The Great Escape (29 page)

Hannah smiles kindly. ‘Sadie, they weren’t spiked. Think about it – how long is it since you’ve had a drink?’

Sadie frowns. ‘Well, I haven’t drunk at all since having the kids, with breastfeeding …’

‘Really? Not one drink?’

‘No …’

‘And during your pregnancy …’

‘None then either.’ Surely that makes her a good person – one who, before yesterday, hadn’t had a sniff of alcohol for over a year. ‘Blimey,’ she murmurs, ‘I didn’t realise it had been that long.’

Hannah smiles. ‘No wonder it rushed straight to your head. So don’t worry. It didn’t mean anything …’

‘
What
didn’t mean anything?’ Sadie shrieks, waking Lou who springs up in alarm.

‘Just, you know …’ Hannah takes her arm as they perch side by side on Sadie’s unmade bed. The patent shoes lie accusingly on their sides on the floor, and the contents of Sadie’s bag have spilt out beside them.

‘Tell me I didn’t sleep with anyone,’ she breathes.

‘Of course not! You were just having a great time, that’s all …’

Sadie shudders. She knows what that means. Lou is also at her side now, warm and comforting in rumpled polka-dot pyjamas. ‘You were dancing,’ she offers. ‘That’s all, really …’

‘And one guy in particular was pretty taken with you,’ Hannah adds.

‘Who?’ Sadie croaks.

‘Dark hair, glasses, don’t know his name,’ Lou says, ‘but you were just having a laugh, not much more to it than that …’

‘Not
much
more?’

‘… Well there was that
little
kiss,’ Hannah adds.

‘A kiss?’ Sadie turns pale. She kissed someone? That wasn’t part of the plan. What the hell was she thinking?

‘Just a peck really,’ Lou says quickly as Sadie sweeps her hands across her face. ‘A little peck, like a bird. It was nothing …’

‘
Less
than nothing,’ Hannah insists.

Sadie places her hands on her knees and looks at each of her friends in turn. ‘Honestly? You’re not just trying to make me feel better?’

‘Honestly,’ Lou says firmly. ‘It was just harmless fun.’

Sadie exhales loudly, telling herself that a peck is really nothing – God, she routinely pecks the hostesses at all those coffee mornings she goes to. Yet how would she feel if Barney was indulging in a little ‘harmless fun’ back home in Little Hissingham right now? There’s no such thing, she realises – and besides, she’s a
mother.
A breastfeeding, veg-mashing, picture-book-reading mother in her big bra and pants.

‘Stop worrying,’ Hannah says gently. ‘If you’d done anything else we’d have told you. It was just that kiss – I mean peck – apart from the other little thing …’

‘What?’ Sadie asks, heart pounding. ‘What the hell did I do?’

Hannah’s mouth quivers, and a bubble of laughter bursts out before she can stop it. ‘You gave him your number,’ she giggles, ‘written in lip liner on a breast pad.’

FORTY-FOUR

The Glasgow morning is bright and blue-skied with the sharpness of spring in the air. Hannah’s brain feels a little cloudy, and there’s an ache in her calves from dancing, but she feels glad to be alive. As she turns into Sauchiehall Street, on a vague quest to fetch decent coffees, she experiences a rush of gratitude towards Sadie and Lou for sharing this weekend with her. Whatever decision she makes, she feels now, will be the right one.

It’s 9.35 am and the street is already beginning to fill up with Saturday shoppers and
Big Issue
sellers starting their day. Despite being gone for so long, Hannah still feels at home here. Seeing a bridal shop, Hannah stops and looks into the window. The bride’s dress on the headless mannequin looks stiff and unyielding in cream satin. But the dress next to it, designed for a bridesmaid perhaps, in a stunning poppy red, is lovely. Do bridesmaids ever wear red? Is it for a guest, perhaps? Hannah stares at the beautiful knee-length, sleeveless, nipped-in-at-the-waist dress and she wants it.

She can’t have it, of course, because she’s already bought a dress, and isn’t there some superstition about the colour?
Get married in red, wish yourself dead,
an aunt of Hannah’s had once muttered at a family wedding when the bride had worn daring fuchsia. Not that Hannah believes such rubbish. Anyway, the shop doesn’t open until 10.30 and it’s probably hugely expensive. Walking on, Hannah calls home. When Ryan doesn’t pick up, she tries his mobile.

‘Hi,’ he says gruffly.

‘Sorry, have I woken you up?’

