IT’S EXACTLY SIX AS SHE rounds the corner and finds herself in front of Hugh’s practice—a discreetly shiny black front door that could be just a residential address, were it not for the small brass sign that says THE PRACTICE, and underneath it the names of Hugh and his two partners in engraved Garamond font.
She pushes the bell and when a receptionist answers says, into the grille, “Hannah de Chastaigne, here to see Hugh Bland.”
“I’m afraid he’s finished for the day.” The woman’s voice crackles back through the intercom. “Did you have an appointment?”
“Oh, I’m not here for a consultation. This is personal. He’s expecting me.”
“Just one moment,” the voice says, and then the line goes dead. Hannah stands there, waiting, for a surprisingly long time. Just as she is wondering if she should try the front door, or ring again, there is the noise of feet on the stairs inside and the gleaming black door swings open.
It’s Hugh, tall and immaculate in a long camel-hair trench coat, tweed waistcoat, and perfectly tailored herringbone suit. He is smiling, and when he sees Hannah he opens his arms.
“Hannah!”
They hug. Hannah inhales Hugh’s expensive cologne and feels the umbrella he’s holding digging into her back. Her bump presses between them in a slightly disconcerting way. She is still getting used to the baby asserting itself in these situations. She can’t imagine how it’s going to be when she’s eight months. Then Hugh releases her, and they step back, surveying each other in the golden glow filtering through the fan light above the door.
“Well,” Hugh says at last, “no need to ask how you are, I can see you’re blooming.”
Hannah blushes at that, although she can’t put her finger on why exactly.
“Thank you. You look very well yourself.”
“I can’t complain,” Hugh says. He hooks his umbrella over his arm and tosses his fringe out of his eyes. “Where shall we go? I know a nice little bar around the corner, the Jolie Beaujolais. It’ll probably be a bit noisy at this time, but the owner knows me, so he’ll be able to get you a seat.”
“I can still stand for an hour, Hugh,” she says, half-offended, half-touched by his solicitude. “I’m pregnant, not ill.”
“I know you, Hannah Jones,” Hugh says, waving a finger. “You’ll have been standing all day in that bookshop; the least I can do is get you a chair now.”
“Well, thank you,” she says, smiling. “And honestly, the Jolie whatever it was sounds great, I really don’t mind where we go.”
Hugh links his arm with hers and they walk companionably down the street, Hugh matching his stride to hers. Glancing sideways at him, Hannah can’t help but smile. He looks like such a caricature of the English civil servant, straight out of Central Casting for a John le Carré film with his camel-hair coat, suit, hooked umbrella, and horn-rimmed glasses. He’s even wearing his old school tie with the Carne crest. Only a bowler hat could finish the ensemble. But Hugh has always been good at playing a part—in a different way from April, of course, but even at Oxford, he always had the air of someone who was playing at being the quintessential student he had seen in films like Brideshead Revisited or Chariots of Fire.
“How’s work?” she asks, as they round the corner. It is beginning to drizzle, and Hugh opens up the umbrella and holds it above them both with his free hand.
“Good,” he says, smiling down at her. “Profitable. No one’s suing me this year.”
Hannah laughs. Last year a disgruntled client sued Hugh’s practice over her new nose not being sufficiently different from her old one, but she lost, after Hugh was able to produce a recording of their preop discussion where she requested that any changes be “very, very subtle… almost indistinguishable from my current nose.” Apparently she got what she asked for.
“How was Ryan?” he asks in return, and Hannah bites her lip. She should have known this was coming. In some ways she had been hoping for it—it’s the natural way to segue into the subject she really wants to discuss, but this feels too soon. She had imagined bringing up April when Hugh had a drink in his hand.
“He was… good,” she says, after a pause. “Surprisingly good. I hadn’t seen him for a while, I felt really bad when I realized how much time had passed. He said you’d kept in touch?”
“Just every now and again,” Hugh says. His voice is kind; Hannah knows he’s trying not to add to her guilt. “I think perhaps it was easier for him to talk to me, you know, being a medical man and all that.”
Hannah nods, grateful that he’s letting her off the hook, and then Hugh turns abruptly down a little alleyway between two tall stone buildings, where a lighted sign flickers above a stairwell. LE JOLIE BEAUJOLAIS, Hannah reads as they descend a short flight of stairs and find themselves in an almost aggressively French-themed bar, complete with Toulouse-Lautrec drawings on the wall, Gauloises drinks coasters, and row upon row of shining wineglasses and bottles. LE BEAUJOLAIS NOUVEAU EST ARRIVé! says a sign above the bar.
It’s hot and very, very full, but after a shouted conversation with the man behind the bar, true to Hugh’s promise, a tiny table is found for them in the corner. Hannah is ushered onto a velvet-covered banquette, and Hugh hitches his pressed suit trousers and sits opposite on a stool. The barman wipes their table with a theatrical flourish, puts a fresh candle in the wax-spattered bottle between them, and then hands them two menus.
“Thank you so much!” Hannah says to the barman above the noise of the crowd. He gives a little Gallic bow.
“De rien, mademoiselle! For Monsieur Hugh, nothing is too much trouble. What can I get you?”
“Just something soft, thanks.”
“Perrier? Evian? Orangina? Coca? Jus d’orange?”
“Um… Orangina would be great, thanks,” Hannah says.
“Monsieur?” The barman turns to Hugh.
“Well, I have to have a jolie Beaujolais really, don’t I?”
“A glass of the nouveau? It’s very good this year.”
“That would be great, thanks. And maybe something to nibble—an assiette de fromage, perhaps? And some bread?”
The barman gives a grin and another little bow, and then turns and weaves his way back through the crowd to the bar.
“It wasn’t just auld lang syne that made me go and see Ryan, though,” Hannah says, as if there had been no interruption to their conversation. She feels as if she’s taking her courage in her hands. Hugh raises an eyebrow.
“No?”
“No, I had a visit. From an old friend of his.”
She begins to explain, about Geraint, about the meeting in the coffee shop, about the pregnancy test and Will’s reaction… everything. By the time she is winding up the account, Hugh’s expression is mild as ever, but his right eyebrow is nearly up to his hairline.
“And so, well, I thought… I would come and see you,” Hannah finishes. “You’re the only other person who really knows what happened that night. Who really remembers.”
“I see,” Hugh says. He takes off his glasses and polishes them on his pocket square as if buying himself time. Without them his face looks different, less finished, somehow, his eyes smaller and less defined. Before he has finished polishing, the barman comes up with a tray bearing Hugh’s wine, Hannah’s Orangina, and a plate of mixed cheeses and charcuterie. At the sight of it Hannah realizes suddenly how very hungry she is, but also that she can’t eat 90 percent of what’s on there.