“No, it’s my mother’s birthday weekend and she’s not—well, never mind, that doesn’t matter. The point is, I’m going home to Somerset. I’ll be back Sunday. That’s what we were—well. You heard.”
For a minute they stood in silence, holding each other’s gaze with an intensity that was almost painful. His eyes were a clear brown, like peat water. She could see a muscle move in the side of his jaw as he swallowed. He took a step towards her, one hand outstretched, and something shivered down her spine—a prickle of desire so strong it felt like water running over her skin.
For a moment she thought he was going to touch her. But then, involuntarily, she glanced at April’s closed bedroom door—and somehow that one simple thing broke the spell between them. Will dropped his eyes and took a step back as if he had only just remembered why he was here.
“Well, see you around,” he said. And then he was gone.
There was a long pause, and then April’s bedroom door opened. She was scowling, and Hannah had the strong impression that she had been listening and waiting for Will to leave.
“Are you okay?” Hannah asked. “What happened?”
“My so-called boyfriend’s bloody mother is what happened,” April said. She was tapping her foot, radiating a furious wired energy. “How dare he. Saturday is the final night—he knows what that means to me, but no, Mummy’s not well, Mummy’s turning fifty, Mummy must come first.” She put on a whining babyish voice for the last phrases that sounded so extremely un-Will that Hannah felt she ought to protest. One look at April’s thunderous face made her reconsider.
“He did come to the opening night,” she ventured, but April rounded on her.
“So? He’s my bloody boyfriend! Or was. I’m seriously reconsidering, given he apparently doesn’t give a wet fart about my feelings. The opening night is about the lowest possible bar—I mean, everyone came to the opening night, even Hugh! Even sodding Emily! This is the most important thing I’ve ever done, Han. Is it too much to hope Will would come and support me instead of his hypochondriac mother?”
His mother’s ill? was what Hannah was thinking, but she could see, instantly, that there was no point in saying that to April. It would only fan her indignation.
“Forget about him,” she found herself saying instead. “I’ll come on Saturday. And you know what—we’ll do something afterwards. An after-party. A proper one. We’ll have all the cast back here to the bar, we’ll organize themed cocktails. The Medea. What should it be? Something bloody—cranberry juice with vodka and grenadine!”
“Isn’t that a sex on the beach?” April said, but Hannah could see she was softening, that the idea of an after-party was reeling her in. Her taut fury was relaxing a little, and she came around the side of the armchair and flung herself back into it, the springs squeaking. “An after-party would be pretty cool, though. You’d really do that for me?”
“Of course,” Hannah said. She gave April a friendly punch on the arm. “You’re my best friend.”
There was a moment’s pause, and then April’s face broke into a wide, beaming smile—that smile that felt like a megawatt spotlight had been turned on you.
“You, Hannah Jones, are the bloody best, that’s what you are.” She stood, brushing down her skirt. “Right. Coming down for supper?”
“I can’t,” Hannah said bitterly. “I’ve got to finish this essay. I spent all week revising for prelims, and now I’m just so bloody knackered, I can’t think straight.”
April paused, looking at her, and then she said, a little smile flickering at the corner of her lips so that her dimple came and went, “I could help with that, if you want.”
“Help with my essay?” Hannah looked up at her, frowning. “Have you read Spenser?”
“No, I mean, help with the concentration.” She turned and went back into her room, and Hannah heard her rummaging in the mess of her bedside table. Then she came out, two pills in the palm of her hand, holding them out towards Hannah.
Hannah stared down at them. They were little capsules, half-colored, half-clear, filled with what looked like dozens of tiny little balls inside.
“What are they—like, NoDoz or something?”
“NoDoz for grown-ups,” April said. She gave that little half smile again, the dimple coming and going in one cheek. “Go on, take them. There’s plenty more where those came from.”
“I—I mean, look, thanks, but honestly I’m nearly there. I just need to nail this last paragraph and then I can turn it in.”
“Okay,” April said lightly. “Suit yourself.” She put the pills carelessly in her pocket and then picked up her coat. “Oh, and vodka, cranberry, champagne, and crème de cassis.”
“What?”
“For the Medea. Vodka, cranberry, champagne, and crème de cassis. In a champagne coupe. With a maraschino cherry on top.”
“You’re on,” Hannah said, and April smiled.
AFTER
On the walk back from the train station, Hannah calls Will.
“The baby moved!”
He’s in the street, she can hear the background noises, the sound of a fire engine passing.
“What did you say?” He raises his voice above the siren. “Who’s moving? Sorry, it’s really loud.”
“Not who! The baby. I felt it, Will, I felt our baby move.”
There is a split-second silence and then she hears his incredulous, joyous laugh.
“It moved? You really felt it?”
“Yes! Twice! I was on the way home and I felt it, Will, it was the strangest thing, like bubbles popping or something. It was so weird. Like, I’ve had things before where I wasn’t sure, but this—it was so alien. I just knew. I knew it was him.”
“Him?”
They haven’t found out the sex. It was Hannah’s decision more than Will’s—a kind of superstition, although she can’t put her finger on why she doesn’t want to know.
“Or her.” She blushes. “It just feels weird to keep saying it when he’s becoming a real person.”
“I really want to feel it,” he says, and she can hear the delighted grin in his voice. “Do you think I’ll be able to yet?”
“I don’t know.” She puts her hand over her belly now, as if to test, but of course it’s not moving. “I’m not sure. Are you on your way home?”
“Yeah, I knocked off early,” he says. His voice changes and he sounds suddenly weary and pissed off. “Work was a bitch. Do you think it’s normal to hate your boss?”
Hannah bites her lip. Poor Will. He never wanted to be an accountant. He wanted to change the world—but he fell into this when he moved to Edinburgh, and now he can’t afford to quit.
“I mean… I don’t hate Cathy,” she says, a little lamely.
“There aren’t many Cathys around, though,” Will says. “Not in accounting, anyway. And like my dad always used to say, if work was meant to be fun, people wouldn’t pay you to do it.”
Hannah laughs at that, but when they have talked about supper and said their goodbyes, she puts her phone away with a sinking feeling. Will has always been the main wage earner—accountancy just pays better than bookshop work, that’s all there is to it. But now it feels like the pressure of her impending maternity leave is getting to him. She just doesn’t know what to do about it.
* * *
“CAN I FEEL IT? Is it moving now?” Will has taken the stairs two at a time, and now he pulls Hannah into a big bear hug, his leathers cool against her cheek. Hannah shakes her head.
“I don’t think so. I can’t feel him at the moment, but even if I could, I don’t think you’d be able to tell anything from the outside. It’s too soon. I think the books said it’s normally about six months before the dad can feel any movement.”
“He moved,” Will says, as if trying out the words. He stands there, the huge foolish grin spreading across his face, like he doesn’t know what to do with himself, and then he kisses her, as if he cannot contain himself, his hands on either side of her face, his lips cool against her warm ones. “Our baby moved. Oh my God, Hannah, this is real. It’s really happening.”
I know, she wants to tell him, but she doesn’t, she just stands there, smiling back, feeling their shared happiness balloon between them, huge and fragile.