‘No, no, it’s just … How are you anyway? You’re up early …’

‘Just thought I’d call to prove I didn’t get completely wasted last night,’ she says with a grin. ‘I’m not even lazing in bed. The other two are – I’ve been sent out on a mission for coffees …’

‘Right,’ he says vaguely.

‘Are you okay?’ she asks, registering music in the background: classical music, something sombre and dark, not Ryan’s usual kind of thing at all.

‘Yes, I’m fine,’ he says dully.

‘Well, you don’t sound it,’ she persists. ‘I did wake you up, didn’t I?’

‘No, it’s
fine
.’ The music is louder now – mournful and stirring, quite beautiful, and at odds with a street full of shoppers on a Saturday morning.

‘What’s that in the background?’ she asks.

‘Just music,’ Ryan says.

‘Sounds like a cello. It’s lovely actually. Have you gone all classical since I’ve been away?’

‘No, it’s just …’

She pauses, holding the phone to her ear. ‘Ryan … what
is
that music?’

‘Um, Elgar’s Cello Concerto Number One.’

Hannah has stopped in front of a department store in which everything is 70% off. ‘I didn’t know you had that,’ she says quietly.

‘I … I don’t,’ he mutters. ‘It’s, um … Petra playing.’

‘Petra’s playing her cello at our house?’

‘No … I’m at Petra’s.’

Hannah blinks at her reflection in the shop window. It’s okay, she tells herself. Something’s happened – Ryan’s had to drive over to Crouch End to sort out something to do with the kids. ‘Why? What’s happened?’

‘Er, nothing …’

‘Why are you there then?’

‘I just needed to talk to Petra about something last night …’

‘You stayed the
night
?’ The music has changed, becoming lighter and brighter, swooping up and down with such lightness and beauty that Hannah could cry. Tears prickle her eyes, and she blinks them away.

‘Yes, on the
sofa
…’ he says defensively, the music fading as, presumably, he takes his phone somewhere more private.

‘Ryan, what’s going on?’

‘I … I read your email—’

Hannah’s entire body goes cold. ‘Which email?’

‘I didn’t mean to,’ he says quickly. ‘I was looking for Daisy’s story, the one you let her write on your computer …’ He pauses, and without having to ask, Hannah knows which email he means. ‘The one you sent to Sadie and Lou,’ Ryan continues. ‘All the stuff about the kids, them hating you, you finding a packet of cigarettes in Josh’s pocket …’

‘I … I didn’t know whether to …’ Hannah feels as if her heart is in her throat.

‘And about you dreading getting married to me.’

‘I’m not dreading it,’ she exclaims. ‘That’s
not
what I meant, Ryan, honestly …’ She looks around at the bustling street, and can still see the burst of red in the wedding shop window.

‘Yes you are,’ he snaps. ‘You told Sadie and Hannah but you haven’t said a word of any of this to me.’

‘Ryan, you know it’s not easy living with—’

‘So I came over last night because of the cigarettes, he’s our
son
.’

‘I know he’s your son!’ Hannah barks.

‘And I needed to talk it over with Petra.’

‘Yes, I’m sure you did,’ she says firmly, ‘and that’s fine, but you need to know that I didn’t tell Sadie and Lou about all that, I didn’t send the mail, in fact I never intended to. I meant to delete it …’

‘Well, it still doesn’t make me feel great,’ he mutters.

‘I don’t feel great either, knowing you slept at Petra’s!’

‘On the
sofa
…’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, really!’ he shouts. Hannah stands dead still. The cello music has stopped, or at least he’s far enough away from Petra that she can’t hear it. Beside her, an elderly lady pulls out a handful of biscuits from her coat pocket and scatters them on the street. A flurry of pigeons descend to feast on them.

‘We should talk about this when I get back tomorrow,’ Hannah says, breathing steadily to level out her voice.

‘Yep.’

‘And … whatever you think, whatever I wrote in that email you have to know that I love—’ she starts, but her words are cut short, not by the cello virtuoso, but by Daisy who yells, sounding as if she’s millimetres from the phone, ‘Daddy, Mummy says breakfast is ready! She’s made pancakes.’

‘Erm … right,’ Ryan says, clearing his throat.

‘I’ll let you get on with your breakfast,’ Hannah says coolly, glaring down at a pigeon that’s pecking close to her feet.

‘Um, okay. I’ll call you later.’

‘Enjoy them,’ she says tersely. ‘Enjoy those
pancakes
 …’

‘All right,’ he snaps, and before finishing the call Hannah hears Petra’s perky voice in the background, possibly enquiring whether Ryan would like her to cut the pancakes into teeny pieces and feed him morsel by morsel herself.

