Before We Met: A Novel (14 page)

And her mother loved Mark, absolutely loved him. Even beyond the gratitude she would have felt towards anyone who’d taken her spinster daughter off the shelf, Sandy adored him.

She’d met him for the first time at Christmas last year. Hannah had flown back from New York on the twentieth to spend a couple of days in London before going up to Malvern. Not wanting to leave all the preparation to her mother, she’d planned to take the train up a couple of days early; Mark would drive up on Christmas Eve. He, however, had got back from the office in the evening of the twenty-first and announced he’d closed DataPro early and would drive up with Hannah the next day.

If she was honest, she’d imagined his idea of helping would be to open bottles and distract them, but almost as soon as they’d arrived, he’d taken on the mantle of man about the house. While she was talking to her mother, he’d slipped outside without a word and stacked the load of logs that the log-man, finding her mother out when he came to deliver, had dumped directly in front of the garage door, blocking her car in.

The house was small – splitting the family finances had left both of their parents pretty broke – but Hannah’s mother had four or five lovely pieces of furniture that had come down through her family, and a talent for finding gems in poky old junk shops. Mark had made her take him round the house and tell him the story behind everything, the details of its period and style, where it had come from. He was particularly effusive about the Georgian card table she’d inherited from her grandmother and asked Sandy if she would keep an eye out for something similar for the house in Quarrendon Street.

Afterwards he’d lit the fire, hung the mistletoe, poured Sandy a glass of wine, then perched on the fireguard and chatted to her for over an hour while Hannah cooked supper. The house had felt different, more alive, and her mother, fluttery and nervous for the first couple of hours of their being there, had become animated, even mildly flirtatious, telling self-deprecatory stories and tales of Hannah’s childhood. ‘He’s lovely, Hannah,’ she’d whispered as they carried the dishes back into the kitchen after dinner. She’d put the stack of plates on the draining board and squeezed her daughter’s arm with excitement. ‘Really lovely.’

And then there had been Boxing Day. After breakfast Mark had suggested a walk. Hannah had tried to convince her mother to come but she’d refused with a vigour that was quite uncharacteristic. They’d spent a few minutes trying on wellies from the collection in the hall cupboard then set off for British Camp, her mother waving to them, bright-eyed, from the step.

When they’d parked the car, they’d taken the upper footpath to the Iron Age fort at the top of the beacon, the cold air and the steepness of the climb taking Hannah’s breath away. ‘I blame the pudding,’ she said after five or six minutes, trying to disguise the undignified heaving in her chest. ‘And the mince pies. And the roast potatoes. I feel like I’ve put on half a stone since yesterday.’

‘You’re still gorgeous, swede-heart. I’d take on a fortful of pagans for you.’

‘I think I’m only just beginning to understand the full extent of your power to charm,’ she said, looking at him sidelong. ‘You’ve got my mother under some sort of bewitchment.’

‘Bewizardment.’ The path flattened for a hundred yards or so and he paused to look at Herefordshire spread out in front of them, a view, Hannah always thought, that notwithstanding the occasional telephone mast and the glint of tiny cars here and there on the cotton-threads of roads across it, might not have changed in two hundred years. ‘Or bewarlockment?’ he said. ‘Which do you reckon?’

‘Whichever, it’s effective.’

He’d turned to face her. ‘Does it work on you?’

‘What do you think?’

‘I hope so.’ His expression was very serious all of a sudden and she’d felt her own smile fade. ‘Hannah, you know I love you, don’t you?’

She’d nodded, blinking against the sun that was pouring round the outline of his head and shoulders, directly into her eyes.

‘I’ve been thinking about this a lot – really, a lot.’ He’d laughed a little, making fun of himself. ‘I wondered . . . Will you marry me?’

Tom and Lydia had driven down from her parents’ house in Ludlow that evening. Sandy had wanted Hannah to ring and tell him the news as soon as she’d got off the phone with her dad and Maggie but she’d waited to tell Tom in person, wanting to see his face when she told him that she, the great unmarriageable, the romantic disaster area, the
coward
, was actually getting spliced.

