Page 74 of The Man Who Didn't Call
I closed my eyes. ‘Jenni,’ I said. ‘Oh God, Jenni, I . . .’
Her hand rose to her mouth. She stared at me in disbelief, and her tears bulged and broke. ‘No, you’re not . . . You couldn’t be pr— Oh Jesus. Sarah.’
Javier wrapped a protective arm around his wife’s shoulders. After a deep breath he looked up at me, and his face wore the first tangible emotion I’d seen in fifteen years: fury.
‘Jenni,’ I said quietly. ‘Listen, darling. When I went to the doctor’s, she said . . . She did some tests, and she said . . . Jenni, I am so sorry . . .’
‘You’re having a baby.’
‘I . . . Yes. I can’t even begin to tell you how sorry I am.’
Into the perfect silence of our table, my phone started ringing.
‘Eddie?’ Jenni whispered, because even when her friend smashed her round the face, she couldn’t give up.
‘I . . . I don’t know. I deleted his number. But it’s a UK mobile.’
‘Take it,’ she said flatly. ‘Just take it. He’s the father of your child, after all.’
As I reached the crowded doorway, phone in hand, it came to me that I should turn round to see Jenni’s face, one last time.One last time before what?
I turned, not fully understanding why, but a barrel-like woman was craning herself into one of the fixed seats and Jenni was obscured.
So I carried on, threading my way through the diners on the outside terrace. I walked through the bikers, the bikes,down towards the highway. I wondered if Jenni would ever get over this. If our friendship would survive.
Wearily, I answered the call.
There was a delay of a few seconds while a voice whizzed through cables deep under the Atlantic.
Then: ‘Sarah?’
‘Yes.’
After a moment the voice said, ‘It’s Hannah.’
‘Hannah?’
‘Yes. Er . . . Hannah Harrington.’
I put out a hand to steady myself, only there was nothing there. So I held on to the phone with both hands, because it was the only solid thing I had.
‘Hannah?’
‘Yes.’
‘My sister Hannah?’
‘Yes.’
A moment’s silence.
‘I appreciate this might be a bit of a shock.’
‘Your voice,’ I whispered. ‘Your voice.’ I held more tightly on to the phone. She started to say something but her voice was drowned out by a salvo of motorbikes swarming into the car park, all fitted out with powerful engines.
‘Sorry?’ I said. ‘What was that? Hannah?’
‘Can you hear me now?’ I heard her say. ‘I’m kind of bellowing . . .’ The bikers, all parked, were now sitting, revving, for no reason. Unreasonable fury rose in my chest. ‘Shutup!’ I shouted. ‘Please, stop it!’
