Before We Met: A Novel (3 page)

Except they weren’t. It had been five months, and though she’d had three final-round interviews, she hadn’t received a single offer. At first, feeling confident, she’d only applied for jobs on a level with her old one with Leon but, as three months and then four had passed, she’d started to lower her sights. She told herself that it was only logical – the UK was in recession, jobs were scarce, perhaps she’d been arrogant to think she could immediately be hired again into a similar position; after all, she’d worked her way up with Leon over the years – but when she didn’t get those jobs either, she’d started to think that
she
was the problem.

‘No,’ Mark had said last Sunday, while they were out walking in Richmond Park. He’d reached for her hand and tucked it in under his arm, pulling her against the heavy navy wool of his pea coat. She’d pressed closer and watched the two clouds of their breath as they mingled. Though it was only the beginning of November, there had been a heavy frost overnight and the ground was crisp underfoot. The tips of Mark’s ears were pink where they stuck out from under his woollen hat.

‘It’s just the recession,’ he said. ‘You know you’re good, and the right job will come along. It’s like everything – you wait and wait until you don’t think you can wait any more and then, just when you think you’re going to explode or jump off Beachy Head, it finally happens.’

‘What would you know about Beachy Head, Mr Tycoon by Twenty-five?’ she’d said, prodding him in the side with her elbow, but she knew he was right about the waiting game. She’d been lucky after university – ‘Luck had nothing to do with it,’ Mark always said – and got one of the few graduate places at J. Walter Thompson, but she’d been stuck in the job she’d had after that, with a smaller agency, for almost a year after she’d decided she had to leave or die of boredom. She couldn’t, she’d thought at the time, do another campaign for dog food without going off her nut. The job with Leon had rescued her from that, thank God, but now she was in the same situation again. Worse, actually: at least then she’d had a job, even if it had been peddling horsemeat. Now with every week that passed, she was conscious of the growing distance between her and paid employment, the diminishing relevance of her most recent campaigns. Her currency was devaluing.

Hannah’s breath came faster as she approached Eel Brook Common and picked up her pace. She wove around the double barrier that discouraged cyclists from using the park and went on to the grass. The ground was sodden and hard-going but she made herself do two sides of the rectangle before she stopped by the little playground in the top corner. She was getting better but she was never going to be a natural runner, one of those people zipping round now at twice her speed, their breathing barely audible. She was fit but she didn’t have the right body shape for it, that was her theory; she was sure that if she were one of these straight-up-and-down types, it would feel much easier. Mark had suggested she join a gym instead, but while she didn’t have a job, she didn’t feel comfortable paying £80 a month in membership fees. He’d laughed and told her to remember that they were married and what was his was hers, but she still couldn’t do it.

She unzipped her pocket and took out her phone to check if she’d missed a call. Nothing. She looked at the time: ten twenty. With the five-hour time difference it would be hours yet before she could reasonably ring any of their friends in New York to ask if they’d heard from him, especially on a Saturday. She’d have to wait until at least one thirty. She put the phone back in her pocket and stretched her arms behind her head, feeling the tension in her neck and shoulder muscles. Six feet away, a chunky black Labrador snuffled contentedly through an abandoned bag of chips until his owner looked up from her conversation and called him sharply away.

Conscious of the cold, she started moving again. In the week, exercise helped her feel like she had a purpose, or at least something to do. She spent hours every day reading the trade press, looking at other people’s new campaigns online, emailing her contacts to see if anyone had heard of new vacancies, but if she let her focus slip for longer than a few minutes, she felt the day become a long featureless slope of hours down which she could slide without anything to stop her. The same would happen today if she let it. She was disciplining herself not to job-search at the weekends, to maintain a distinction from the working week, however artificial, but she had to find something to do today to distract herself from the growing sense that something was wrong.

After two arduous laps she headed home, checked her phone and laptop again then went upstairs for a shower. Mark had had the bathroom redone at the same time as the kitchen and while it wasn’t huge, it was without a question the most glamorous one she’d ever seen in a private house. All the units – the shower, the bath, the two matching sinks – were sleek and white, the contrast coming from the grey porcelain floor tiles and the dark, almost black, wood whose name he’d told her but she’d forgotten. Was it wenge? She wasn’t sure. With its three beautiful tall orchids and the towels that looked fresh from the White Company every time they came out of the tumble dryer, it might have looked like a hotel bathroom, but because Mark had kept the original features – the architraves and the Victorian patterned glass in the window – he’d avoided that and instead the room looked stylish and luxurious.

