‘No, of course not. I had a job in New York – advertising – and some friends of ours there introduced us. We hit it off and . . .’
‘New York,’ said Mr Reilly, as if he’d heard of it and didn’t much approve.
‘Last year – the summer before last. Mark was doing a big project with DataPro’s New York team and . . .’ The look on Gordon’s face told her he hadn’t known there was, or ever had been, such a thing.
‘And you were married in April this year?’ said Elizabeth Reilly.
‘Yes. In Chelsea, at the register office.’
‘Do you live in London now – with him? You’re not in America any more?’
‘No, I moved back a few months ago. It didn’t make sense living apart once we were married.’ She took a scalding sip of tea.
‘That’s right, isn’t it? No point being married at all if you’re not going to be together.’ Elizabeth glanced at her husband with a look that was almost shy. ‘Do you have children? No, of course you don’t – what am I saying? You haven’t been married long enough. Not that that matters,’ she said quickly, ‘being married, not these days . . .’ She trailed off, embarrassed. ‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t worry.’ Hannah smiled. ‘But no, we don’t.’
‘Would you like them?’
‘I . . . Well . . .’
‘Elizabeth, you shouldn’t put the woman on the spot like that,’ Mr Reilly cut in.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, looking mortified now. ‘It’s just I know so little about his life these days, what he’s doing, what he thinks about things . . .’
‘When did you last see him?
‘Ten years ago, at the trial . . .’ She faltered and looked at her husband aghast, as if she’d blown a terrible secret.
‘I know about Nick,’ Hannah said. ‘The court case. Patty Hendrick, I mean.’
‘We don’t talk about it,’ said Mark’s father, voice sharp. ‘I’m sure you understand. For us, it was . . .’ His voice trailed off. ‘And now this other one – the doctor, Hermione.’ He put his tea down, the china tinkling.
Mrs Reilly actually flinched. ‘Is that why you’re here?’
‘No.’ Hannah shook her head. ‘It’s nothing to do with Nick. I just—’
‘Then why?’ said Mr Reilly. ‘Why come now?’
‘Does he want to see us?’ Mark’s mother’s eyes lit up with sudden hope. ‘Is this his way of . . .?’
‘No,’ said Hannah as gently as she could. ‘I’m sorry.’
Mrs Reilly nodded but then dipped her head and focused on her hands.
The carriage clock struck the hour, three tiny cymbal crashes.
‘Mark’s hurt his mother very badly, as you can see,’ said his father. ‘I’m not saying there aren’t elements of his behaviour we understand – doesn’t he think we’d like to forget, too? – but even so . . .’ He looked at Elizabeth’s bent white head. ‘Nick was the perfect excuse,’ he added.
Hannah frowned. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Mark was looking for a reason to cut us off and Nick gave it to him.’
‘Why would he want . . .?’
‘He’s ashamed of us, isn’t he?’
‘I—’
‘Look at us. Look at how we live. Do you think he’d be proud of us? We’re an embarrassment to him – the boring, ordinary, petit bourgeois people – he called me that once, to my face – he had to leave behind in order to create whoever he is these days, Mr Big Shot. Look at us and then look at him with his success, his money, his lifestyle.’ Gordon’s voice was full of disdain. ‘You. With the greatest of respect, you seem decent but you don’t fit here – advertising, New York, the way you look. I knew he didn’t send you – he wouldn’t want you to see us, what he came from.’
‘No, I’m sure that’s not . . .’ Hannah started.
‘It is – if you’re his wife, you must know it is.’
‘I don’t blame him,’ said Mrs Reilly quietly. ‘Not for that. He’s worked so hard for what he has – all his life he’s worked hard. If he chooses to live in a certain—’
‘You don’t blame your son for scorning you?’ demanded her husband with venom. ‘For dismissing you from his life like an underperforming member of staff?’
‘Oh, Gordon, that’s not what I . . . Don’t make it sound like that, please don’t.’