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Done protesting, Hannah slipped her feet into the shoes. They were extremely high, and for a moment she teetered, but then she caught her balance and stood, looking at herself in the mirror. Behind her, April pulled Hannah’s hair out of its clip and shook it loose over her shoulders. A different person looked back at Hannah from the mirror. Taller. More confident. Rocking her designer top and shoes like she was born to it. The shoes picked out the green in her eyes, and the ivory set off her pale skin and dark hair. She looked like she was beautiful. She looked like she was one of April’s friends.
“There,” April said, her face so close to Hannah’s that Hannah could feel her breath on her ear. “You look majestic.”
* * *
IT WAS JUST A COUPLE of days later that Hannah found herself putting the poplin top back on, braless this time, and making up her eyes with smoky eyeshadow and liner. Finally, she put on a swipe of dark red lipstick—but she knew as soon as she’d done it that it was a mistake; it made her mouth look comically huge and with the dramatic eyes, the effect was clownishly overdone. Instead, she wiped it off with a tissue, leaving a faint flush that somehow made her mouth look as if she had just been roughly kissed. That unaccustomed stranger from the other day stared back at her from the little mirror above her desk.
“April,” she called, picking her way carefully out into the living room. “What do you think?”
There was the rattle of a door handle, and April appeared in the doorway to her room. She was wearing makeup herself, pale face and scarlet lips, and a devastatingly simple black silk sheath that showed the hollows of her collarbones and the lines of her white throat and made her golden hair glow like it was electrified.
“Perfect,” she said, smiling broadly. “You look a million dollars.”
“I ought to,” Hannah said ruefully. She looked down at the shoes. “I’d better not ask how much these cost or I’ll be terrified of snapping a heel. Are you going out?”
“I am,” April said, and her smile turned wicked. “But not far. I’m coming with you.”
Hannah felt her insides turn over.
“Oh… April, I’m so sorry—it’s a party for his students. And not all of them—he didn’t invite Miles even. I’m sorry, I feel really bad. I should have explained.”
“You did,” April said. She knelt down beside the minifridge in the corner of the room, where Hannah kept the milk for her morning coffee, and pulled out a bottle of Dom Pérignon. “But I don’t care. I’m coming. Oh, don’t worry,” she added, as Hannah began to protest. “I’ll make it clear you didn’t invite me. But gatecrashing is my very favorite occupation.”
She straightened, tucking the bottle under her arm.
“Anyway. Dr. Myers is rather dishy. I’m not letting you have him all to yourself.”
For a long moment Hannah just stood, looking at April in helpless exasperation, unsure whether to be angry or push back—and then she caved.
“Fine. I guess I can’t stop you. But don’t follow me in, or it’ll look like I invited you.”
“Fine,” April shot back. “In fact, you know what, I’ll lead the way.”
And before Hannah could stop her, she opened the door to the set, stalked across the hallway, and rapped loudly on Dr. Myers’s door.
The door opened and the sound of chamber music carried across the hall on a wave of student laughter, followed by Dr. Myers’s voice, full of welcome and bonhomie.
“Hello!” And then, slightly puzzled, “I’m sorry, can I help you?”
“Hi.” There was no embarrassment in April’s voice, and peering through the crack in the door, her face flushed with preemptive mortification, Hannah saw her stick out a hand and lean confidentially in towards Dr. Myers. “I’m your neighbor, April. I heard a rumor that your end-of-term drinks parties were the hottest ticket in Pelham, but my friend…”—she paused just long enough to make Hannah nervous—“Joanne told me that I would never get in, because I wasn’t clever enough. She bet me a bottle of champagne that I wouldn’t get past the door, but I thought perhaps I could persuade you to drink the winnings…?”
She held out the bottle of Dom Pérignon and trailed off, smiling up at Dr. Myers, her expression an intoxicating mix of pleading, adoration, and just a tiny little touch of flirtation.
“Well.” Hannah heard Dr. Myers’s voice take on an amused quality, and she saw him look April up and down, taking in the willowy limbs, the slim fragile neck, the expensive sheath dress with—Hannah strongly suspected—no underwear beneath. Finally his eyes alighted on the champagne. “Dom Pérignon Oenothèque. Well, well, well. We can’t have Joanne furthering the reputation of this college as an elitist establishment, can we?”
The door opened slightly farther and Dr. Myers stood back.
April gave a dazzling smile and stepped forward into his rooms, but as she did she turned, momentarily, and Hannah saw her give the smallest of winks over her bare shoulder. And then she disappeared and the door closed behind her.
AFTER
The meal is delicious and somehow, over the three courses and coffee, Hannah manages to forget Neville and April and all her worries—or at least push them to the back of her mind—and just enjoy being with Will. They may not have that many of these nights left, after all. Once the baby comes, that will be an end to cozy little bistro suppers, at least for a good few months. She needs to make the most of this, make the most of the time they have left with just the two of them.
They talk about Will’s boss—about the possible partnership position and what it would mean for Will if he got it. More money, yes. But also longer hours, more responsibility, more pressure to bring in new clients. All of which would be a double-edged sword, with a new baby at the same time. They talk about the birth—the weird mix of emotion and admin that having a baby entails. The deadline is coming up for choosing a hospital, and they haven’t even started to look into antenatal classes yet. Hannah talks about work, about the funny customer who comes in every few weeks asking for books he’s read about in the paper but can never remember the titles. This week’s was Scots author. Cover’s got a wee lad on the front and a funny name. Will guesses the answer correctly without too many clues—Shuggie Bain. Sometimes Hannah wonders if her customer’s memory is really as bad as he makes out, or whether it’s become like a game between them. And there’s another, an elderly lady who comes in every Tuesday and buys a book, and then comes back the following Tuesday and tells Hannah how many marks out of ten she would award it. She has never, ever given ten. Hamnet got 8.75. This week Razorblade Tears got 9.2. The first Bridgerton novel got 7.7. Lord of the Flies got a surprising 4.1. Hannah finds it impossible to predict what will score high—some of her most confident recommendations bomb, but she lives in hope of finding something that will hit the magic jackpot.
At last Will asks for the bill, and then gets up to go to the bathroom. The check arrives while he is away. Normally Hannah would just glance at the total and then shove the printout across the table along with their joint account card, but this time she looks at it—really looks at it. The starters alone were more than a tenner each. And twenty-seven pounds for a bottle of pinot grigio—Will hasn’t even drunk all of it, just half. Why on earth did they order a bottle when she’s not even drinking? And the breadsticks! Three pounds for breadsticks. She had no idea they even charged for those.
She pays, and is sitting, chin in her hands, waiting for Will to come back, when she hears a clear, carrying voice from behind her.
