Free Still Waters by John Harvey Page A

person.
    Outside a relationship she was fine, living on her own something she had learned, something she had earned the right to do. She had her job, her immediate family, her network of friends, some of whom she had known since university, a few since school. But once a commitment was made, however unclear or uncertain, then no matter how hard she tried to resist it, things began to change.
    Hannah smiled to herself wryly, remembering the key she had slipped into Resnick’s pocket—what?—six weeks ago, two months? So casual a gesture, almost insignificant. Now it felt as though she had handed over part of herself, the part that allowed her to stand up straight, on her own two feet and clear-eyed.
    She thought about her mother, abandoned in the dust-free suburban home in which she had lived for more than thirty years, Hannah’s room still first left at the top of the stairs. Posters of famine and forgotten pop stars, teddy bears. Her father was living in France with a twenty-nine-year-old writer called Robyn who had just sold her first novel. Robyn with a Y.
    â€œIt won’t last, Dad,” she’d told him, cutting into her capricciosa in Pizza Express. “It can’t. She’ll leave you, you know that, don’t you?”
    Stupidly happy, her father had sipped his Peroni and smiled. “Of course she will. In time.”
    It was three and a half years now, shading up to four. And Hannah? Eighteen months with Andrew, a little over two years with Jim. The way her mother bit her lip heroically when the question of grandchildren came to mind. Birthdays on the calendar, challenging time. Did she really want to make herself vulnerable to all of that again, the disappointment, the pain?
    When the doorbell rang, it wasn’t Resnick, forgetting his key, but Jane, lines of sorrow plump around her eyes.
    They sat in the kitchen while Hannah made tea, impatient for the kettle to boil; drank it at the table, Jane holding her cup with both hands, steadying it slowly to her mouth. Upstairs in Hannah’s study, they sat in the bay window, Jane with her feet tucked up beneath her in the easy chair, Hannah on a cushion on the floor. Dark spread like a slow bruise across the park.
    Three times Jane started to speak and each time she betrayed herself with tears.
    Getting lightly to her feet, Hannah touched Jane’s hand, and leaning over from behind the chair, kissed her gently on the head, gave her shoulders a squeeze. “I’ve got some things I should be doing downstairs. I’ll be back up in a while.”
    Hannah organized the books and folders she wanted for the next day, wrote a quick card to her mother, rinsed the supper things. She was sorting some clothes, ready for the wash, when the phone rang.
    â€œCharlie …”
    Resnick’s voice was muffled, remote; strange to think he was no more than a mile or so away.
    â€œNo, I don’t think so, Charlie, not really. Not tonight. It’s just …”
    Resnick was quick to assure her she didn’t need to explain.
    â€œTomorrow, then,” Hannah said. “How about tomorrow? We could get something to eat; a movie, maybe. If you’re feeling up to it.”
    Resnick told her he had to be in London, didn’t know what time he would be back.
    â€œOkay, no problem. And look, I’m sorry about tonight.” She made hot chocolate, whisking the milk; upstairs, Jane’s head lolled sideways in the chair and her eyes were closed. Hannah was about to turn around again and go back down when Jane stirred.
    â€œI thought you were asleep,” Hannah said.
    â€œJust for a minute, that’s all.”
    â€œHere.”
    Taking the thick white china mug, Jane sipped at it and laughed.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI haven’t had this for years.”
    Hannah settled herself back down, cross-legged on the floor. One lamp was burning at the far side of the room, illuminating shelves of books, a segment