She shut her eyes, pressed her fists against them. It’s okay. It’s okay. It will all be okay.
And then she opened them—and a girl was there, standing in the narrow pool of light. It wasn’t April—it was someone Hannah didn’t know—but she leaned forward, glad of the distraction from her own thoughts.
“I wish to God that ship had never sailed.” The girl’s voice rang clear from the stage, and the production had begun.
* * *
“BLOODY HELL,” RYAN’S VOICE, RAISED over the hubbub of the intermission bar, was grudgingly impressed. “She’s pretty amazing. Did you know she was this good?” He turned to Will, who shook his head.
“No, I mean—I knew she was good. She was in a couple of plays at school, I didn’t see them but my girlfriend at the time was in them and she always said April was a good actress, but I had no idea she was this good.”
Good did not begin to cover it, Hannah thought. April was not good. She was electrifying. Hannah could not even have said why—it wasn’t her looks. The director had gone with the strange choice of making the cast up to look like characters on a Greek urn, with jet-black wigs, terra-cotta skin, and heavy kohl eyeliner, so physically it was actually pretty hard to tell the actors apart onstage. It wasn’t her technique, although that was fine. There were people in the cast who delivered the lines better, and more accurately, with more expression and animation.
It was something else. When she was onstage it was impossible to tear your eyes from her, even when someone else was speaking. When she left, she left behind a hole that made you unable to forget her absence, and Hannah found herself looking eagerly at the wings, wondering when she would next come on.
Most of all, it was that April was Medea. She radiated Medea’s anguish, betrayal, and rage. Every line simmered with it, and she made what could have been a stiff, classical portrayal into something utterly human and believable.
They were finishing up their intermission drinks when a voice from behind them made Hannah swing round.
“What’s up, maddafakkas?”
“April!” Emily threw her arms around April with an uncharacteristic lack of reserve. “What are you doing out here? Shouldn’t you be backstage?”
“Ah, rules, schmules,” April said with a wave of her hand. “But never mind all that, I came out to hear what you think of the performance.”
“April, you don’t need me to massage your ego,” Emily said with a grin. “But if you want to hear me say it—you’re a bloody revelation, woman!”
“Why thank you,” April said smugly. She didn’t quite say I know, but the inference was there. “How’s it hanging, my dudes?” She gave Ryan a punch in the ribs and he grinned and edged away a little awkwardly.
“A’right. You did okay, Cliveden.”
“Thanks. What do all you think of the wig?” She patted her hair. “I quite like it. Haven’t had long hair for years but I’m tempted to nick it after the run’s over. Hugh? What d’you reckon?”
“It—it looks charming,” Hugh said, blushing. Even after almost eight months eating, drinking, and socializing together, it was plain that April still made him nervous. “Very classical.”
“And?” April said. She was fishing, but Hannah couldn’t blame her.
“You’re absolutely superb, April.” Hugh took the hint obediently. These kind of old-fashioned courtesies were his comfort zone. “We should have brought flowers.”
“Sod flowers. You should have brought something stronger than that,” April said. “Just what the doctor ordered, am I right?” She winked at Hugh and tucked her arm possessively through his. Hugh blushed again, more violently this time, and Hannah had the strong impression he was forcing himself not to pull away.
“S-so what, then?” he countered. “Champagne?”
“I doubt they run to vintage here, but a double G and T would be a good start,” April said. Hugh nodded, unlinked his arm with an ill-concealed air of relief, and began threading his way through the crowd to the bar. April turned to Will.
“So? No congratulations from you, Will de Chastaigne?”
“You were very good, April,” Will said, but there was an edge in his voice that made Hannah look up. Apparently whatever it was, April heard it too, for she frowned.
“Very good? That’s it? That’s all I get?”
“Okay, you were great. Is that better?”
“What I want,” April said through gritted teeth, “is something a bit more effusive than great. If Hugh can come up with absolutely superb I think my actual bloody boyfriend could manage more than a one-line review. How about a congratulatory kiss?”
There was a charged silence, and then Will leaned down and kissed April dutifully on the lips.
Hannah knew she should turn away. She wanted to turn away, but instead she stood, hypnotized, as April threaded her hands through Will’s hair, pulling his head down to hers, forcing his mouth open into a long, wet-tongued kiss that seemed to go on, and on, until with a desperate kind of wrench Will pulled himself away.
He stood, his chest rising and falling, staring down at April without saying a word. There was copper-colored makeup smeared across his chest and face, and the black of April’s lipstick was on his mouth like a bruise. April stared back with something like triumph.
Then, without another word, she turned on her heel.
“Must go,” she shot back over her shoulder. “I’m straight on after the second act.”
And then she was gone, disappearing into the crowd, just a small black head bobbing through the sea of students.
“What the fuck was that all about?” Emily said with astonishment. Will shook his head. He touched his fingertips to his face and looked down at the makeup there.
“Has anyone got a tissue?”
“There’s paper napkins at the bar,” Emily said. She raised her voice to where Hugh was standing by the counter. “Hugh! Grab us a few paper towels, would you?”
“Everything all right between you two, mate?” Ryan said. His voice was uneasy and he rocked on his heels, his hands shoved in his back pockets as if he didn’t trust them not to betray something about his mood.
“Fine.” Will’s voice was short. Hugh had come back from the bar with a plastic cup of gin and tonic and a handful of cocktail napkins, and now Will took them and wiped his mouth and chin. “How do I look?”
“Hang on,” Emily said. She took the cleaner of the two serviettes and dabbed at the streaks of orange still on Will’s cheekbone and jaw. “There you go. There’s not much I can do about your T-shirt, though.”
“It’s fine,” Will said again, his voice tight as a snare.
It’s not fine, Hannah wanted to say. She stared at him, trying to understand what was going on. Had April found something out? Had Will told her?
She was opening her mouth, groping for what to say, when the interval bell rang, and they turned and began filtering back into the auditorium.
It was only as they took their seats that Hannah noticed something—or rather, someone. Someone she was sure had not been there in the first half. It was a man sitting about two rows back from the front, very tall and broad.
It was John Neville.
AFTER
After she leaves the Bonnie Bagel, Hannah finds herself wandering, aimlessly, through the drizzly streets of New Town, her mind buzzing with thoughts of April and Neville. She’s walking the cramped aisles of a Tesco Express, more to get out of the rain than because they really need anything, when her phone goes.
“Hey!” It’s Will. “Have you booked anywhere, or should I?”
Shit. Date night. She had completely forgotten, and now the thought of sitting opposite Will for two hours in a restaurant, no phones or TV or work emails to distract them or fill the gaps in conversation… she’s not sure if she can face it.