Read Online Before We Met: A Novel by Lucie Whitehouse - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Lucie Whitehouse
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atmosphere up there.
By contrast, this level was corporate, the face of DataPro that visiting clients saw. Here everything was light. The desks were large and clutter-free, with computers that were replaced every year, and those walls that weren’t glass were painted fresh cream. The carpets were sand-coloured, and the entire floor was dotted with lush bamboos and a type of glossy deep-green succulent she’d never seen anywhere else. The place had a beach-like, almost tropical feel.
Mark’s office was at the end of the corridor. It was the same one he’d always had, he’d told her, one of the original two rooms. When she’d asked, surprised, if he hadn’t been tempted by the much larger corner office with its full-on view of the river, he’d said that this one had sentimental value, and it was big and smart enough to use for client meetings if he didn’t want to use the conference room.
Hannah pushed open the heavy glass door and went in. The outside wall was glass, too, and offered a view over the rooftops of Hammersmith. Directly below was the entrance to the building and then a good sweep of the lawn, but if you stood almost in the corner and looked to your left, you could see the river. If she’d had the chance to bag the corner office she would have jumped at it, she thought. The river wasn’t especially beautiful here; the opposite bank was scrubby, especially now in November when the old year’s growth was dying, and this far west there was none of the architectural glory of the centre of London. In fact, the only real man-made feature of any note was the old Harrods furniture repository which stood on the opposite bank. Nonetheless, this was the Thames, pewter-coloured today in the late-autumn sun, rolling steadily onwards as it had done for centuries, powerful and inscrutable.
She turned to Mark’s large blond-wood desk. She had to be quick – the last thing she wanted was to meet David and have to lie about what she was doing here. And if he saw her, he would mention it to Mark for sure. How long would he take to get his lunch? Apart from the business park itself and Charing Cross Hospital on Fulham Palace Road, this part of Hammersmith was largely residential, and from here it was a ten-minute walk to even an uninspiring corner shop. Tony hadn’t said how long ago David had gone out, though.
Her eyes rested for a few seconds on the framed photograph that Mark kept on his desktop, just to the right of his computer. Neither of them had wanted an official photographer – in the context of the rest of their wedding, it would have seemed too fussy and formal – but Ant had insisted they’d want some pictures and had taken on the role himself. Hannah picked up the photo and looked at it. There they were on the steps of Chelsea Town Hall, Mark in his gorgeous navy suit, grinning and squinting into the sharp April sun, one hand curled firmly round the waist of her oyster silk shift dress. She had a hand up too, shielding her eyes from the storm of confetti that Pippa and Roisin had just unleashed over their heads. Mark’s smile – being the focus of it was like standing in front of a large plate-glass window and feeling the sun stream through, light and warmth together.
Just after the picture had been taken he’d turned to kiss her, confetti still scattered on the shoulders of his jacket. ‘Look at you,’ he said. ‘You’re everything I’ve ever wanted.’
About a hundred times that day, during the wildly extravagant lunch at Claridge’s, the champagne afterwards and the cab ride out to Heathrow for the flight to Capri, she’d looked at him and thought, My husband , and had hardly been able to believe it. Now, just eight months later, here she was sneaking about in his office on a Saturday afternoon. She felt a wash of intense revulsion at herself. Come on then, she thought; just look for the file and go.
The drawers opened effortlessly, as if cushioned by air. She went through them one
By contrast, this level was corporate, the face of DataPro that visiting clients saw. Here everything was light. The desks were large and clutter-free, with computers that were replaced every year, and those walls that weren’t glass were painted fresh cream. The carpets were sand-coloured, and the entire floor was dotted with lush bamboos and a type of glossy deep-green succulent she’d never seen anywhere else. The place had a beach-like, almost tropical feel.
Mark’s office was at the end of the corridor. It was the same one he’d always had, he’d told her, one of the original two rooms. When she’d asked, surprised, if he hadn’t been tempted by the much larger corner office with its full-on view of the river, he’d said that this one had sentimental value, and it was big and smart enough to use for client meetings if he didn’t want to use the conference room.
Hannah pushed open the heavy glass door and went in. The outside wall was glass, too, and offered a view over the rooftops of Hammersmith. Directly below was the entrance to the building and then a good sweep of the lawn, but if you stood almost in the corner and looked to your left, you could see the river. If she’d had the chance to bag the corner office she would have jumped at it, she thought. The river wasn’t especially beautiful here; the opposite bank was scrubby, especially now in November when the old year’s growth was dying, and this far west there was none of the architectural glory of the centre of London. In fact, the only real man-made feature of any note was the old Harrods furniture repository which stood on the opposite bank. Nonetheless, this was the Thames, pewter-coloured today in the late-autumn sun, rolling steadily onwards as it had done for centuries, powerful and inscrutable.
She turned to Mark’s large blond-wood desk. She had to be quick – the last thing she wanted was to meet David and have to lie about what she was doing here. And if he saw her, he would mention it to Mark for sure. How long would he take to get his lunch? Apart from the business park itself and Charing Cross Hospital on Fulham Palace Road, this part of Hammersmith was largely residential, and from here it was a ten-minute walk to even an uninspiring corner shop. Tony hadn’t said how long ago David had gone out, though.
Her eyes rested for a few seconds on the framed photograph that Mark kept on his desktop, just to the right of his computer. Neither of them had wanted an official photographer – in the context of the rest of their wedding, it would have seemed too fussy and formal – but Ant had insisted they’d want some pictures and had taken on the role himself. Hannah picked up the photo and looked at it. There they were on the steps of Chelsea Town Hall, Mark in his gorgeous navy suit, grinning and squinting into the sharp April sun, one hand curled firmly round the waist of her oyster silk shift dress. She had a hand up too, shielding her eyes from the storm of confetti that Pippa and Roisin had just unleashed over their heads. Mark’s smile – being the focus of it was like standing in front of a large plate-glass window and feeling the sun stream through, light and warmth together.
Just after the picture had been taken he’d turned to kiss her, confetti still scattered on the shoulders of his jacket. ‘Look at you,’ he said. ‘You’re everything I’ve ever wanted.’
About a hundred times that day, during the wildly extravagant lunch at Claridge’s, the champagne afterwards and the cab ride out to Heathrow for the flight to Capri, she’d looked at him and thought, My husband , and had hardly been able to believe it. Now, just eight months later, here she was sneaking about in his office on a Saturday afternoon. She felt a wash of intense revulsion at herself. Come on then, she thought; just look for the file and go.
The drawers opened effortlessly, as if cushioned by air. She went through them one
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