Before We Met: A Novel (13 page)

‘I’m sure it’s nothing and I’m overreacting, but he seems a bit . . . preoccupied.’

‘Preoccupied?’

‘I don’t know . . . kind of stressed, I suppose. I mean, he’s working very hard, which is probably part of it, going to bed late, getting up early, burning the candle at both ends . . .’ Hannah stopped, not wanting to over-egg it. ‘I just wanted to make sure that’s all it is, you know, that there’s nothing worrying him.’

‘If there was, he’d tell you, wouldn’t he?’

‘Normally I’d say yes but you know what he’s like with that whole masculine, broad-shoulders thing. Maybe if there was something on his mind, he wouldn’t tell me because he wouldn’t want to worry me.’

‘Hmm, yeah, I can see that. But no, he hasn’t mentioned anything to us. I don’t think Dan’s spoken to him since you came over for dinner, actually.’

‘Well, that’s something. I suppose I’ll just try and get him to ease up on the office hours, then.’ Frustrated, Hannah took a sip of her coffee. This was hopeless, too vague. It was like trying to pick a lock with boxing gloves on. But she couldn’t just come out and say it: discussing it with her brother was one thing, but telling Pippa, who would certainly tell Dan . . . Then again, no, thought Hannah. No. When she’d got home last night, she’d called the Ws again, just in case: no one with the name Mark Reilly was staying at any of them. She’d felt anger surge through her then: where the hell was he? Why hadn’t he given her a contact number or any way of getting hold of him? What if she had an accident? What if the house burned down?
And what about the money
? asked the voice.

‘Pippa, look,’ she said. ‘This is really awkward – I feel terrible bringing it up but . . . Mark’s not supposed to be away this weekend.’

‘What do you mean?’ Pippa stopped, the colander poised under the tap.

Hannah thought about telling her his story about staying on for the second meeting, but then decided, why bother? It was so patently a lie. ‘I was expecting him back on Friday night but he didn’t show up at the airport.’

Instantly Pippa looked worried. ‘Is he all right? Has something happened? Has he rung you?’

‘No, he’s all right. He rang me yesterday morning and he left a message last night, too. The thing is, he told me he’s in New York but his colleagues all seem to think he’s in Rome.’

Pippa put the colander aside, pulled out a stool and sat down. ‘A mix-up?’

‘That’s what I thought first of all, but he told his assistant he was taking me away as a surprise. His phone’s not working and he’s not staying at his usual hotel. I’ve called all the others in the chain but he’s not in any of them. If Dan were away and he’d lost his phone and he wasn’t at his usual hotel, wouldn’t he tell you and give you another number? What if there was an emergency and you needed to get hold of him?’

Pippa was quiet for several seconds, and the ticking of the giant wall clock above the table suddenly became audible. She laid her palms flat on the counter and looked Hannah in the eye. ‘I can see why you might worry,’ she said, ‘but don’t – or try not to. There’s no way Mark’s messing around – he loves you. I’ve never seen him like this with anyone else, not remotely.’

‘His ex, Laura . . .?’

‘Laura? No – no way. She was all right and he tried, but his heart was never in it. Look, however dodgy all this seems when you put it together, there’s going to be a simple explanation. Mark loves you – it’s blindingly obvious.’

‘Why lie, then? Why make up some codswallop story for his colleagues?’

‘I’ve no idea. Maybe it’s something to do with work or maybe there’s just something on his mind and he needs a bit of time on his own. You know, I think that about being married sometimes. We expect it to be easy, just to be able to adjust to being part of this intense new thing, living with someone else, but it’s not easy – in fact, it’s bloody hard, especially now we all get married at such advanced ages.’ Pippa pushed the sketches away from the pool of orange juice, apparently noticing it for the first time. ‘God, you have no idea what I’d give for a bit of time alone, a couple of days’ peace and quiet, walking on the beach somewhere, but I’d be missing Dan and the boys like mad every minute. It wouldn’t mean I didn’t love them. And Mark’s so clever and he’s always been so independent; he probably
needs
time alone now and again. Perhaps he hasn’t told you in case it comes across the wrong way and he hurts you.’

