Before We Met: A Novel by Lucie Whitehouse

his shoulder. ‘What about him?’
    ‘I mean, you’re not in contact at Christmas? You don’t ring each other once a year, just to . . . ?’
    ‘No.’
    Seconds passed, and through the open door she heard the last bars of the Wilco album playing on her iPod in the sitting room.
    ‘What?’ said Mark, and she was surprised by the brusqueness of his tone.
    ‘Nothing. I was just trying to imagine what it would be like not being in touch with Tom, and I can’t – he’s like this unchangeable fact of my life. In a lot of ways he’s my best friend as well as my brother.’
    Mark shrugged. ‘You’re lucky.’
    And without Tom, she’d thought but hadn’t said, she might not at that moment have been lying in bed with Mark, inviting him to Malvern, letting him into her life in a way she’d never done with anyone before.
     
    Just after Christmas the year previously, before his school term had started up again, Tom had flown back with her to New York for five days. He wanted to see her New York this time, he’d said, not the Empire State Building and Grand Central and the Met; he’d done the obligatory-landmark circuit. So they’d spent the days walking for miles in the excoriating cold, stopping for coffee at Joe’s and Oren’s Daily Roast, hot chocolate at the City Bakery. She’d taken him to the Strand for used books and then down to McNally Jackson and the Tenement Museum on Orchard Street, which he’d loved. On his last full day, they’d had dumplings for a dollar apiece on Ludlow and then walked on down through Chinatown to join the throng of tourists on Brooklyn Bridge in the afternoon. They’d leaned on the railing beneath the great central arches, the intense winter light over the East River almost burning their eyes as it reflected off the water and the gleaming glass canyons of Lower Manhattan. Beyond, the new World Trade Center was still under construction but already dwarfed them all.
    They’d stood shoulder to shoulder for several minutes, watching the Staten Island ferry ply back and forth, a small tanker rounding the tip of Manhattan on its way up the Hudson. Some brave souls were out in a yacht, its sail a sharp white triangle against the prevailing blue. A sudden gust of wind had blown the ends of her scarf into her face and Hannah had straightened up and shoved her hands into her pockets. ‘Come on, Thomas, let’s get moving. We’ll solidify if we stand here much longer.’
    Tom, however, had said nothing and stayed put.
    ‘Did you hear me, cloth ears? Let’s go.’
    He’d shaken his head. ‘There’s something I need to say.’
    ‘So let’s walk and talk.’
    ‘No, let’s stay here a minute.’
    She’d squeezed in next to him at the railing again and glanced at his face. He’d looked serious, almost grim, and she’d started to feel worried. What was he going to tell her? Was he ill? Was it Dad? Mum? She’d jostled him, needing to leaven the sudden atmosphere. ‘Enough of this mystery – say your piece.’
    ‘Han,’ he said, turning to her, ‘I think you should stop messing around.’
    ‘Messing . . . ? What are you talking about?’
    ‘With men. Relationships. You’re wasting your time.’
    She laughed. ‘Have you been talking to Mum? Has she put you up to this?’
    Tom’s expression stayed utterly serious. ‘No. This has got nothing to do with her. This is what I think.’
    ‘Oh, no,’ she’d groaned and thrust her hands deeper into her pockets. ‘ Et tu, Brute? Just because I’m thirty-three – there’s more to life than marriage and babies, you know.’
    ‘I do know. But that doesn’t mean those things aren’t worth having. You know I’m proud of you, I think your career’s amazing, we all do, but . . .’
    ‘But what?’ The wind whipped her voice away, made nothing of the steely note she’d put into it.
    ‘It’s a waste if you don’t have someone to appreciate it with.’
    ‘Oh, come on . . .’
    ‘I mean it. I want you to be happy.’
    ‘I