Before We Met: A Novel (29 page)

‘Then how do you think
I
feel?’ He slammed down the lid of his laptop and stood up. ‘I’m going upstairs.’

Now she felt bad – selfish and inconsiderate. ‘No, don’t, you don’t need to. I’ll be quiet. If I’m in the sitting room, you can—’

He shook his head, impatient with her. ‘No, I’ve got too much to do. I’m in the middle of trying to sell my business and now I’m just sitting here, pissing my time up the wall.’

He knocked his papers into a stack, put his laptop under his arm and strode out of the room. His feet thumped an angry rhythm on the stairs.

When he came back down an hour or so later, he apologised: ‘I’m wound tight as a nut.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she told him. ‘I can’t imagine how—’

‘Yes, it does.’ He put his arms round her and rested his chin gently on the top of her head. ‘Bloody Nick – somehow he always does this to me, puts me so on edge I end up hardly recognising myself. But look,’ he pulled away again, ‘I’ve been thinking. I’ve got to go into the office this afternoon and then I’ve got these drinks but I don’t want you to sit here on your own worrying. Why don’t you go into town and buy something for the interview?’

‘I’m just going to wear my navy dress. It needs dry-cleaning but . . .’

‘You’ve had that for ages and is it smart enough, really? I think you should buy an investment piece, something you’ll wear for a while. You’ll feel good in it next week and it’s always worth spending money on something top quality.’

She hesitated. ‘I don’t think I can afford it.’

It was a second before he realised what she meant. ‘God, sorry,’ he grimaced. ‘Take that credit card I got made for you – the one on my account. No, don’t look at me like that – this isn’t a back-door scheme to turn you into a kept woman. It’s not as if you couldn’t have afforded a dress if someone –
I
– hadn’t taken your money, is it?’ He reached into his jacket on the back of the chair and got out his wallet.

Clearly still feeling guilty, he walked her to the Tube station. As they came along the edge of the Green, he reached for her hand and held it tight like he had on the way to the restaurant the night before. ‘It was Neesha who told you about Hermione, wasn’t it?’ he said.

Remembering her promise, she shook her head.

‘It doesn’t matter in the slightest. You’re my wife – why wouldn’t you call my assistant? I’ve just been trying to work it out, that’s all. No one else really knows about Hermione, not that I’ve been in touch with lately, and Neesha just asked whether I had my phone, which means she must have had a reason for thinking I might not, which means – given that it was only you I told that fib to – you must have talked to her.’

‘Yes, all right, Sherlock. I called to see if she’d heard from you when you didn’t show up at the airport and I thought you’d been snaffled by some opportunistic femme fatale. I promised her I wouldn’t tell you. You won’t say anything, will you?’

‘Of course not.’ He smiled. ‘I’m just flattered you both think I’m capable of such Don Juanery.’

‘Don Juanism?’

He laughed. ‘Or Don Juanity?’

When they reached the station he got an
Evening Standard
for her to read on the train then took off his scarf, looped it around her neck and pulled her towards him. She slid her hands around his lower back, feeling the chill silk of his coat against her skin. ‘If anything happens, if I hear from him, I’ll ring you straight away,’ he said. ‘And if you’re worried – about anything at all – then ring me.’ He waited at the barrier while she climbed the stairs, giving her a final wave as she disappeared from view.

The sense of comfort evaporated in minutes. She took the train to Bond Street and wandered listlessly around the huge womenswear floor at Selfridges until admitting to herself that she was never going to be able to concentrate on shopping. The interview felt a thousand miles away, like something from a different world. She left the shop and started walking, weaving her way along Oxford Street then down into Soho. She was on Charing Cross Road when it started raining, and she ducked inside Foyles and up to the café.

She couldn’t stop thinking about Hermione; how she’d stood up and faced Nick in court, testified against him.
Payback time
: no wonder she’d looked so alarmed that day. Hannah felt another wash of guilt. Perhaps she should go back to the hospital this afternoon, now, and apologise? Or would that just make it worse?

