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“There’s no protein in your urine,” the midwife continues, “so I’m not too concerned, but any rise needs keeping an eye on, that’s all. What was it when you booked in?” She flicks back through Hannah’s notes, but Hannah already knows what the answer is. She can’t remember the exact figures, but it was normal to low. “One-fifteen over eighty, yes, that is a bit of a jump. Well, let’s not worry about it now, but we’ll have you back next week for a quick check. And in the meantime, if you get any sudden swelling, any headaches or flashing lights, then call the maternity unit urgently.” She’s running her finger down her appointment diary. “I have a slot at ten a.m. next Thursday if that suits? And try not to worry, it may be just one of those things.”
But Hannah’s not listening. She’s too focused on what the midwife said before that. We’ll have you back next week.
“I can’t,” she says without thinking. “I can’t take another morning off.” Even though that’s not true. Maternity checks are a legal right, and besides, Cathy is far too nice to make a fuss about something like that. She would be the first to tell Hannah to take the whole day off, no leave required, if she knew about this.
“If you need a note for your employer I’ll be happy to give you one,” the midwife is saying. “They’re legally required to let you—”
But Hannah is shaking her head. She doesn’t need a note. She just doesn’t want to be in this situation.
It’s only when she’s out in the street, her notes under her arm, the wind cooling her hot cheeks, that she realizes how true that is. It’s not just her blood pressure. She doesn’t want any of it—she doesn’t want to be here, now, still dealing with the fallout from a tragedy that dropped into her life like a bomb more than ten years ago. Why me? she wants to wail. But that is too selfish even to say in her own head, let alone out loud. Because, if it comes to that, why any of them? Why Will, questioned for hours by police, hounded on social media, forever trying to shake off the reputation of being the boyfriend of a murdered girl? Why Ryan, struck down by a stroke in his twenties, a bolt of bad luck so unfair it seems impossible that it could happen to anyone on top of what they suffered in college? Why Emily? Why Hugh? Why Pelham? And most of all, why April? Why beautiful, glittering April—someone with the whole of life stretched out at her feet? Why, why, why did she deserve to have that taken away from her?
But the answer was, of course, that she did not. That she never had. It was just one of those things.
* * *
THE TRAIN TO YORK TAKES two and a half hours, and Hannah has forgotten her book, so she buys one at the station, a Louise Candlish that Robyn recommended as particularly gripping, in the hopes that it will keep her from obsessing over the coming conversation with Ryan. It works for a while, but as the train draws closer to York she finds her nerves are taking over, and that she’s turning the pages without properly concentrating. Is she really going to do this? She hasn’t seen Ryan for more than five years, and since his stroke, she hasn’t spoken to him either—first because he couldn’t talk on the phone, and then… well… after that there was no excuse, really, apart from her own selfishness.
Now she wonders if she’s mad to do this—turn up out of the blue unannounced. What if he sends her away? He’s hardly going to be out, she supposes. She should have called. She should have made an appointment, cleared it with Bella, checked he was up to seeing people. But it’s too late for that. She’s on the train. She quite literally can’t turn back. No. She’s going to have to see this through—even if that’s only as far as Ryan telling her to her face that she’s four years too late, rather than by text.
When she gets to York she catches a taxi, carefully reading out Ryan’s address from the contact list on her phone. And then at last she’s there—standing outside a neat suburban house with a garage to one side and a little square of lawn in front.
Her heart is beating in her throat, and she can’t help thinking of her blood pressure, of what it’s doing to the baby, but she forces herself to cross the drive, step up to the blond wood front door, and ring the bell.
She’s not sure what she’s expecting. Bella, most likely, or perhaps a carer of some kind in a uniform. Whatever she thought, it’s not the person who opens the door, awkwardly wheeling his chair out of the way as he pulls it back.
“Ryan!” His name comes out without her even meaning it—a jolt of surprise. For a minute his face is blank and puzzled as he stares up at her, a frown between his brows. He looks older than she remembers, older than the years of water under the bridge would warrant. He looks far more gaunt and drawn than Will, who is his exact contemporary. But it’s not just that—there is something slack about the muscles of his face, a kind of lopsided stiffness beneath the dense, dark beard he has grown since college days. Then his expression clears and he smiles, one side of his mouth lifting more than the other.
“Well fook me, if it ain’t Hannah bloody Jones. What in God’s name are you doing here, woman?”
And it’s still him. It’s still the same Ryan. His voice is slightly slurred, his smile is slightly tilted, but it’s the same old Ryan.
Hannah just stands there, smiling nervously. She finds she doesn’t know what to say. Ryan is grinning up at her, enjoying her awkwardness just a little—he’s still got that knack for discomfiting people—but he’s pleased to see her, and that wasn’t a given.
“What took you so long?” is all he says.
BEFORE
“Where is she?” Emily was tapping her foot irritably. “I’ve got to get back, I have an absolute mountain of revision to get done before tomorrow.”
Hannah looked at her phone. It was gone 10 p.m. The gates would have shut long ago. They were hanging around in the foyer, waiting for April to finish up and come out, but they’d been there for almost half an hour and she still hadn’t showed.
“Should we go backstage?” Hugh asked, looking rather nervously at Will.
Will shrugged. He had said very little since his altercation with April, and now he was just standing stone-faced in the foyer, the streaks of makeup still smeared across his T-shirt. Hannah found herself wondering what he was thinking.
“Well, I’m going,” Emily said, making up her mind. “Coming, Han?”
Hannah was torn. Part of her desperately needed to get back and revise for her last exam. The other part felt like a disloyal friend for leaving April on her opening night. But if Emily was leaving, then Ryan would probably join her, and maybe Hugh too.
“I don’t know.” She glanced at Hugh, then Ryan. “What do you think? Are you staying?”
“I’m leaving,” Ryan said. “I’m bloody starving. I came straight from rugby practice and all I’ve had is a couple of beers. I’m not hanging around here when I could be getting meself a large kebab outside.”
“I have to get back,” Hugh said. His voice was slightly reluctant and now he looked at Will. “I’ve got an exam tomorrow. You’ll be okay, Will?”
Will said nothing, but he gave a tight nod.
“Fine,” Emily said, as if that settled matters. “In that case, we’re offski. See you back at the ranch, Will.”
