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Hannah said nothing. April probably meant it as a dig, albeit an affectionate one, but it was true, she was provincial, and she wasn’t ashamed of that. That wasn’t the reason for her silence. It was more that she didn’t know what to say, faced with this unexpected slew of information. Did April want sympathy? Or just a breezy agreement?
“Can I get you two ladies another cocktail?” The bartender broke the silence, pushing a little dish of olives towards them. He was dressed in a crisp white shirt and black waistcoat, and his accent was Spanish, or perhaps Portuguese, Hannah wasn’t sure. He was extremely handsome, and she was not surprised when April put away her phone and rested both elbows on the bar, giving the man a good view of her cleavage in a sheer white silk top.
“What are you offering?” she asked, a hint of a purr in her voice.
“What do you like?” the bartender countered, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “For you ladies, I could make something special.”
“What do you think, Hannah?” April asked, turning to her, and Hannah suppressed a guilty thought of her essay waiting unwritten at home, and the effect of not just one but two cocktails on an empty stomach.
“Well… I did say just one, but… I guess I could stay for one more. But then I have to get back.”
“Just one, then,” April said with a slightly theatrical sigh. “So we’d better make it count. Make us…” She skewered an olive on a cocktail stick and put it to her lips, twirling it gently against her teeth with mesmerizing slowness as she thought. “Make us… Oh, I know, make us a Vesper. You know, like in Casino Royale.”
“Excellent choice,” the bartender said, and he turned, pulling three bottles off the rack behind the bar with a theatrical flourish, spinning one in the air before pouring a long stream of clear alcohol into the shaker.
When the drinks were finally mixed, the bartender strained the cold liquid into two tall brimming martini glasses, and picked up a sliver of lemon zest. Very, very carefully he pinched it over the left-hand glass, spritzing the oil from the zest across the surface of the drink in a little iridescent cloud. Then he dropped in the rind and repeated the action with the right. Finally, he slid the glasses slowly across the bar, the cloudy white liquid trembling at the meniscus.
“Aquí tenéis,” he said, and gave April a little bow. “A drink named after a beautiful woman, for two beautiful women.”
“You flirt,” April said. She picked up her glass and took a long, luxurious swallow that drained it almost halfway. “Oh my God, that’s delicious. What do you think, Hannah?”
Hannah picked up her own glass, put it to her lips, and took a gulp to match April’s. She nearly choked. It was pretty much pure alcohol, from what she could tell. In fact, it tasted like almost neat gin.
“Jesus,” she spluttered, setting down the glass. Her eyes were stinging. The Chantecaille lipstick had left a deep rose imprint on the glass. “What’s in this?”
“Six parts of gin, two parts of vodka, one part of Lillet Blanc,” the barman said laconically. April laughed and raised her glass to him across the bar.
“I’ll drink to that.”
“And how many units of alcohol is that?” Hannah said. She knew she sounded prim and censorious, but she couldn’t seem to help it.
“Does it matter?” April said. Her voice was a little stiff, like she was trying to hide her irritation. “It’s not like you’re planning on driving home. Jesus, you sound like my dad.” She took another swallow of the cocktail.
“This is like—” Hannah eyed her own glass, trying to estimate the contents. It had to be close to a quarter of a pint of liquid. “I mean what, the equivalent of four, maybe five gin and tonics? Right?” She turned to the barman, who simply shrugged and smiled at April as if they shared a private joke. “And how much does one of these cost?”
“Who cares?” April said, and now the annoyance in her voice was plain, and she wasn’t trying to hide it. “Stop being so petty, Hannah. I’m putting all of this on Daddy’s account. He won’t notice.” She picked up the glass and tossed back the remaining inch of her Vesper with something like defiance. “The same again,” she said to the bartender, thrusting the empty glass towards him. “For both of us. And what’s your name?”
“Raoul,” said the bartender. He smiled at April, showing very white, very even teeth. “Two more Vespers coming up, it will be my pleasure.”
“One, please, Raoul,” Hannah said firmly. She swallowed the remains of her Vesper, then stood up, feeling the rush of alcohol to her head. “April, I’m sorry, it’s not just the money, I have to get back. I’ve got that essay to hand in tomorrow. I did say.”
“Fuck the essay! I never do them until the last minute anyway.”
“I have left it until the last minute. I told you, it’s due in tomorrow morning.”
“Tomorrow!” April scoffed. “Tomorrow is hours and hours away! I do my best work at three a.m.”
“Well—then—great,” Hannah said. Her arguments were slipping away along with her temper. “Good for you. But I don’t. In fact I’m pretty useless after midnight, and my tutorial with Dr. Myers is at nine a.m., so—”
“Oh, Dr. Myers,” April interrupted, mocking. She made a face to the barman that Hannah couldn’t read, but it was droll, as if she had secrets she could tell if she wanted.
“Yes, Dr. Myers,” Hannah said. She was getting cross. She could feel her cheeks becoming flushed. Why was April always like this? She was the perfect friend—until she wasn’t. Funny, generous, totally inspired on occasion. When she was in the mood, there was no one Hannah would rather spend time with. But then with the flip of a switch she would turn and become mean. “What of it?”
“I wouldn’t worry about him.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? I have to worry about him, April, he’s my tutor.”
“Well, good”—April reached out and tweaked Hannah’s nose—“for”—she pinched it again—“you.”
