Before We Met: A Novel (15 page)

He hadn’t called again but, as he’d said, he’d been working. All this – she’d been over-thinking it. The facts spoke for themselves, didn’t they? What had she discovered that had anything to do with an affair? She’d found no letters, no photographs, no evidence of money spent on expensive presents, no skimpy knickers tucked into his trouser pockets. So there was confusion about where he was, but what did that mean? Even if he
was
in Rome, why did it have to be about sex? It was a major European capital: business was conducted there, too. And how did the marshalling of the money point to an affair? It didn’t.

The money was the key to it, she thought as she entered the business park; if she’d been thinking clearly over the weekend that would have been obvious. She would find out what the money was for and then she’d know what she was dealing with.

She stationed herself on a bench fifteen feet from the building’s main entrance, close enough to have a view of everyone coming and going without putting herself directly in eye-line. Five past eight. She opened the
Times
she’d bought before getting in the car, shook it out and pretended to read.

The denizens of Mark’s building were a conscientious lot. It had been quiet when she’d arrived but within two or three minutes people were pushing their way through the revolving doors in a steady stream, coffee in hand, some already on calls or reading email on phones. At about quarter past, David came round the corner and she quickly lifted the paper in front of her face. Today he was wearing a suit and carrying a burnished leather attaché case under his arm, and his jeans-and-plaid-shirt avatar from Saturday afternoon was hard to imagine. Just outside the doors he stopped to look at something on his phone and, in stepping out of the way of the woman behind him, he turned in Hannah’s direction. Her heart leaped, but without looking up, he tapped a few keys and revolved into the building.

Most people arrived on their own but there were occasional pairs and, two or three times, small groups whom she guessed had been on the same train and walked down from Hammersmith Broadway together. A couple of people glanced in her direction, curious as to why anyone who wasn’t smoking would linger outside on a morning as cold as this, but for the most part she felt invisible, safe.

By eight thirty, however, she began to think she was out of luck. DataPro had started for the day now. Surely Neesha should be here. Then Hannah remembered what Mark’s PA had said on the phone, her confession that she was juggling too much. She lived across London on the other side of the river – had she said Blackheath? – and unless her husband did it, she’d have to drop Pierre at day-care, too. Hannah turned a page in the paper and feigned absorption in an op-ed about corporate tax evasion.

It was twenty to nine when she heard hurried footsteps on the steps. Neesha’s face was tired and preoccupied-looking, as if she’d done the best part of a day’s work already. Despite that, she was as beautifully presented as ever. Her full-length navy herringbone coat was open and revealed a black wool pencil skirt over snag-free ten-denier tights and a pair of black snakeskin heels. Her hair shone and she was wearing red lipstick that was bold enough to be a fashion statement but just subtle enough to be office-appropriate. Hannah felt a burst of jealousy, not only because, this woman was ten years younger and beautiful, but because she had a job, a career with forward momentum, a reason to get smartly dressed in the morning and
go
somewhere.

‘Neesha.’ Hannah stood up quickly, thrust the paper into her bag and stepped into the other woman’s path. She watched as her face ran through a quick series of emotions, the initial surprise giving way first to wariness – what was Hannah doing here? Was this about what she’d said on the phone? – and then to friendly professionalism.

‘Hannah – lovely to see you.’ She glanced around and Hannah guessed she was looking for Mark. She drew Neesha slightly off the path, out of view from the doors.

‘Sorry for accosting you like this. I wondered if I could have a quick word?’

‘Of course. Is this about Saturday morning? I’m so, so sorry. I was beating myself up about it all weekend. And thank you so much again for—’

‘Honestly, it’s fine, forgotten about.’ Hannah waved her hand, wiping the slate. For a moment, she hesitated. Asking would mean dragging Mark’s personal life into the office and embarrassing him in front of a member of his staff. Was Neesha discreet? Could she be trusted not to relate this episode to all and sundry upstairs? And what would she think of Hannah? That she was mad, probably, out of control. Suddenly, though, with a burst of liberation, Hannah realised she no longer cared. She didn’t care about Neesha’s opinion of her; didn’t care what she thought of Mark. And so what if he was embarrassed? He should have thought of that before he started lying. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘this is really awkward, but I need to know . . . Has anything been going on lately? With Mark.’