‘But—’

‘Sweetheart, there’s no way he’s having an affair. End of story. He loves you.’ She smiled. ‘He’s like Dan – one of the good guys.’

‘I know. Yeah, I know.’

‘Did he say when he’d be back?’

‘Tuesday morning.’

‘Talk to him then. But it’ll be nothing, I promise you. Guarantee it.’ Pippa stood up again and bent to get a saucepan out of the cupboard. She rinsed the beans and emptied them into it.

Watching her, Hannah felt a pang of envy. Whatever Pippa said – and she was grateful for her attempts to reassure her, she really was – it wasn’t nothing. Pippa’s life was going on as normal but hers, she felt, she
knew
, was about to change.

At the door, Pippa gave her a tight hug. ‘You’re sure you don’t want to stay for lunch?’

‘No, thank you. It’s lovely of you to ask but I’d better get on.’

‘Well, just look after yourself, okay? Try not to worry. Simple explanation – keep telling yourself that.’

‘I will. Look, Pip, I’ve been meaning to say for ages: thanks for making me feel so welcome. It’s strange, suddenly coming into a group of people who’ve all been friends since college. You’ve been so—’

‘College?’ Pippa looked surprised. ‘Oh, we weren’t at college together. Mark was three years ahead of us; he left Cambridge the summer before we started. Dan met him a few years after we finished, through work. DataPro did a project for the bank.’

On Putney Bridge Hannah swerved to avoid a bus that was pulling out from the stop without indicating and almost hit a cyclist in the blind spot on her outside. The man was Lycra-covered and sinewy, his helmet a hi-tech pointed black thing that gave him an insectoid look. She wound down the window. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘The bus—’

‘What the fuck? Why don’t you look where you’re fucking going?’ He was older than she’d expected, fifty perhaps, and it made the language feel worse, more violent. His thin face was distorted with rage.

‘I said I’m sorry. I didn’t have a choice. And I didn’t even touch you.’

‘Stupid bitch!’ He seemed to be gathering something in his mouth and for a moment she thought he was going to spit at her. Then the driver behind leaned on the horn and the cyclist’s attention was distracted. She accelerated away quickly, icy air blasting through the window until she managed to get it wound up again.

Tears prickled in her eyes like they had last night, but this time, in the enclosed privacy of the car, she gave in to them. She blinked and they ran down her cheeks. Lie after lie after lie. Had Mark ever told her anything true? Why would he lie about when he met his friends? She was sure, absolutely sure, he’d told her that he and Dan and Pippa had been at Cambridge together, at the same time – she remembered a story about punting and a drunken picnic on the Backs. And if he’d lied about that, what else had he lied about? Perhaps he hadn’t been to Cambridge at all, or any university. Perhaps he was just a compulsive liar, one of those people who couldn’t stop themselves even when there was nothing to be gained by it. Maybe, she thought, she was about to discover that he was married to someone else and had a whole other family filed away somewhere.

Perhaps he was with them now. Whatever he was doing, wherever he was, it was a mystery to her. When she’d got in last night, she’d emailed Roisin. It had taken a while. To start with she’d written a screed, everything she’d discovered, blow by blow. Then, she’d highlighted the lot and hit delete. All these people with happy marriages – Roisin and Ant, Dan and Pippa, her brother and Lydia. She’d managed eight months, for three of which she’d lived in a different country. Tom was wrong – she was
just
like their mother. Actually, her mother had done years and years better.

In the end, her message to Ro had been a few lines.
I owe you a proper email – sorry – but in the interim I thought I’d better let you know that Mark’s on the loose in NYC this weekend. He’s lost his phone but he’s got your number and says he might give you a call. Consider yourselves warned . . .
Roisin and her iPhone were inseparable, and her response came within a minute:
Nice! Next time you talk to him, order him to call us
.

The rain was keeping people inside and the pavements of Quarrendon Street were empty. Hannah parked outside the house, turned the engine off and leaned her head against the steering wheel. She was exhausted; she hadn’t slept at all last night. Instead, she’d lain awake next to the undisturbed sheets on Mark’s side and been tormented by the stream of spiteful images that her mind had served up one after another.

