“Yeah, but did anything happen? I’m willing to bet good money the answer is no.”
“I wasn’t there, but the impression I got was that there would be consequences if it happened again,” Hannah said. But she knew it sounded weak.
“I expect Daddy made a few calls and it magically got dropped,” Ryan said sarcastically. “Will’s a sound bloke, but I don’t know what he sees in her, I really don’t.”
Hannah bit her lip. She couldn’t blame Ryan for his annoyance—he was still smarting from the business with the phone call—but April’s family wealth had been a bone of contention even before that: the extent of the family holdings, the donation her father had made to the Pelham College gym. And it wasn’t just Ryan. April Clarke-Cliveden? Hannah had heard someone say as she passed them in the cloisters on her way to a tutorial. That It Girl? Oh, she’s thick as two short planks—she wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for her dad’s money. He’s like, one rung down from Warren Buffett or something.
The odd thing was that April herself did nothing to dispel the rumors; in fact she seemed to revel in them. Her Instagram feed was a slew of designer clothes, boys in tuxedos, and shots of herself drinking champagne from the bottle and pouting at the camera. She seemed to take a pride in the notion that she did little or no work and yet still got good marks, and Hannah had heard her mention her unconditional offer and poor exam results more than once, as if daring people to put two and two together.
But it wasn’t true, that was the thing. April wasn’t an airhead, not at all. She liked clothes and parties, that much was true, but what her carefully curated Instagram feed failed to show was the hard work behind the scenes. Hannah had lost count of the number of times April had staggered home at midnight, ripped off her heels, and then pulled an all-nighter on some assignment due the next day. Hannah had proofread a few of those essays over breakfast as a favor to April. She had gone in trepidatiously the first time, expecting a load of plagiarized points, ramblingly regurgitated, but to her astonishment the essay was good—even brilliant in parts. Hannah was no historian, but she could recognize good writing—and these papers were much better than anything completed after half a dozen Cosmopolitans had a right to be. They deserved the marks April was getting, maybe even more.
It wasn’t just the essays either. A couple of weeks ago Hannah had walked in on April rehearsing for her part in a play she was supposed to be performing with the drama club before Christmas, and she had stood in the doorway, completely transfixed, goose bumps running up and down her spine. April wasn’t just some wannabe starlet. Maybe It Girl was right, though. Whatever it was, she had it.
“You know,” she began to Ryan—but as she said the words, they passed the Porters’ Lodge, and Hannah remembered something. “Oh, I’m really sorry—I’m expecting a letter from my mum. Can you hang on for two ticks while I check?”
“Don’t be long!” Emily said, and Hannah nodded and ran up the steps.
Inside it was warm and stuffy, with a strong smell of something that might have been damp cloth or an oddly musty kind of BO. She made her way over to the rows of pigeonholes and peered inside her own. Nothing, apart from a library slip reminding her about an overdue loan. Which was really odd; her mother’s letter was a pretty regular Friday occurrence. Had it gotten misfiled? It wouldn’t be the first time.
She was just peering into the pigeonholes above and below her own when she heard a reedy voice behind her.
“Looking for something?”
She turned, with a jump, to see the porter standing there—the one she had met on her visit to Dr. Myers’s office. He had come out from behind the desk and was standing next to her, just slightly too close for Hannah’s comfort. She took a step back.
“No, I mean—I was expecting a letter. My mum writes to me every week. But I don’t know if it’s here.”
“Just arrived. I was about to put it in your pigeonhole.” He held it out towards her, between two fingers, and Hannah reached for it, but to her surprise he jerked his hand back, holding the letter just above her head, with what seemed to be meant as a jovial expression.
Hannah frowned, and he held it out to her again; and again, when she reached for it, he pulled his hand back.
This time Hannah folded her arms, looking at him, refusing to reach for the letter. Her heart was quickening in a very uncomfortable way. There was nothing she could put her finger on, but this whole interaction felt so deeply off-balance, so odd and unprofessional, that she just didn’t know how to proceed. It reminded her unsettlingly of that moment on the first day, when he had dangled the keys and then held on to them for just a beat too long.