On the table in front of her, her BlackBerry started flashing and she snatched it up. She’d had it in her hand constantly this afternoon, set both to vibrate and ring at maximum volume.

Everything all right? Starting to get worried about you.

At first glance she thought it was from Mark – he’d already texted twice to check in – but looking again, she saw that the message was from her brother. She felt bad: he’d rung on Monday night when she’d been gorging herself on the news stories and again yesterday evening, but she hadn’t been in touch with him since Sunday, when she’d texted to let him know about the conversation with Pippa.

Sorry
, she wrote now,
poor correspondent this week. All okay. How did things go with Luke and the headmaster?
She hit send and put the phone down. Seconds later, it flashed again.

Hideous. Talked to Head on Monday. Luke resigned then had meltdown in staff car park – wife had to come and get him. Feel like total bastard. How are things with Mark?

Hannah hit reply then stopped. She had to tell him something – after asking Tom’s advice, she couldn’t just sweep the whole thing under the carpet – and she wanted to tell him, she was desperate to. Loyalty to Mark, however, pulled her in the opposite direction. She remembered what he’d said about his life dividing into two halves, before and after, and she wanted to help him keep that distinction, at least when it came to her family. It was Nick’s crime, not Mark’s, but knowing about it – knowing how his girlfriend had died – would change her family’s view of Mark irrevocably. They would never dream of saying anything but it would be there behind every conversation, at every family occasion, and she couldn’t bear that.

Tom was different, though. He was her confidant, her best friend, and she needed to talk to him.

You did the right thing
, she wrote back,
however shitty it feels. Things with Mark okay – thanks again for listening. No affair, just a long story. Pint early next week and I’ll tell you?

His response came within a minute:
Long story sounds complicated. Pint definitely in order. Monday?

In Central London the Tube ran too deep for reception but as Hannah came up the steps at Earl’s Court a new text message arrived: she’d missed a call and had voicemail. Checking, she saw Mark’s number. It was a couple of minutes before seven and the platform was packed with people waiting for a Wimbledon train so she walked to the far end where it was quieter.

Message received today at 6.17 p.m.
, the staccato female recording told her, and then, over the din of the train suddenly thundering into the station behind her, she heard his voice.
Hi, it’s me. Just checking in again – hope everything’s okay. I’m about to go in to drinks with this hedge-fund guy but I’m going to keep it brief so I should be home about half-eight. Let me know if you want me to pick anything up
en route.

A pause, and in the background she heard a man’s voice say,
Seventeen-fifty, mate
, and a couple of seconds later,
Cheers – good of you
. The unmistakable sound of a black-cab’s door slamming.

Nothing from Nick
, Mark’s voice again.
He’s really making me sweat. Anyway, I hope you’ve managed to have a semi-decent afternoon and have bought something lovely – looking forward to seeing it. I’ll see you in a couple of hours
. He lowered his voice and she guessed there were people nearby.
I love you
.

She managed to squeeze on to the train just as the doors were closing and was pressed into a corner by a man in an enormous orange Puffa jacket until Fulham Broadway, when half the people in the carriage streamed out on to the platform. The train came above ground and cut across the top corner of Eel Brook Common, now swallowed by darkness, the path that bisected it picked out by a line of solitary streetlamps casting their light on empty benches. When the train pulled in at Parsons Green, the clock at the top of the stairs said ten past seven. If Mark was on time, she thought, she’d have less than an hour and a half alone in the house.

The rain had stopped, or perhaps it had never reached here, but only the hardiest smokers were clustered under the heaters outside the White Horse, everyone else holed up inside in the warmth. Hannah walked quickly, pulling the collar of her coat together under her chin, wishing she had her gloves. She’d light a fire when she got home, have it really roaring by the time Mark got back. She rounded the corner on to New King’s Road, passing the estate agent and the hairdresser’s, raising her head again when the buildings sheltered her from the wind. Approaching the delicatessen, she turned to look at the banks of cut flowers in the buckets outside, their riot of extravagant colour against the dank November pavement. Spot-lit by an electric bulb clipped to the awning, the flower man was wrapping a huge bunch of peonies and eucalyptus for a young woman in a bright red raincoat. Another man stood behind them, looking at roses.

