3

Three days later, in an airport departure lounge, Hanna sat with her bag at her feet glaring at Malcolm’s letter. Her wretched mother had been right about that, too; sent from his office, it had indeed been full of old lawyer’s guff. And the reply to her request was unequivocal: Hanna had made her position plain when the divorce settlement was being reached and there was no question of the matter being reopened.

Hanna set her jaw firmly. All right, yes, it was she who had walked out on Malcolm, but it was he who had driven her to it with his cheating and lies. And unlike Mary Casey, who would have taken him for every penny he had, she wasn’t looking for revenge. All she wanted was a house to live in. Malcolm could afford it. And she was owed it. They’d met in London in their early twenties, when she still had her sights on a job as an art librarian. Malcolm was well on his way up his own career ladder, boosted by an expensive education and his parents’ impeccable background. But however much he wanted to ignore the fact now, they had forged his success together. The house she had found for them was a tall, narrow building in a shabby London square in an area that had come down in the world, though anyone with half an eye could see it was due to come up again. It was late Georgian, with a stucco front, a narrow hall, and a graceful staircase leading to the first-floor reception rooms. Hanna had found an architect and a builder who stripped it back to its original glory, removing layers of paper and paint, knocking out partitions, and restoring lost cornices. She installed an oil-fired range in the basement kitchen and added a conservatory opening onto the back garden, planting espaliered pear trees against the high brick walls. For months she scoured architectural salvage yards for cast-iron baths and fire grates, a deep butler’s sink, and cut-glass doorknobs. The bedrooms were hung with hand-printed paper and the curving mahogany banister was sanded and polished with beeswax. It took nearly a year for the house to be ready and by the time they moved in she was in love with it. On their first evening there, she and Malcolm had wandered hand in hand through the rooms till they came to the master bedroom, where Hanna had chosen fabrics in shades of gray to complement the sage-green walls. When she opened the door she found a bottle of champagne on the bedside table, standing in a silver, Georgian wine cooler. Malcolm had laughed at her astonishment.

“Doesn’t it fit in? It’s supposed to be exactly the right period.”

It was, and it was perfect. As he poured the champagne he told her again how much he loved her. That night, curled up in the bed in which she later found him with Tessa, Hanna had told herself she had never been happier. Years afterward, putting two and two together, she realized that his affair with the woman who had been their family friend must already have begun in the month when she herself was choosing bedroom fabrics.

As the gate number for her flight appeared on the digital display, Hanna glanced down again at the letter. The address of Malcolm’s barristers’ chambers proclaimed his firm’s wealth and standing and the position of his name on the letterhead indicated the level of seniority that he’d worked and schemed for in the years when they were married. Stuffing the envelope into her bag, she stood up and made for the departure gate. Malcolm might think that the case was closed, but the time had come to reopen it.

Inspiration had struck her when she’d first read his letter, sitting on the wall above the ocean. She should have known that writing to Malcolm was just playing into his hands. The letter she’d sent him had dented her pride and sapped her diminished confidence, while his reply had cost him nothing. And if she were to write again things would just get worse. Hadn’t she spent years listening to him pontificate about the joys of a war of attrition? “Grind the other fellow down,” he’d said, winking at her over the polished silverware and the expensive lobster or venison, sent by some grateful client. “Make him feel a fool and you’ll make him act like a loser.” It was what he and his overpaid colleagues called strategy. So, high on her clifftop, staring out across silver waves and drifting seagulls, Hanna had made up her mind. What was required was a little stratagem of her own. Taking out her phone, she’d dialed the familiar number of Malcolm’s office and spoken briskly to his secretary.

“That’s right. Mrs. Turner, his ex-wife. Tell him I’ll meet him in Parsons Hotel in Mayfair on Saturday.”

She heard the girl catch her breath in surprise, but she went on smoothly.

“You have that? Thank you. Tell Mr. Turner I’ll expect him at three fifteen.”

Closing the phone to end the call, she’d winked triumphantly at a seagull. Not only had Malcolm’s secretary had no time to get a word in, but choosing three fifteen had made it sound as if her own time were so important that she measured it in quarter-hour slots.

Now, as the plane cruised above the world and its problems, a pretty stewardess who could easily be Jazz, but wasn’t, poured Hanna a tea. After a few sips she just held the cup as far away from her as possible until it was taken away. All she needed at this point was to turn up in a five-star hotel milk-stained or scalded.

The dress she was wearing was a plain shift, cleverly cut in soft, wine-colored wool, with elbow-length sleeves and a high neckline. On the day that she’d left Malcolm and come to Ireland in a fury, she had chucked it into a suitcase without even thinking. In London she had always dressed in the height of fashion and in the Norfolk cottage where she and Malcolm and Jazz used to spend their weekends she had cupboards full of jeans and tops, cashmere sweaters, designer scarves, and deck shoes. Yet she had turned up on Mary Casey’s doorstep with a ridiculous assortment of clothing that made no sense for any occasion, especially not any she was likely to find in Crossarra. Most of what she’d thrown into her suitcase that day was long gone to charity shops in Carrick. But fortunately she’d had enough sense to hold on to one or two plain, good pieces. The dress still looked as stylish as ever; and in the airport, with the help of hairpins and hair spray, she had managed to twist her shoulder-length dark hair into a fairly convincing chignon. Afterward she had considered her appearance in the mirror of the ladies’ restroom. Not exactly Audrey Hepburn but certainly acceptable in a Mayfair hotel. Provided that she took off her chain-store coat before she got there and carried it over her arm.

It was raining when the plane landed. Hanna took the train into the city and emerged onto a wet London street. Spotting a taxi with its light on, she waved it to a halt. It was vital to remember the big picture. Having decided to splurge on flights and a night in a hotel, the cost of a taxi was just peanuts. And it was going to make a difference. Not only would it keep her hair from springing out of its chignon, turning her from a mature Audrey Hepburn into a mad, frizzy version of Barbra Streisand, but it would encourage the hotel staff to open doors for her. She was perfectly capable of opening doors for herself, but what she was after was an air of authority that would prompt other people to treat her as the self-assured woman she needed to be—or, at least, to feel like—when she met Malcolm. Assuming he turned up. The thought that he mightn’t suddenly twisted Hanna’s stomach into a knot. Then the taxi pulled into the circular drive before the Parsons Hotel and a uniformed attendant darted forward holding a large umbrella. Taking a deep breath, Hanna swung her legs out of the cab and strolled toward the hotel doors.