As she was towel-drying her hair, her phone rang on top of the chest outside the door. Bending to pick it up, she glanced at the clock by the bed. Eleven: probably too early if he was still in New York. It would be Neesha.

‘Hannah?’

Mark. She felt a wash of intense relief. ‘You’re alive,’ she said, breathing out. ‘Thank God – I was beginning to wonder if you’d left funeral instructions.’ She carried the phone over to the bed and sat down. ‘What’s going on?’

‘I’m so sorry I didn’t call last night. God, the whole thing was a disaster – honestly, Han, it was like a farce. First, the guy was stuck in traffic so he was three-quarters of an hour late and I’d pretty much missed the plane before we even started but we’d been trying to set up the meeting for six months so I decided just to suck it up and get on a later flight. In the end, we were at breakfast until almost nine thirty and I got a cab direct to the airport but of course the traffic was terrible and when I finally got there, all the flights were full, totally chocka. I kept trying till nearly three in case any seats came free but then I threw in the towel and came back into the city.’

‘Why didn’t you ring me?’

‘I was going to in the cab but then David called with a problem that took ages to sort out and I thought it’d be better anyway to ring you when I knew what flight I was going to be on. Then, at JFK, I went to get my phone out to call you and I realised I’d left it in the taxi. Didn’t notice the number of the taxi, obviously, so there’s no chance of getting it back – all my contacts, photos, everything.’

‘Bugger.’ With a corner of the towel she mopped away a rivulet of water that was running down the back of her neck. Now she felt a burst of annoyance with him. She’d driven out to Heathrow in the middle of a storm, spent over two hours there – last night she’d been picturing transatlantic air disasters, for God’s sake. ‘Why didn’t you ring me from a pay phone?’ she said, the annoyance not entirely masked.

‘I’m embarrassed to admit it,’ he said, sounding sheepish even at a distance of three thousand miles, ‘but I don’t know your number by heart. Without my phone, I’m stuffed.’

She thought about it. She wasn’t sure of his number either, actually, apart from the 675 at the end. Once she’d programmed it in to her BlackBerry, she’d never had any need to memorise it. ‘You could have emailed.’

‘I was going to, but when I got back to the hotel, the WiFi was down – see what I mean about a farce? Then, I’m ashamed to say, I sat down for a moment and fell asleep in the chair. When I woke up it was already midnight your time and I thought you’d be in bed.’ He sighed. ‘The WiFi’s back up this morning, though – that’s how I’ve got your number now. I remembered you’d put it in that email to Pippa about dinner a few weeks back. God, I’m such an old man. My neck – I was in the chair for about three hours with my head over to one side; I don’t think I even moved.’

Hannah felt her irritation start to subside. He’d been working hard lately, even by his own standards. With the recession, business at DataPro was steady rather than bullish, and Mark was making sure of every client by providing the best customer service possible as well as the industry-leading software design that had made the company what it was. And on top of that, there was the issue of the buy-out. A month ago he and David had been approached by an American company, one of their biggest competitors, and though she’d thought that Mark would dismiss out of hand the idea of selling, he’d been at first intrigued and then excited by it.

‘The way I see it,’ he’d said over breakfast a couple of days after the initial approach, ‘it could be a huge opportunity.’ He’d paused in the middle of buttering a slice of toast, knife poised in mid-air. ‘I’ve been running DataPro since I was twenty-three – the idea of doing something else is exciting. Actually, it’s exhilarating. If we cash out, I could use the money to set up something entirely different. But, you know, I’m forty now, I’m married . . .’

‘Really?’

‘I am, yes.’

‘I had no idea. Lucky woman.’

‘Lucky or tolerant – depends who you ask.’ He smiled at her. ‘But I’d like to spend more time with you, less at the office. And perhaps there’ll be other people for me to take into account in the not-too-distant future . . .’

