‘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.