‘Going on?’ Confusion flickered across Neesha’s face, then indignation. She thought she was implying some kind of involvement between them, Hannah realised.

‘No, God, not with you,’ she said quickly. ‘I mean, have you noticed anything unusual with him? Has anything changed? Has he seemed particularly stressed or . . .’

Neesha looked at her for a moment, brow furrowed, then shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. We’ve been busy, as you know. Business has really started picking up again and . . .’

‘Is everything all right on that side of things? He’s not involved in any sort of dispute?’

‘Dispute? What do you mean?’

‘There’s no . . . bad blood with anyone? No trouble with payments? Or legal action?’

‘No, nothing like that, and I think I’d know. Everything’s fine. As I say, we’re busy but that’s the only cause of stress I’m aware of. Of course, I’m just his assistant, I’m not party to any of the—’

‘But you answer his calls? Screen them?’

‘Of course.’

‘Has anyone new started calling? Anyone you don’t think is ringing on DataPro business?’

Neesha stood up straighter and adjusted her bag on her shoulder. ‘Mrs Reilly – Hannah – if you’re worried about something, perhaps you should talk to Mark about it. I’m really not in a position to—’

‘I would talk to him,’ Hannah said wildly, ‘if I had a telephone number I could actually reach him on.’ Neesha looked startled but she carried on regardless. ‘When we spoke on Saturday, you told me he’d said he was taking me to Rome. Maybe he still is and you really have got your wires crossed, but you’re not the only one – David was under that impression, too. I’d like to talk to Mark, find out what’s going on, but conveniently or inconveniently, depending on your point of view, he’s lost his phone.’

There were two or three seconds of stunned silence that were interrupted by more quick footsteps on the path. Neesha waited until the new arrival had stepped through the doorway. ‘I don’t know what I can . . .’

Hannah held eye contact, not letting her look away. ‘Imagine the boot’s on the other foot,’ she said. ‘Imagine this is your husband we’re talking about, that it’s Steven and you’re asking me. How would you feel, Neesha? How would
you
feel?’

Neesha glanced at the revolving doors as if she was thinking of making a run for it. When she looked back again, her expression had hardened. ‘You shouldn’t do this,’ she said. ‘It’s not fair. You can’t put me in this kind of position.’

Hannah felt a momentary sense of remorse but not enough to deflect her. ‘I’m not trying to put you in any position,’ she said. ‘I’m asking – begging – you to help me. Please.’

‘Look, I can’t lose my job,’ Neesha blurted. ‘I can’t . . . I just can’t. Steven’s been made redundant, he’s been out of work for months. We need my salary.’

So there
was
something. Hannah’s heart gave a heavy thump.

‘Neesha,’ she said, ‘whatever you tell me stays between us. I promise – I absolutely promise. You have my word. I’ve said nothing about the Rome thing and I wouldn’t, and whatever this is, however bad it is, I promise you Mark will never, ever know you told me.’

‘If I lose my job . . .’

‘You won’t.’ Hannah tried to sound decisive, final.

Neesha gave a short, sharp out-breath. For several seconds she said nothing and the silence of the morning rushed in around them. ‘There is someone who calls,’ she said at last.

Hannah felt a weight settle on her shoulders, as if a lead cape had been slung round them. ‘A woman?’

‘Yes.’

In the space of a second, she felt her conviction crumble. She’d been wrong – she’d been deluding herself: it
was
an affair. ‘How long?’ she said. ‘How long has it been going on?’

‘Not very.’ Neesha shook her head quickly, eager to play it down. ‘A few weeks – a month, maximum.’