‘Other . . .? Oh.’ Suddenly there was a serious look in his eyes and she’d glanced away and reached for the coffee pot, taken aback by his intensity. She wanted children, she was pretty sure she did, but she was working up to the idea. She was still getting used to the fact that she was married – sometimes, when she was alone, she’d think about it and feel almost startled. How had it happened? Not much more than a year ago she’d been single.

‘So when do you think you’ll be back?’ she asked now. ‘Can you get on a flight today? Have you phoned the airline?’

‘Well, actually, that’s the thing. The guy I saw yesterday is keen to sign up with us, I think, but he wants me to meet his partner. He – the partner – has been in California this week so he wasn’t around yesterday or Thursday, but he’ll be in New York on Monday and he’s suggested we all meet then.’

‘Ah.’

‘I know. Yesterday I said I couldn’t, but having messed up the weekend anyway it makes sense now just to stay and do it, rather than making another trip, especially if I can get the thing signed there and then. They’re talking about Monday afternoon, so if I did that, I could get a red-eye and be home on Tuesday morning. Would you mind?’

‘Apart from the crushing disappointment?’ She laughed slightly, hoping to distract him from the fact that she really was disappointed. ‘No, don’t be ridiculous, you fool, of course I don’t mind. It makes sense. As you said, it might be a big contract.’

‘Significant enough to have a bearing on a potential buy-out offer, I think. If we were seen to have this sort of new business coming in, especially from a US company and especially at the moment . . .’

‘Then you’ve got to do it, haven’t you? And it’s just a couple of days – I’ll survive. Hey, now you’re at a loose end in New York for the weekend, you could give Ant and Roisin a ring, see if they’re around.’

‘Yeah, good idea, I might do that. Could you email me their number?’ She heard him take a sip of something and then the rattle of cup on saucer. One of his quirks, a dislike of mugs – she teased him about it. ‘Anything from Penrose Price yet?’ he asked.

‘No, and I’m trying to stop thinking about it. It won’t happen now.’

‘Keep the faith.’

‘No, it’s dead in the water. Onwards and upwards.’

‘Well, make sure you do something relaxing this weekend, won’t you? Don’t job-search.’

‘I won’t.’

‘Why don’t you go and see that Herzog double-bill at the BFI?’

‘No, you wanted to go to that, too; let’s try in the week, when you’re back. I might ring my brother, though, and see if he’s free for dinner.’

‘Okay, good idea. First things first here, I’m going to go to the gym and see if I can regain the use of my neck so I’m not walking round like Frankenstein’s monster all weekend.’ His voice dropped a couple of levels now, became more confidential. ‘I’ll miss you,’ he said. ‘Don’t make any plans for Tuesday – I’ll take the afternoon off if I can. We’ll do something fun.’

She dried her hair and put on some clothes then went back down to the kitchen and emailed him Ant and Roisin’s numbers. Maybe he could meet up with them for supper tonight or brunch tomorrow over in Cobble Hill; there was that place just round the corner from them that did the amazing eggs with paprika and sourdough toast. And those mimosas – God, she thought, she could drink one now. Booze during the day usually finished her off, but American Sunday brunch culture with its mimosas and bloody Marys was the civilised exception. It was one of the things she really missed about New York.

She thought about Mark sitting across a table from Ant and Roisin, and was jealous. She loved those two, the best friends she’d made while she was over there. She’d met Roisin when the company she worked for, Ecopure, had commissioned the agency to do press ads for a new range of all-natural household detergents. Hannah had taken her out to lunch one day early on and had an experience not dissimilar to falling in love in terms of the strength of the connection they’d discovered. They’d talked about their lives, their parents, where they’d grown up. Roisin said she’d moved to New York from San Francisco on her own at nineteen and worked at three jobs until she’d saved enough money to put herself through a marketing degree at NYU. Hannah had loved that story: the image it conjured up of a determined, self-possessed, nineteen-year-old Roisin. The following week, when they’d gone out for drinks on a non-work footing and staggered out of a place somewhere in the East Village long past midnight, Ro had hugged her and told her, somewhat slurrily, that she hadn’t met anyone she liked so much since the day she’d met Ant.