Before We Met(48)

Just for a minute she let herself consider the possibility that he wasn’t having an affair, that Hermione had been calling him for some other reason. What? What could they be talking about? But then, if she was just an old friend from Cambridge, why had Hannah never heard of her? Why had Mark never mentioned her? And why had Neesha been so defensive? He always closes his door when he speaks to her.

A little further on, near the end of the corridor, there was a shallow alcove with a bench in it. Blue winter light spilled from the window behind on to the floor. Sitting there, Hannah thought, she’d be more or less out of sight of anyone approaching but she’d have a good view. She’d wait until Hermione came up from theatre and talk to her then. She wasn’t going to leave here now until she found out was going on.

She walked to the bench and sat down, positioning herself at the far end so she could see clearly. The ward hadn’t seemed especially busy but a steady stream of people came and went, staff and visitors, and her head snapped up at each new set of footsteps, the tap-tap of heels and the softer whisper of men’s shoes, the squeak of trainers. She remembered waiting in the arrivals hall at JFK, how she used to watch the doors like a puppy waiting for its owner to come home, and was filled with disgust at herself. What a stupid bloody idiot she’d been.

Her bag vibrated against her thigh and when she got out her BlackBerry, she saw Mark’s name in her inbox.

Han sweetheart, I’m so sorry we didn’t manage to talk over the weekend. I’m getting some work done this morning, the meeting’s at two this afternoon, and then I’m JFK-bound, coming home. Can’t wait to see you – I’ve missed you like mad. Prepare to be squeezed to within an inch of your life . . .

She read it again, and then, incensed – I’ve missed you like mad? – she deleted it and tossed the phone back into her bag. When she looked up again, a woman in surgical greens with brown hair cut into a shoulder-length bob was coming through the double doors at the far end of the corridor, walking with energetic, economical steps that were barely audible even when she was ten feet away. She was frowning slightly, squinting against the cold light that streamed through the windows and made her look even more tired, but it was the woman Hannah had seen online, no doubt about it, slightly protruding ears and all. As she approached the doors to the ward, Hannah stood up, slung her bag over her shoulder and moved quickly to intercept her. ‘Excuse me? Hermione Alleyn?’

The woman stopped and the frown was replaced by an expression of polite professionalism. She gave a small smile carefully calibrated – after years of being accosted by anxious relatives, Hannah guessed – to look approachable but not too much so. She was sucking a mint that did nothing to mask the smell of cigarette smoke that hung around her.

‘Yes?’

‘I’m Hannah Reilly,’ she said, watching the woman carefully. The neutral expression, however, remained.

‘Mark’s wife.’

A second passed and then a look of pure horror crossed Hermione Alleyn’s face. It was fleeting but unmistakable: her eyes widened and stared but then, just as quickly, she recovered herself and smiled. ‘Mark? God, how is he? Is he here?’ She looked around, as if expecting to see him coming along the corridor.

Hannah felt a hot rush of anger. How dare she? How much of a moron did they think she was? ‘Look,’ she said. ‘Don’t bother with the pretence. I know something’s going on.’

Another momentary flicker of panic and then composure again. ‘Going on? I don’t know what . . .’

‘Between you two. I know you’re . . . in touch.’ She paused a second, gave the innuendo room to breathe. ‘I know you’ve been calling him at his office – his assistant told me. And I know he’s been lying to me about his whereabouts.’

Hermione shook her head a little. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘but I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong end of the stick somewhere. There’s nothing going on between Mark and me. We were at college together in Cambridge – you know that already, I’m sure – but that’s all the . . .’

‘Don’t,’ Hannah said, her voice coming out louder than she’d expected. It echoed off the corridor’s shiny surfaces and Hermione glanced around, nervous, no doubt, in case her colleagues heard. Well, stuff her, thought Hannah. Why should she lower her voice? She wasn’t going to sit back and take this. ‘Just don’t,’ she said. ‘I’ve had enough of being lied to and patronised – it’s time for the truth. Something’s going on and I’m not going to leave here until I find out what it is.’