‘Have you seen her? Has she been here – in the office?’

Neesha shook her head again.

‘What’s her name?’

‘I—’

‘You know, you must do. You said: you answer his telephone – you screen his calls. What’s her name?’

Neesha looked really upset, as if she might actually cry, but Hannah couldn’t stop. ‘I’m not going to tell him,’ she said. ‘I’ve promised you.’

‘All right, all right . . . Please. She’s called Hermione.’

Hermione
. Hannah’s brain made an instant search of every woman Mark had ever mentioned, every story he’d ever told, and came up empty. ‘Hermione what?’

‘I—’

‘Neesha.’ Hannah heard the desperation in her own voice and it startled her. ‘Please,’ she said more gently. ‘Help me.’

‘Alan.’

‘Alan? What, like the man’s name?’

‘Al—lane. Spelled like alley, with an “n” at the end.’ Neesha looked at the doors then back at Hannah, beseeching her. ‘That’s all I know, I swear to you. I don’t know who she is. I’ve got no idea. He always closes his door when he speaks to her.’

Hannah walked back to the car wide-eyed with shock, barely conscious of her feet moving. A blur of herringbone brick paving became tarmac as she came out on to Manbre Road again. Frozen shrubs in the border; a postman emptying the box on the corner, his breath white. She was trying to get the car key into the lock when reason told her to stop: there was no way she could drive like this; she’d have an accident, run someone over.

Moving as slowly as if she were underwater, she left the car and walked to the café on the corner of Fulham Palace Road. She bought a cup of coffee and carried it with unsteady hands to a table in the corner, where she hunched on the edge of a wicker armchair, her eyes fixed on a sugar bowl that shimmered and swam. The café was busy but no one came to ask if they could take her spare seat. Clearly she looked as unhinged as she felt.

She focused on the bright buckets of hothouse flowers for sale to visitors to Charing Cross Hospital across the road. Peonies, the pink-tipped buds still tightly furled, tulips in crimson and yolk yellow, delicate purple freesias. She’d been wrong; her instincts –
no, her judgement
– had been wrong. Mark.
Mark
, who put snow-chains on her car and bought her buttery flapjacks from the delicatessen because he knew she loved them.

Hermione Alleyn. She turned the name over, testing it. Was she an old friend, someone who had always been there, lurking, waiting, or was she new? DataPro gave Mark so many opportunities to meet people – at clients’ offices, in hotel bars and airport lounges. She felt sick as she imagined him on a plane, a woman arriving at the empty seat next to his, her grateful smile as he helped put her bag in the overhead locker.

Now she pieced it all together. The story about his phone was a lie, clearly, to make sure she didn’t ring him. This Hermione Alleyn must have been in the bathroom or something when he’d called and left his messages. They probably were in Rome or somewhere equally romantic and perfect for long, dirty weekends. What had been up the M1? Some lovely Yorkshire boutique hotel with open fires, heavy cotton sheets and roll-top baths? And what was the money for –
her
money? A house? A flat where they could meet? She’d dismissed the idea before but now she reconsidered. This was Mark: he didn’t do things by halves; he was extravagant, expansive. If he wanted a
love-nest
, Hannah thought scornfully, it wouldn’t occur to him to rent one.

Was he going to leave, ask for a divorce? The idea caused a twist in her guts, then another rush of nausea that left her cold afterwards. What did it matter if he did? What difference did it make? Even if he went on as if nothing had changed, she couldn’t stay with him now.

But how could she leave
? asked the voice in her head. She had no income and no savings. She was broke. The mug of coffee going cold on the table represented nearly a whole per cent of her net worth. She’d have to go to her brother, she realised, ask him if she could have his tiny back bedroom until she got herself straightened out. She’d have to live on her credit card, get some sort of job, any job, until she could find one in advertising. She could do it, she told herself. She’d go back to her old life and rely on herself. She’d listened to what Tom had said in New York – she’d trusted someone and let him trust her – and she’d fucked it up.