At her laptop she brought up the site for the Royal London. She clicked through, found the number and entered it into her phone. It rang three times and then a woman’s voice came on the line. ‘Renal.’
‘Hello. Could I speak to Doctor Alleyn, please?’ Hannah remembered the form of address used by the nurse behind the desk. Yes, that was right, wasn’t it? Surgeons weren’t called Doctor; they became Misters and Mizzes again once they reached consultant level. ‘Ms Alleyn,’ she corrected herself.
‘She’s in theatre this morning, I’m afraid. Can I take a message?’
Hannah paused. If she left her number, would Hermione call back? No, that wouldn’t be a good idea, anyway: she needed to control when they spoke. What if Hermione rang when Mark was around? How could she explain it or slope off to take the call without arousing suspicion?
‘It’s all right,’ she said, ‘I’ll ring back. Do you know what time she’ll be finished?’
‘Sorry, I really can’t say.’
‘No problem. I’ll try again later. Thanks.’
She hung up and put the phone back on the table. As she did, she became aware of a change in the room, a shift in the light, or perhaps she glimpsed an image in the glass of the French windows. She spun around.
‘Hannah?’ He laughed. ‘Oh, sorry – did I startle you, darling?’
Chapter Sixteen
‘Who was on the phone?’ Mark stepped further into the room.
‘What?’
‘The phone just then – who were you talking to?’
‘Oh, no one.’ She shook her head quickly. ‘I couldn’t get through. It was just a job thing – someone I said I’d call back.’ She saw him glance at her outfit: the T-shirt she’d slept in, a pair of old round-the-house jeans. Her bare feet were slowly turning blue on the slate floor. He knew her pretend-you’re-still-in-the-real-world, job-search rules – up and dressed by eight, act like a professional until you are one again – and making calls like this broke all of them. Mark was in jeans, too, but he was fit for the outside world, the collar of a soft long-sleeved T-shirt visible beneath a black cashmere sweater, his usual flying outfit. He still had his coat on, and just beyond the door she could see his leather weekend bag on the floor in the hallway. How long had he been standing there?
‘Something interesting?’ he said.
She looked at him.
‘The job thing.’
‘Oh, right. Well, I don’t know yet. Possibly – maybe.’
He gave a sort of half-nod, apparently accepting what she was telling him, and moved towards her with a big smile, putting his arms out. ‘Come here, you. Six days has been far too long.’
He was within touching distance, inches away. With a jolt of panic, she took a step backwards, colliding noisily with a chair, banging her hip. She took advantage of the confusion to slap down the lid of her laptop, hiding the Royal London’s website.
When she looked up again, Mark’s smile had gone. For a moment neither of them said anything and the kitchen rang with the clatter of furniture. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t make it home for the weekend,’ he said. ‘This buy-out – there’s just so much riding on it, our whole financial future, and I have to do everything I can to maximise it. I know I should have called more but I was so caught up in doing projections, and without my mobile . . .’
Hannah’s whole body was shaking suddenly, the vibrations running down her arms into her hands, which felt as if they were fluttering, like leaves in a breeze. It wasn’t nerves but anger, physical fury. She clenched her fists, fighting the urge to launch herself at him and thump him, beat on his chest like a drum.
‘Why did you lie to me?’ Her voice was shaking, too.
Wariness dropped over his face like a shutter. ‘Lie? What are you talking about?’
The rage took over, staining everything crimson. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, Mark, I don’t care – I don’t care. I don’t care about your bloody phone. I don’t care if you call and leave messages at two o’clock in the morning. I don’t care if you weren’t at your hotel when you said you were – I don’t give a shit.’ She turned away, not wanting to look at him, not wanting him to see her face, which she knew was flushed and twisted with anger. A hard pulse was beating at the base of her throat. Through the door, she caught a momentary glimpse of the yard. The ragged crow was perched on the little table, head cocked to one side. It stared in at her with a single searching eye.
Behind her Mark was silent, waiting for her to speak. She turned and locked her eyes on his.