“We should do brunch,” Hugh is saying now as he buttons up his overcoat. “Soon. Make the most of your freedom while you still have it!” He gives a laugh, and Hannah and Will echo it.
“Take care of yourself, Hugh,” Hannah says, and she means it. She is genuinely fond of Hugh, and this must be hard for him as well. He was there that night, after all. He didn’t go through what Hannah did, he wasn’t April’s best friend, but he was dragged through the courts too, giving evidence on what time they found her, how hard he had fought to revive her. And then, she and Will have each other. Hugh has no one—he lives alone, he doesn’t even have a steady girlfriend as far as Hannah knows, though presumably he was dining with someone tonight. He’s not like Will—easily gregarious, finding something in common with everyone he meets. He’s charming and gentle and courteous, but there’s a reserve that can be hard to get past—he’s more like Hannah in that respect. Perhaps that’s why he followed Will to Edinburgh, and why he’s made sure to keep in touch with Emily, even after all these years. Like Hannah, he doesn’t make friends lightly, so he can’t afford to lose them.
She and Will watch as Hugh tucks his umbrella under his arm and disappears out into the twinkling darkness of a rainy Edinburgh night, the lamps glittering off the steep steps, the honey-colored stone alleyways drenched to dark brown.
For a moment Hannah sees him, silhouetted against a streetlamp. Then he is gone.
BEFORE
As the door closed behind April, Hannah found herself feeling angry in some way she could not quite justify. Wasn’t it enough that April had looks and clothes and money and that she had to share a room with her and—and—and—
And Will was what she really meant, but she wouldn’t let herself admit that.
Still, though. Did she really have to muscle in on everything that was Hannah’s?
For a second Hannah was tempted to turn away, go back to her room, wipe off the makeup, and throw the heels into the cesspit of April’s wardrobe. But she knew that would be stupid. Dr. Myers was expecting her. She had said she would go. It would be rude to just not turn up—and cutting off her nose to spite her face.
Instead she counted to ten in her head, then teetered unsteadily across the landing to knock on Dr. Myers’s door.
“Hello?” It was a tall willowy girl with long dark hair who opened it, looking Hannah up and down with a slightly superior air. A gust of laughter and conversation flooded past her into the corridor. “Can I help you?”
“Hi,” Hannah said, a little nervously. “I’m Hannah. Dr. Myers invited me to his drinks party?”
“Hannah Jones!” Dr. Myers’s familiar voice came from behind the girl, and he slipped his arm around her shoulders in a gesture that could have been simply an avuncular way of ushering the girl aside to make room for himself in the doorway, but could have been something more possessive. He was wearing a wine-colored velvet jacket, and the same white silk cravat he had worn at Hannah’s first tutorial. “Welcome, welcome. Come in, make yourself at home in my humble abode, such as it is. Have a glass of champagne.”
The willowy girl stood back and Dr. Myers showed Hannah into a wood-paneled sitting room full of students. Looking around, Hannah saw that they were overwhelmingly female—she could pick out a few boys here and there, but the ratio was maybe five to one in favor of women. Perhaps that wasn’t surprising, though, given that Dr. Myers taught English, which was a female-heavy subject.
There was a small table standing by a crackling fire, holding a tray of empty glasses, and Dr. Myers picked up a flute and filled it from a bottle that Hannah recognized as the one April had taken from the fridge.
“Hannah, let me introduce you to a few of my favorite students,” Dr. Myers said expansively, waving his hand around the group. “This is Clara Heathcliffe-Vine, a luminary in the Oxford Union.” He indicated a small, pixie-faced girl curled up in the window seat, who turned at the sound of her name and nodded briefly before continuing her conversation. “Orion Williams, a particularly brilliant third-year.” He indicated a tall, dark-haired boy standing by the fireplace, who nodded a little awkwardly and gave Hannah a shy smile. “Rubye Raye, shining star of my second-year tutorial group.” He bowed with mock solemnity to the girl who had opened the door to Hannah. “And… oh, this is one of my newest protégées, the—uh—sparkling April Clarke-Cliveden.”
He stood back, and Hannah saw April, perched on the arm of a wingback chair, next to a square-shouldered boy wearing a navy blazer that Hannah vaguely recognized as a sporting blue.
“Everybody.” Dr. Myers looked vaguely around the room, and then put his arm around Hannah, his palm hot and a little damp against her bare shoulder. “Allow me to introduce the thrillingly gifted Hannah Jones. Who is in the process of proving, once again, that many of Oxford’s finest minds come from a state school, single-parent, working-class background.”
There was a ripple of approval from round the room. We’re so open-minded. Such a meritocracy.
Hannah opened her mouth—and then shut it again, unable to think of what to say.
She was still groping for the appropriate response when one of the students behind Dr. Myers touched his arm and whispered something and he gave a little jump.
“Oh, thank you, well remembered, Madeleine. Excuse me, Hannah. I must tend to the canapés.”
He gave her shoulder a little squeeze, and then released her and hurried away.
“I didn’t realize you were so brave,” said a mocking voice in her ear, and Hannah turned to see that April had disentangled herself from the boy in the blazer and was standing behind her. She was laughing. “Such tenacity, fighting your way up from the mean streets of Dodsworth.”
“Oh, piss off,” Hannah said crossly. “I don’t know where he got all that from. I certainly didn’t tell him I was working-class.”
“Take the compliment and run, darling. I would.”
I know, Hannah almost said, but she bit her lip.
* * *
AN HOUR INTO THE PARTY, Hannah was beginning to wish she had never come. Her feet were in agony in April’s heels, and she was listening to a long, tedious rowing anecdote from the boy in the navy blazer, the one April had shrugged off earlier in the evening.
Far from being the sophisticated soiree she had imagined, the night seemed to have descended into Dr. Myers smoking filthy cigars and holding court with the three prettiest girls in attendance—one of whom was April. He was sitting back in an armchair by the fire, April on one armrest, Rubye on the other, and a beautiful redhead Hannah didn’t know sitting on a footstool at his feet. As she watched, April turned and mouthed something over Dr. Myers’s head. She wasn’t sure what it was, but April’s expression was full of wicked laughter. She thought it might have been So predictable.
“… totally gorgeous. Maybe for a drink or something?” the rowing blue said, and then stopped, seeming to expect some kind of answer. Hannah shook herself and looked away from where Dr. Myers had slipped a hand around April’s waist, ostensibly to steady her on the chair’s narrow arm.
“I’m sorry. What did you say?”
“I said, you’re absolutely gorgeous,” the boy said. He had flushed a deep red that went from his shirt collar up to his fringe. “I’d love to take you for a drink sometime. Maybe Vincent’s? I’m a member. Or somewhere else. You choose.”
Hannah felt her color rise in sympathy.
“Oh God… that’s so kind of you, but…”