Before We Met(104)

Over her shoulder, Hannah saw Mark’s father standing on the doorstep, watching. ‘Mrs Reilly,’ she said, ‘you’re getting soaked. Why don’t you get in? We can talk in here, in the dry.’

She shook her head vehemently. ‘No, I can’t – Gordon . . . Look, I don’t care if he looks down on us,’ Elizabeth said, ‘Mark, I mean. Whatever Gordon says, I don’t care. I’m sixty-eight; I haven’t seen my son for ten years. I just don’t want to die without seeing him again.’ She looked Hannah in the eye, begging her.

Water was coursing down the gutter, bubbling into a drain somewhere underneath the car. The shoulders of her cardigan were soaked through.

‘I’m not asking for a miracle,’ she said. ‘I know nothing’s going to make it right. But if you could try – if you could ask him if he’d see me, just once. He doesn’t have to come here – I can come to him, to London, anywhere. I’ll find a way.’

Hannah reached through the window and touched her forearm, felt the bone even through the cardigan and the sleeve of the blouse underneath. ‘I’ll try,’ she said. ‘I can’t promise anything but—’

‘Thank you. Oh, thank you.’ To Hannah’s surprise, Mark’s mother ducked her head through the window and kissed her quickly on the cheek. ‘You don’t know what that means.’

‘Elizabeth!’ Gordon’s voice over the noise of the hail. ‘Come inside – you’ll catch your death.’





Chapter Twenty-four

The food court of the service station rang with voices, mobiles, the clatter of trays and cutlery. Two babies were wailing in concert. Hands shaking, Hannah ripped open the pack of sandwiches. She hadn’t wanted to stop but she hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast and she was losing her ability to focus. Five or six miles back, she’d gone to overtake and nearly been ploughed off the road. She hadn’t even seen the other car before she’d pulled out.

The sandwich was stale but she finished it and drank a bitter double espresso before checking her phone again. Every few minutes since Eastbourne, she’d been flicking her eyes over to the passenger seat, but the red light had refused to flash. Now, thank God, Tom had replied: Of course you can stay. In now and will be all night.

She tapped out a quick response and put the phone back on the table. Almost immediately, it started flashing again. Where are you? said the subject line.

Not her brother this time but Mark.

Her heart thumped heavily. Did he suspect something – or know? Could his parents have contacted him? She clicked on the message and saw the rest: Did you meet up with Tom in the end? She sat back, breathing out. She’d forgotten to let him know what she was doing for the day; that was all. She thought for a moment then wrote a reply: Sorry, yes, with T&L. Sara, old Malvern friend, coming for dinner – might stay if you don’t mind? Haven’t seen her for years. She read it through then sent it. The lie was cowardly but so what? What was one tiny lie compared to all his huge ones? She’d send another text later to say she’d had too much wine and was going to stay the night.

She put the phone back in her bag and made her way outside. A few miles from Eastbourne, the hail had been succeeded by a heavy rain that thundered on her umbrella now as she ran back to the car. Cloud had blotted the light from the sky leaving only an angry crimson line behind the row of scrappy pines that edged the car park. The clock on the dashboard said quarter to six.

The motorway was even busier, people driving into London for Saturday night. Ahead, tail lights wove back and forth across the lanes, tens of red eyes in the dark. She stayed as far back as she could from the lorries that thundered past with their sides billowing, water spinning off their tyres in great arcs.

She’d gone ten or twelve miles when, out of the corner of her eye, she saw her phone light up. Mark, she thought, but when she reached across to the passenger seat to check, Neesha’s name was on the screen. Neesha – in all the confusion about the Audi and Mark’s parents, she had forgotten she’d called her.

Flashing a look in her rear-view mirror, Hannah cut across the slow lane, her rear bumper almost catching the angry muzzle of a juggernaut going much faster than she’d estimated. The driver leaned on the horn, letting loose a blast so loud it seemed to lift the car off the road. She was still doing sixty-five as she roared on to the hard shoulder, skidding on a layer of loose gravel as she braked. She answered the call just as it was about to ring out.

‘Neesha.’

‘Mrs Reilly.’