Tom was different, though. He was her confidant, her best friend, and she needed to talk to him.
You did the right thing, she wrote back, however shitty it feels. Things with Mark okay – thanks again for listening. No affair, just a long story. Pint early next week and I’ll tell you?
His response came within a minute: Long story sounds complicated. Pint definitely in order. Monday?
In Central London the Tube ran too deep for reception but as Hannah came up the steps at Earl’s Court a new text message arrived: she’d missed a call and had voicemail. Checking, she saw Mark’s number. It was a couple of minutes before seven and the platform was packed with people waiting for a Wimbledon train so she walked to the far end where it was quieter.
Message received today at 6.17 p.m., the staccato female recording told her, and then, over the din of the train suddenly thundering into the station behind her, she heard his voice. Hi, it’s me. Just checking in again – hope everything’s okay. I’m about to go in to drinks with this hedge-fund guy but I’m going to keep it brief so I should be home about half-eight. Let me know if you want me to pick anything up en route.
A pause, and in the background she heard a man’s voice say, Seventeen-fifty, mate, and a couple of seconds later, Cheers – good of you. The unmistakable sound of a black-cab’s door slamming.
Nothing from Nick, Mark’s voice again. He’s really making me sweat. Anyway, I hope you’ve managed to have a semi-decent afternoon and have bought something lovely – looking forward to seeing it. I’ll see you in a couple of hours. He lowered his voice and she guessed there were people nearby. I love you.
She managed to squeeze on to the train just as the doors were closing and was pressed into a corner by a man in an enormous orange Puffa jacket until Fulham Broadway, when half the people in the carriage streamed out on to the platform. The train came above ground and cut across the top corner of Eel Brook Common, now swallowed by darkness, the path that bisected it picked out by a line of solitary streetlamps casting their light on empty benches. When the train pulled in at Parsons Green, the clock at the top of the stairs said ten past seven. If Mark was on time, she thought, she’d have less than an hour and a half alone in the house.
The rain had stopped, or perhaps it had never reached here, but only the hardiest smokers were clustered under the heaters outside the White Horse, everyone else holed up inside in the warmth. Hannah walked quickly, pulling the collar of her coat together under her chin, wishing she had her gloves. She’d light a fire when she got home, have it really roaring by the time Mark got back. She rounded the corner on to New King’s Road, passing the estate agent and the hairdresser’s, raising her head again when the buildings sheltered her from the wind. Approaching the delicatessen, she turned to look at the banks of cut flowers in the buckets outside, their riot of extravagant colour against the dank November pavement. Spot-lit by an electric bulb clipped to the awning, the flower man was wrapping a huge bunch of peonies and eucalyptus for a young woman in a bright red raincoat. Another man stood behind them, looking at roses.
For a moment she thought it was Mark, home early: the height, the build, his posture, even the short dark jacket that looked like the pea coat he wore when they went walking at weekends. She must have stopped for a second or started to say something because he turned and Mark’s face looked out at her from beneath a black beanie.
Almost Mark’s face.
Their eyes met. He recognised her, too, or guessed at once who she was. For a moment she was immobilised but then she turned and ran. She ran back the way she’d just come, past the estate agent’s and up the road parallel to the Green, the pavement now twice as long as it had been a minute before, the streetlights further apart, the houses darker, drawn further back into their gardens. Her heart was pounding, her whole body tensed for the sound of footsteps behind her, the hand grabbing at her coat, but it didn’t come and it still didn’t come and at last she reached the pub, yanked the door open and plunged into the light and safety of the bar.
She threaded her way to the loos at the back, locked herself in a cubicle and leaned against the wall, breath coming in great heaves. The outer door swung open, banging back against the wall, but it was two girls having a loud conversation about their boss. When she thought she would be able to talk, Hannah dropped the lid of the loo and sat down. The hand-driers stopped and there was a snatch of noise from the bar as the girls swung out again. She held her phone with both hands to stop herself from dropping it.
Mark picked up on the third ring. ‘Hannah – is everything all right?’