Page 51 of The Engagement

‘Righto,’ he says, seeming grateful to escape. But he’s back shortly with her drink, putting it on the desk in front of where she’s now sitting, pretending to read some meaningless accounts and figures. She peers up at him.

‘Thanks, Derek. That will be all for now.’ She watches him leave, fully intending to leave very soon herself. But she happens to take a proper look at the folder open in front of her. And the truth is, she doesn’t like what she sees. Not one bit.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

HANNAH – NOW

I’m buying coffee when I spot him. I don’t know if he’s seen me as I stand at the counter, next in line to be served. I turn my back to the door, where he’s just come in, to avoid chit-chat, having to speak to anyone. I’m still smarting from last night – the photos. What are the chances ofhimbeing here?

‘Soy latte, please,’ I say to the barista, pulling my card from my purse. I’ve already got a table, having put my stuff on the last one available before I ordered. It’s always busy in here at lunchtime. ‘And this.’ I place the duck and hoisin wrap I picked out from the fridge onto the counter.

‘Name?’ The lad glances behind me at the ever-growing queue.

‘Hannah,’ I say quietly. Then I inch forward to wait by the serving counter, stealing a glance over my shoulder to double-check it is definitely him. I’m as sure as I can be, confirmed a few minutes later when, still with my back to the people behind me, I feel a hand on my shoulder.

‘Hannah?’ a deep voice says.

At this, I’m forced to turn round. Feign surprise.

‘Hi…Grant, isn’t it?’ I say, pretending I’m not sure. I’d dropped the card with his number on into the bedroom bin, burying it under used make-up cleaning pads and clumps of hair from my brush. I had no need for it, after all.

‘Small world,’ he says.

‘Very,’ I reply, pulling my phone from my pocket, pretending to check my emails.

‘Any more bother from Mr Angry?’

‘Nah,’ I say, glancing up with a distracted smile.

A nod and a pause. ‘Does that mean it’s OK for me to ask you out for a drink? One where I don’t have to get rid of arseholes?’

I freeze. ‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ I say, not knowing where to look. ‘But thanks.’

A slightly embarrassed look sweeps over his face.

‘I have a partner. Rob,’ I add, hoping that hearing his name will stop him pursuing the matter. It doesn’t.

‘Do you mind if I share your table, then?’ He glances over to where I’ve already put my jacket and umbrella to reserve my spot. ‘There aren’t any free seats.’

‘Um…sure,’ I say, picking up my coffee as the barista calls my name. I go to sit down, and a few minutes later, Grant the rugby man with the sandy beard and crooked nose joins me. Bugger.

‘Is Rob your husband?’ he asks, pulling the lid off a falafel and houmous salad box. Somehow, him and the food he’s chosen don’t go together. He seems more like a ham and mustard baguette person.

‘Partner, actually. But we’ve been together ages.’ I tear open the cellophane around my wrap and remove one half, being careful it doesn’t spill. It keeps me from looking Grant in the eye. I don’t feel like talking.

‘What does he do, Rob?’

‘Financial advisor,’ I tell him, taking a big bite. I pretend to look at my phone, scrolling mindlessly through my emails.

It’s what I did last night – tried to look everywhere except at Rob, praying he wouldn’t grill me further about that last picture, as if a dead girl didn’t warrant further conversation. What was I going to do? Go and put the TV on, settle down with a nice cup of tea and get on with my evening? I don’t know how I didn’t blurt everything out, tell him what I’d done, confess how I’d lived with the guilt for so long, how it had weighed me down for nearly two decades. Thinking back, I’m not sure it was simply the shock of seeing her body in the photograph, twisted and bloody, that made me almost confess, as if I was seeking catharsis, forgiveness, a clean conscience going forward. Either way, I achieved none of those things. No instant cleansing of my soul. I’ve grown so used to living with what I did that, day to day, I’ve also grown used to living with the shame. I’m notoverit, of course. That will never happen. But I’m familiar with it. As if my guilt is an extra deformed limb that I’ve grown, or an incurable disease that has turned me, cell by cell, into a person I don’t recognise.

‘What?’ Rob had said last night. Quite calmly, considering the image that lay between us. I felt like I wanted to cough up a cannonball that had been stuck in my throat ever since Belle was born. But I knew it wouldn’t make it any easier to breathe. ‘Whatisthis?’ He studied the photograph, holding it close to his face as if the dead girl was going to whisper the truth at him. ‘How did you get it?’

I’d just shrugged. The cannonball was too big.

‘Fuck’s sake, we’re talking about Belle here, those lewd pictures. And nowthis.’

‘Must be a mistake,’ I’d said, the closest to the truth I could get.

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