It had started auspiciously enough. Mark had helped unload the car and referenced a line from an old
Only Fools and Horses
Christmas special that had made Tom laugh even before they’d been officially introduced inside by the fire. Wrapped in the long cashmere cardigan that Lydia – who was a far better daughter-in-law than she was an actual daughter, Hannah thought – had bought for her when the two of them had been shopping together, Sandy had hovered excitedly, unable to sit down for a minute even when Mark had handed her a glass of wine and urged her to take the chair in front of the fire.

‘What’s up, Mum?’ Tom had said, putting his arm round her shoulders. ‘It’s a bit late in the season for ants in the pants, isn’t it? And I can’t believe you’re
that
excited to see me. You saw me a fortnight ago.’

Her mother had thrown Hannah an agonised look. ‘A mother’s allowed to be excited about having her family all together, isn’t she?’

‘She is. But clearly there’s something else afoot. Out with it.’

‘Hannah, tell him. Quickly, before I explode.’

‘Tell me what?’ Tom said, looking at her.

Mark moved across the room and put his arm around Hannah’s waist. She grinned at him and then at her brother, the happiness that had been bubbling through her all day threatening to spill out of control. ‘We’re getting married,’ she said. ‘Mark asked me this morning.’

Lydia gave a cry of delight and launched into a strange sort of dance with Sandy, but Hannah couldn’t take her eyes off Tom’s face. He did a pretty good job of covering it – the look was gone almost as soon as she’d seen it – but it had been there, unmistakable, an expression that combined shock and hurt and alarm.

‘Wow,’ he said. ‘My God – wow. Congratulations. That’s huge, Hannah.’

Hannah
. It was all the confirmation she needed.

Tom had taken a swig of the beer Mark had poured him then put the glass down on the mantelpiece and come to give her a hug. ‘Wow.’ He’d pulled away and shaken Mark’s hand. ‘Well played, sir. I hope you know what you’re letting yourself in for?’

Mark had laughed. ‘I think so. Any advice gratefully received, though – you’re the expert.’

Sandy had disappeared momentarily but reappeared now with a tray of glasses and the bottle of champagne that had lurked at the back of her china pantry for the past five years at least but had mysteriously already been chilling in the fridge when they’d returned earlier with their news. ‘You asked my mother for permission,’ Hannah had said, when she’d seen it, and Mark had grinned.

‘I think she liked it.’

For half an hour Hannah had been trapped in front of the fire, answering excited questions from Lydia and her mother about potential venues for the reception and what kind of dress she was going to have, conscious all the time of the waves of tension radiating from her brother at the other end of the sofa, where Mark was attempting to talk to him about Cape Town, a place about which Tom, who’d taught in a school there for a year, usually proselytised at the first hint of an opportunity. In the end he’d excused himself for a cigarette and she’d waited a minute or two for appearances’ sake then slipped out after him. She’d found him in the back garden, down at the end of the lawn beyond the range of the automatic light above the back door.

‘So, you’re pissed off with me,’ she said, once her eyes had grown accustomed to the dark, making out her brother’s features.

‘Why would I be pissed off with you? You’re getting married.’

‘It seems like that might be why – for reasons I don’t understand.’

The end of his cigarette glowed brightly for several seconds. She could feel him trying to keep a handle on himself but then he gave up and blurted it out. ‘You didn’t think maybe I should meet him first?’

‘What?’ Hannah had laughed. ‘Not even Dad said that. Chill out, bro – no need to put yourself
in loco parentis
.’

He’d glared at her through the gloom, eyes dark in his pale face. ‘That’s right, make a joke out of it.’

‘Well, what’s the alternative, Tom? You’re acting like a brat. You’re pissed off with me because you haven’t met my fiancé before? Well, guess what? I live in New York, it’s not that easy just to meet up for a beer. It’s not like you live down the road.’

‘Come on, Hannah, surely you’re not that stupid. You’re deliberately misunderstanding me.’

