‘Come in, come in. This is a lovely surprise.’ Pippa stood aside to let her in. ‘Here, give me that.’ She took Hannah’s coat and slung it over the post at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Come through. Excuse the mess.’ She nudged a purple stuffed elephant towards the skirting board with the toe of her boot. ‘I’m glad you rang. I’m here on my own – we’ve got Dan’s mother for the weekend and they’ve taken Charlie to the Sunday Club at the cinema. They know it’s the only way they stand a snowball in hell’s chance of getting anything decent to eat later. Paddy’s down for a nap so it’s just me.’
Hannah followed the baggy seat of Pippa’s jeans down the corridor with its white and green Victorian tiles. Every time she saw her, Hannah was struck anew by how tall Pippa was – five foot eleven, she said. Even in the battered ugg boots she had on now, she towered. There was a patch of something reddish on the back pocket of the jeans, pasta sauce maybe or ketchup, and both elbows of her navy jumper were worn into holes. Nonetheless, she looked good – insouciant, almost rakish.
In the kitchen Hannah took a stool at the counter while Pippa filled the coffee pot. The kitchen was about the same size as the one at Quarrendon Street and had similar double doors leading into a garden that was slightly bigger. While Hannah had managed to wrestle theirs under control, however, Pippa’s was left wild. ‘I’d love it to be a bit more civilised,’ she’d said the first time Hannah had come round, reaching out to snap off a skinny runner from the rose that scrambled up the back of the house, ‘but, you know, twenty-four hours in a day and all that.’ Today a primary-coloured jumble of plastic toys collected the rain that had started to fall about an hour ago, and a ride-on tractor lay on its side, its moulded wheels gradually filling.
There was more chaos inside. Washing up was piled in the sink, and a bevy of old coffee cups had collected on the counter next to a net of sprouts. A polythene bag of muddy potatoes rested atop a pile of Sunday papers that was already devolving into a shaggy-edged nest. Next to it, perilously close to a small pool of spilled orange juice, was a handful of A4 sketches for The Witches of Wandsworth, the cartoon strip Pippa drew for the magazine given out free at Tube stations on Friday mornings. Her other strip, Harrised, adventures from the life of Emily, a woman terrorised by her three-year-old son, appeared in one of the big women’s glossies. The end of the kitchen table bore evidence of potato printing – bowls of drying paint and a jam-jar of cloudy blue water – and a bowl of something mashed was browning on the tray of Paddy’s high chair.
Pippa handed over a mug of coffee and nudged a carton of milk across the countertop. ‘It’s a good thing you rang. I said I’d stay behind and get some stuff done but I got sucked into this straight after they left and I haven’t done a thing.’ She tapped the cover of the thriller lying face down by the side of the chopping board. ‘Have you read any of his? Don’t: they’re like crack. I bought this one yesterday afternoon at Nomad and I’ve barely spoken to anyone since. Dan had a go at me this morning for ignoring his mother.’ She pulled a face. ‘Do you mind if I carry on with this while we chat?’ She tipped a colander of French beans on to the board and started regimenting them into lines, ready to top and tail.
‘Anything I can do?’
‘No, don’t worry. So you were over doing a bit of shopping?’
‘Just a birthday present I needed to pick up.’ Here come the lies, Hannah thought. ‘I quite often use Putney High Street. I like the compactness – everything close together.’
‘It’s good, isn’t it? Much better than having to drag into town. Well, whenever you’re over here, give me a ring. I’m always around at weekends.’
‘Thanks, I will. Same when you’re over our side of the river.’
Pippa looked up from the beans and smiled. She was the one of Mark’s British friends Hannah had immediately liked the best. Pippa and Dan had been at Cambridge with him, and it was Dan Mark had called first with the news that he and Hannah were getting married. All the wives and girlfriends of his friends were nice people and they’d made her feel welcome, but Pippa was the one Hannah felt most connection with. That she didn’t take herself at all seriously was a big part of it. A couple of the others – Marie, in particular – seemed to have had a sense of humour bypass in the labour ward and talked about their children with an awe usually reserved for irascible deities, apparently terrified of being struck by lightning should they so much as glance at a non-organic banana in Waitrose. Pippa had managed to remain human, despite Paddy and Charlie being only one and four.
‘Booze,’ she’d said frankly, when Hannah had asked her secret. ‘The hardest thing about having a baby is the not drinking. I tell you, all I wanted when I was pregnant was a very large gin and tonic, and people looked at me like I was Stalin if I as much as said it. And all these toddlers who are sugar-free, gluten-free – vegan, for Christ’s sake: the first time they have a cup of lemonade and a chocolate biscuit, their heads’ll explode. Sometimes I listen to all these earnest conversations – I know they mean well, I do – but it makes me just want to . . . I don’t know, drink five martinis and stand on the table smoking and flashing my knickers.’
Now, though, Hannah wondered what she was going to say – how she could even start. In the car on the way over she’d rehearsed two or three possible opening gambits but, here in the relaxed fug of Pippa’s kitchen, she couldn’t see how any of them would work. Pippa was sharp: she’d be on to her straight away. And the last thing Hannah wanted was for any of this to get back to Mark. But Pippa was her best shot, and if any of his friends would know what was going on, it was Dan.
‘So, what’s up?’ Pippa asked. ‘How are things?’
‘Oh, fine – good. Still haven’t managed to find gainful employment, but I’m trying.’
‘Bloody economy. I was talking to the Post about doing something for them but their budget’s just been cut. Or that’s what they’re telling me, anyway.’ She grinned. ‘How’s Mark? Is he away this weekend?’
‘New York.’ Or Rome. He could be in Paraguay for all she knew, Hannah thought. She felt a new surge of determination. She had to do it – she had to say something. ‘Actually, Pip, I wondered . . . Taking the opportunity while he’s not about . . . I don’t know whether Dan’s mentioned anything or whether Mark’s said anything to you himself, but I’m a bit worried about him.’
Pippa looked up from sweeping the bean-ends into the waste disposal.
‘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.
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.’