Hannah has forgotten about her mission to bring back three lattes and has passed numerous coffee shops by the time she swerves, mindlessly, off Sauchiehall Street.
Pancakes.
She didn’t even know Ryan liked them. Marching determinedly up the steep, straight hill, she pictures Petra topping up the kids’ glasses with cranberry or blueberry or some other health-giving purplish juice, and Ryan’s white porcelain cup with fresh coffee.

It hasn’t taken much, she thinks darkly, for the family to come back together.
Just one day
. It should have been an omen – that plain little nurse dress, which Hannah probably chose precisely because it was so inoffensive and therefore unlikely to trigger adverse reactions from Daisy or Josh.
That’s
what she’s done, she realises now: tried to make herself as unobtrusive as possible. Unobtrusive and so damned
nice
– letting Daisy use her computer, and even offering to type up the story.

And that shopping trip – what had happened there? Hannah was virtually accused of starving the child, forcing her to tramp the West End streets fuelled only by a lump of dry bread, and dragging her off to have her – what was Petra’s phrase again? – lobes punctured! Well, she’s sick of being nice. Maybe that’s why Hannah doesn’t paint any more – there’s no room for ideas with all the niceness clogging up her brain. As she catches her breath and stops to take in her surroundings, she realises she’s standing in front of 61 Garnet Street.

Hannah stares up at the tall tenement block and a flood of memories come rushing back. So many parties, Hannah reflects, all thoughts of Petra and pancakes and Elgar’s whatever-it-was ebbing away as she feels herself tumbling back into the past. A woman’s face appears at the first floor window and Hannah quickly turns away. She looks over the city, feeling a calmness descend as she takes in the jumble of buildings fading into the hazy hills beyond. Hannah hears a door opening and someone coming out, and when she turns again she sees it’s her old front door, still painted a gloomy maroon, with all the bells for the flats on the right. An older woman, in her fifties perhaps, is stepping out into the street, her flame-red hair piled up artfully with large, perilously heavy-looking earrings dangling at her cheeks. ‘Are you lost or something?’ she asks pleasantly.

‘Oh, no …’ Hannah shakes her head quickly and smiles. ‘This might sound silly but I used to live there. I suppose I’ve just come for a look.’

‘When was that?’ the woman asks.

‘Well, I left thirteen years ago now … there were three of us, all students.’

‘Ahh.’ The woman grins, her green eyes twinkling playfully. ‘We must have bought it from your landlord. Orange wallpaper?’ She grins and raises a heavily-pencilled brow.

Hannah laughs. ‘That’s right.’

‘Sparkly lino on the bathroom floor?’

‘Yes, that was ours …’ The woman pauses, not seeming in any hurry to leave, and Hannah glances quickly at the second-floor flat. ‘We were friends with the guy upstairs,’ she adds. ‘Johnny Lynch – did you know him?’

‘Johnny?’ the woman repeats. ‘Yes, he moved out just before the baby was born. Not ideal, is it, all those stairs with a pram …’

Hannah shakes her head.

‘… Shame it didn’t work out …’

‘Didn’t it? We kind of lost touch …’

‘Us too, for a while,’ the woman explains. ‘We’d become pretty friendly in a short time. He was a chef back then …’

‘He was still on his catering course when I knew him.’

‘Well, my husband manages a restaurant,’ the woman continues, her earrings swinging like pendulums as she talks, ‘and Johnny worked for him for a while. But the shifts weren’t fitting in with his new baby, and I don’t think …’ She presses her lips together and frowns. ‘Things weren’t good between him and Rona. It wasn’t really anyone’s fault. You know how it is with a new baby …’

‘Oh yes,’ Hannah fibs.

‘They thought that having a bigger place out of town would help.’ Hannah nods, willing the woman to go on. ‘Then, sadly, they split up … and now he’s back.’

‘What, in Garnet Street?’ Hannah exclaims.

‘No, but just round the corner …’ The woman points up the hill, indicating the adjacent street. ‘Can’t remember the number, but Johnny’s flat is at the furthest end, top floor.’

‘Really?’

The woman nods. ‘Good friends, were you?’

‘Oh yes.’ Hannah laughs. ‘Sometimes I think that without Johnny, we’d have starved or at least had malnutrition.’

She chuckles warmly. ‘Well, as I said, he’s given that up. He’s been gardening these past few years, has an allotment somewhere. He and Cal are up there most weekends.’

‘Cal?’ Hannah repeats.

‘His son. Must be about twelve now – I lose track. You should pop round and see him. Bet he’d love to see you.’