‘I don’t think so. I’m just going on what you actually said – your words.’

He took another long drag. ‘Well, what I
meant
was, how long have you known this guy?’

‘
This guy
?’

‘
Mark
, then – Mark. How long have you known him?’

‘Five months. Almost six.’

He’d shaken his head and Hannah felt a rush of fury. If they’d been ten and twelve again, she would have kicked him.

‘Don’t you remember telling me,’ she said, voice shaking, ‘how soon you knew Lydia was The One? Or has that conveniently slipped your mind, O Great Relationship Sage? Three months I think you said it was, in case you need a reminder.’

‘That was different.’

‘Of course it was.’

‘It was. We knew each other before. I knew friends of hers – she came with context.’

‘For fuck’s sake,
Mark’s
got context. I’ve met friends of his – Dan and Pippa – we had supper with them in London before we came up. They’re decent people, clever, funny: you’d like them. Ant and Roisin –
mutual
friends – introduced us.’ In the lighted window above the kitchen sink, she saw their mother appear, her anxious face peering out into the garden after them.

‘Well, you know best,’ Tom said.

‘You know what? Actually, in this case, I do. I do know best. I love Mark and I trust him and when you get down off your high horse and stop treating me like some sort of emotional retard, you’ll see that I’m right.’

‘Good,’ he said, and the fight had gone out of his voice. ‘I’ll look forward to it. I just couldn’t stand the idea that you were rushing into this because of what I said to you last year.’ He paused. ‘About you being scared of commitment – taking a risk. I wouldn’t forgive myself if . . .’

Her own anger disappeared and instead she felt a rush of love for him. ‘For Christ’s sake, Thomas,’ she said. ‘Get over yourself, will you? I can stuff things up on my own, you know. I don’t need help from you.’

Chapter Nine

As she turned the corner into Manbre Road, the eight o’clock bulletin was just starting: Assad in Syria massacring his own people; another arrest in the investigation into high-profile paedophiles. It was early enough that there were still several parking spots to be had and Hannah pulled in and cut the engine, killing the voice on the radio mid-sentence.

Out of the car, the air was so cold it felt wet against her face, and the trees and shrubs beyond the low wall that bordered the park were rigid with frost. The sky was white, not with cloud cover but a sort of evanescent haze that by mid-morning, she guessed, would pull back to reveal a day of harsh blue intensity.

The tap of her heels along the pavement reinforced her sense of purpose. She’d made scrambled eggs – the first proper thing she’d eaten since the Chinese with Tom – and had three cups of strong coffee from Mark’s top-of-the-range Krups machine, and despite having been up for two hours already and having woken to find herself curled in the foetal position on the sofa with the pages of her library book crushed against her cheek, she felt rested and refreshed. Ready.

She was also buoyant with relief, at least on one front. During what she guessed was nearly nine hours’ sleep – she remembered seeing the opening sequence of
Downton Abbey
before drowsily switching channels – her mind had been working over the facts, putting them in order, and she’d woken with the pure conviction – no, the knowledge – that Mark was not having an affair. He wouldn’t cheat on her; she’d been crazy to think it. Pippa had been adamant, too, hadn’t she? Mark loved her. He’d never been like this with anyone before, certainly not Laura. This morning Hannah chose to ignore the voice muttering that Pippa’s knowledge of him was shallower than she’d been led to believe.

And he’d called her yesterday at a proper time – 3.15 in London, 10.15 in New York. When she’d finished talking to her mother, there had been a text alerting her to a new voice message. The number he’d called from hadn’t registered on the phone, sometimes they didn’t when he was calling from overseas, but when she’d accessed the voicemail, there he was.

Hi, sweetie, me again. Sorry to miss you – I hope you’re doing something fun. I’m going to be working at the hotel most of the day but I’m about to go for a run and then I’ll head out again for something to eat later on, probably. Thought about hotdogs but it’s not the same without you. I’ll try you again when I get back, see if I can catch you.