For a moment she thought it was Mark, home early: the height, the build, his posture, even the short dark jacket that looked like the pea coat he wore when they went walking at weekends. She must have stopped for a second or started to say something because he turned and Mark’s face looked out at her from beneath a black beanie.

Almost Mark’s face.

Their eyes met. He recognised her, too, or guessed at once who she was. For a moment she was immobilised but then she turned and ran. She ran back the way she’d just come, past the estate agent’s and up the road parallel to the Green, the pavement now twice as long as it had been a minute before, the streetlights further apart, the houses darker, drawn further back into their gardens. Her heart was pounding, her whole body tensed for the sound of footsteps behind her, the hand grabbing at her coat, but it didn’t come and it still didn’t come and at last she reached the pub, yanked the door open and plunged into the light and safety of the bar.

She threaded her way to the loos at the back, locked herself in a cubicle and leaned against the wall, breath coming in great heaves. The outer door swung open, banging back against the wall, but it was two girls having a loud conversation about their boss. When she thought she would be able to talk, Hannah dropped the lid of the loo and sat down. The hand-driers stopped and there was a snatch of noise from the bar as the girls swung out again. She held her phone with both hands to stop herself from dropping it.

Mark picked up on the third ring. ‘Hannah – is everything all right?’

‘He’s here,’ she said. ‘In Parsons Green.’

‘What? At the house? Christ –
fuck
.’

‘No – no.’ She took a shuddering breath. ‘Outside the deli. I thought it was you. He looked just—’

‘Where are you?’ he demanded. ‘Where’s Nick?’

‘I’m at the pub – the White Horse. I don’t know where he is – I just ran. I just saw him and ran.’

‘Okay, look,’ he said, and she knew he was trying to think, to sound calm for her sake. ‘Stay where you are. Get a drink and stay where you are. I’m leaving right now – this minute. Stay inside. Don’t move until I get there.’

‘You’re sure he knew who you were?’

‘Yes, sure. I don’t know if he did before – how could he? – but when he saw my reaction . . . Who else could I have been? I was fifty yards from our house and I stopped – I honestly thought it was you. I was about to
talk
to him.’

Mark stabbed at the fire as if he hated it. His knuckles were white on the handle of the poker. ‘Jesus
Christ
,’ he said. ‘I can’t believe that he . . . But I can – of course I can. Why did I even think for a minute he would phone first? Why would he do that when he could show up here and terrify my wife instead?’

‘We should call the police.’

Mark stabbed again, sending up a shower of sparks. An artery was leaping at the side of his neck. ‘What could they do, Hannah? What could they actually do? Technically, Nick’s done nothing. He’s a free man; he’s served his time. He didn’t even talk to you.’

‘It’s harassment. Coming here, to where you live, and . . .’

‘He’s my brother. There’s no restraining order, he’s not breaking any laws. And it’s not like he’s even trying to extort the money – he’s a DataPro shareholder, there’s paperwork that says I have to pay him the value of his twelve per cent on the day of his release. If anyone’s on the back foot legally, it’s me.’

Hannah hugged her knees tighter. She couldn’t stop shaking – neither of them could. When he’d arrived at the pub, Mark had looked almost wild. She’d been sitting at a corner table, hidden from view from the door, and he’d come in and scanned the place so desperately it was as if he was expecting to find she’d been taken. When he’d put his arms round her, crushing her face into his chest, his heart had been hammering so fast she could barely differentiate the beats. It was a five-minute walk to the house, if that, but he’d kept his cab waiting at the kerb outside and he’d stood right behind her and almost pushed her into it, looking over his shoulder all the time.