Please, she’d thought, let him be in Rome: New York was
their
place. Her mind, however, had offered her picture after picture of Mark taking someone else round all their old spots. She saw him huddled at one of the tiny tables at Westville, reaching over the waxed tablecloth to take a woman’s hand, his eyes never leaving her face; she imagined them having lunch at the Boathouse then walking through Central Park, bundled up in coats and hats and scarves, kicking up fallen leaves. No doubt she was beautiful, this woman, whoever she was, but in the images she stayed vague, faceless, a slim but curvaceous outline, with a soft laugh and long shiny hair.

Later, some time after three, Hannah had thought she was falling asleep – her thoughts started to wander, to leave her in peace – but at the last moment, just as she was about to tip gratefully over the edge into oblivion, she’d seen them in her bed, not here in London but in her old apartment on Waverly, Mark propped on one elbow talking, smiling, kissing this woman like he had kissed her there. At that instant the possibility of sleep disappeared completely, and she’d thrown the blankets off and stood up, heart pounding. Down in the kitchen, she’d drunk three cups of tea and surfed the net until she was glassy-eyed and the quiet hum of morning traffic started on the New King’s Road.

Into the near-silence now came a trundling sound. Looking in the rear-view mirror Hannah saw the little boy from the house across the road pedalling furiously down the pavement on a tricycle, his mother running to keep up. Time to move; she couldn’t sit outside in the car all day. She ran the ball of her thumb under her eyes and sniffed. As she reached for her bag on the passenger seat, however, her phone began to ring.

She pulled the bag on to her lap and scrabbled to find the phone before it stopped, almost dropping it in her hurry. On the screen was a Malvern number: her mother’s. For a second or two Hannah considered not answering – she could call her back later, when she was inside and feeling a bit stronger – but then she felt guilty. To Sandy, making a phone call, even to her own children, was a big deal. She’d have made a cup of tea and put it on the little table at the end of the sofa before sitting down carefully, adjusting her glasses on the end of her nose and peering at the short list of numbers that Tom had programmed into her handset last year as if it were some arcane form of symbology.

‘Hi, Mum.’

‘Hannah?’ Her mother sounded uncertain.

‘Of course it is, you daft one – you called me. How are you?’

‘Oh, fine, yes, I’m all right, darling. How are you? How’s Mark?’

‘Yes, we’re well, both of us. Just having a quiet weekend.’

‘That’s good.’ Her mother sounded relieved. ‘I’ve been busy here. I went to Waitrose this morning and bumped into Mrs Greene. She asked after you both.’

‘That was nice of her.’ Mrs Greene had taught Hannah and Tom in kindergarten; it amazed Hannah that she remembered who they were all these years later. She’d only just retired; how many hundreds of children had she had under her care in the interim?

‘And I’ve been making the Christmas pudding. The house smells like a distillery – the neighbours must be wondering what on earth I’m up to.’

‘I hope you’re trying some of it – the booze, I mean.’

‘I’m not much of a rum-drinker, it’s far too sickly, and I don’t know anyone who drinks barley wine, do you? Where’s Mark? Is he with you?’

‘He’s in New York, Mum. A business meeting.’

‘On a Sunday?’

‘No, tomorrow.’
Don’t get defensive; she’s not making a point; she doesn’t know
. ‘He went over on Wednesday for a couple of others and then this one went in the diary at the last minute so he’s stayed. He’ll be back on Tuesday.’

‘Good. That’s good.’ Again, her mother sounded relieved. Sometimes, Hannah thought, her mother seemed to interpret Mark’s business travel as a sign of reluctance to be at home rather than a necessary part of running an international firm. Who knows, though? Maybe that was right.

For a mad moment, she thought about telling her mother everything, just laying it all out and throwing herself on her mercy. She wanted her support and sympathy; she wanted advice, to be told what to do. As quickly as it had come, though, the impulse was gone. It was impossible: there was no way she could reveal any of this. As soon as she let on even part of it, her mother would be proved right: she, Hannah, couldn’t do it; she wasn’t the sort of person who could hold down a relationship. She was too independent, too preoccupied with her career, too
selfish
. Somewhere deep in her psyche, unidentified but definitely real, something was wrong with her. Look at what had happened with Bruce; look at the disaster of the years after him. And now look at things with Mark: their marriage on the rocks in less than a year – barely more than half that.