. There’s no apology anywhere in that text.

I put my phone away.

Not like this.

Instead I take in the scene around me, the display cabinets, the model boats, the excited faces.

“Ooh look at this bit about the Battle of Copenhagen,” I point towards the next set of plaques. “I was listening to a podcast about it the other day. I must have told you? They went into this amazing detail about how Nelson basically ignored his superior’s orders and did his own thing. The sheer petty drama between the officers afterwards was incredible…” I trail off when I realise he’s looking at me. “What?”

“Have I ever told you how deeply sexy I find you?” Tom says, eyes locked on mine. “I mean you’re always sexy, but Claire. The Battle of Copenhagen. Maybe we should leave, or at least find a private place.”

I try not to grin, then fail, give him a quick kiss, and drag him to the next room.

We get separated somewhere around the artillery section, but I catch up with him in the final room. He’s looking at a display of handwritten letters.

“Look,” he says, as I join him. “This half is all Nelson and Emma Hamilton.”

“He must have written at least twenty letters a day.” I gesture at the display around us. “And at least half of them to her.”

“Twenty? That’s worse than me texting you after a bad staff meeting.”