Before We Met(80)

Mark pulled her closer to the table. ‘Han,’ he said quietly, ‘can we talk about this at home? Not here. I don’t want to . . .’

‘No, Mark, I need to know now. Tell me. Why did she look frightened? She covered it up really fast but it was in her eyes, I saw it.’

He looked at her for a moment then leaned in again, reducing the gap between them to a few inches. ‘She was Nick’s girlfriend.’

Through the fug of booze, it was a second or two before Hannah realised what he was telling her. ‘You mean – at the time?’

He nodded.

‘My God.’ She put her hand over her mouth. ‘I thought she was a friend of yours from Cambridge. I didn’t . . .’

‘She is. That’s how they met, through me. She liked him from day one, of course, though Nick wasn’t so bothered, but after a while he realised that other people thought she was a bit of a prize – super-bright, lovely-looking – and he made a move. They’d been going out for about six months.’

‘Was she there?’

‘At the club? No. She was on nights at the hospital; she didn’t find out till the next day when one of the girls phoned her. God, poor Herm. I’d tried to warn her but she said she could handle him. I should have tried harder. It wasn’t even the first time he’d cheated on her. He’d been shagging around for weeks – another alarm bell I should have heard.’

‘That look when I told her who I was – why would she be frightened? It’s been ten years. Surely after all this time . . .’

Mark glanced towards the next table and lowered his voice again. ‘She testified against him.’

‘What? In court?’ Hannah said stupidly.

‘She gave evidence about Nick’s . . . tastes.’ Mark was speaking so quietly now that Hannah had to lean across the table to hear him. ‘How he liked to restrain her, that he was into control. How, a couple of times, he’d gone too far, hurt her, and then wouldn’t stop, even when she begged him. She had a really rough time in the box, his defence went to town on her, but she did it. Some of the things she said . . . It was hard to listen to – literally sickening. The women on the jury – I think for them, in particular, it brought it all into focus, having someone like Hermione, who’s so articulate and together, painting this picture of . . .’

Remembering how she’d confronted the woman in the corridor at work, how aggressive she’d been, Hannah was filled with remorse.

‘Nick was livid – he could see how it was going down. I watched him. He had this expression on, all regretful denial, shock that anyone could say those things about him, but I know him, I knew what he was thinking.’ Mark swigged his wine. ‘He wouldn’t forget that in a lifetime, let alone ten years. And now he’s contacted her from prison, making threats.’

‘What kind of threats?’

‘Apparently he’s told her it’s payback time.’





Chapter Nineteen

Lifting one end then the other, Hannah dragged the sofa away from the wall. She plugged in the vacuum cleaner, came back to the centre of the room and hit the on switch. The roar billowed up around her like a dust cloud. She’d put off the vacuuming until Mark was out of bed but already this morning she’d cleaned the whole of the ground floor, dusting and straightening, sweeping and mopping. She’d even cleaned the kitchen cabinets and the cutlery drawer, taking out the silverware and laying it on the table while she disinfected the inside of the drawer, getting right into the corners for every last bit of dust.

She’d been going since five. Even cleaning the downstairs loo was better than lying in bed desperate for sleep that wouldn’t come. She’d been awake all night, her mind racing, the alcohol in her stomach swilling queasily with the fatty Chinese. Until about three Mark had been awake, too – she’d turned over several times to find him lying on his back, eyes open – but then she’d heard his breathing slow and she’d been left alone in the darkness.

Rolling back the lovely Victorian nursing chair he’d bought at a furniture auction at Christie’s, she set about the rug with zeal. It was antique, too, imported from Turkey; one evening they’d sat together on the sofa and he’d told her the stories behind all its patterns and symbols. Glancing over, she saw the little silver clock on the mantelpiece: quarter past ten. Before he’d got out of bed, she’d gone online. The journey time from Wakefield to London, she’d seen, was two hours on the train, a little over four by coach. What time would they let Nick go – or was he already out? Perhaps he was already on the National Express, heading their way. She shoved the vacuum forward again, trying to drown the idea out.