Hannah nods.
“Thank you,” she says, and then she takes a deep breath and slides out of the back seat.
Standing in front of Hugh’s intimidating brass bell plate, she reflects that she should have called ahead. If Hugh is out, she will be in a fix. But it’s… She glances at her phone, and then realizes that it’s pointless, the clock is no longer visible. It must be before nine, though. It’s not likely a single, childless man like Hugh would be up and out so early on a Sunday. Saturday he sometimes does clinics, she knows that. Hugh’s wealthy clients don’t expect to have to stick to weekdays for their appointments. But not Sundays. Sundays are his days off.
She presses the brass button beside the engraved H. BLAND and waits.
After what feels like an agonizingly long time, her feet getting slowly colder and more numb on the black-and-white tiles of the porch, the intercom crackles and Hugh’s very English voice comes over the speaker.
“Hello?”
“Hugh?” Her teeth are chattering now. “It’s m-me, Hannah. C-can I c-c-come in?”
“Hannah?” Hugh sounds astonished. “I mean—yes, of course. But what—”
“I’ll t-tell you ups-s-stairs,” Hannah says. She can hardly get the words out. Somehow the brief interlude of warmth in the taxi has only made the shock of the outside feel worse now that she is stuck here. A chill wind whips down the road, swirling dead leaves in the porch and making her shudder afresh.
“Oh, yes, sure. I mean of course. I’ll buzz you in. Fifth floor, yes?”
“I remember,” Hannah says. She has her arms wrapped around herself, her teeth clenched to stop the chattering.
There is a drawn-out bzzzzzzz and Hannah shoves the door with a force that sends it swinging inwards to bang against a backstop, and hurries into the hallway of Hugh’s building.
Inside it’s not exactly warm, but it’s a hell of a lot warmer than the street, and she presses the button for the tiny old-fashioned lift with its folding screen door, and waits while it clanks down the stairwell. As it rises up to Hugh’s flat she has to fight the urge to sink to her knees, cradling her bump, howling with the awfulness of what has just happened—an awfulness she is only now beginning to comprehend. And Hugh—Hugh tried to tell her. That’s the worst of it. He tried to warn her what would happen if she kept pushing and digging and refusing to accept the version of events they had all learned to live with. He tried to tell her and she ignored him, and now she is paying the price.
When the lift stops with a clang at the fifth floor, Hugh is standing outside, wearing a paisley silk dressing gown and holding a cup of coffee. He isn’t wearing his glasses, which gives his face an oddly unfinished, vulnerable look. But as Hannah pulls back the folding brass grille, his expression changes from one of puzzled welcome to a kind of confused dismay.
“What the—Hannah old bean, what happened? Where are your shoes? And is that… is that blood?”
Hannah looks down. It’s true. Her feet are bleeding and she hadn’t even noticed. She has no idea whether she’s picked up a piece of glass or just stubbed her toe on the rough asphalt, but there are smears of red on the checkerboard tiled floor of the lift.
“Oh shit, Hugh, I’m so sorry—”
She bends, trying to reach past her bump in the confined space, but Hugh is shaking his head. He takes her arm firmly, pulling her forcibly upright and propelling her down the corridor towards the open door of his flat with a firm but kindly hand in between her shoulders.
“Absolutely not. You, get yourself inside. I’ll call housekeeping to deal with that.”
“But your carpets—” Hannah stops in the entrance to the flat. She had forgotten Hugh’s carpets—a pristine cream expanse that runs the length of the enormous hallway and stairs. Hugh rolls his eyes as if to say damn the carpets, but he pauses and opens a cupboard concealed behind paneling, bringing out a pair of slippers.
“There you go. Put those on if it’s only going to make you fret. Now for God’s sake, sit down before you fall down. What on earth happened?”
“It was Will,” Hannah finds herself saying, but to her horror, the rest of the words won’t come. Instead there are tears crowding at the back of her throat, forcing their way up, prickling out through her eyes and running down the sides of her nose. A great, ugly sob comes out with no warning, and then another, and suddenly she is racked with them—huge, unmanageable, body-convulsing sobs that feel like they are going to tear her apart.