And there was always something between April and Ryan. Not friendship, definitely not. But it is all too easy for that prickly antagonism to mask a very different kind of attraction. Hannah remembers the strange electrical charge that crackled between them the night April pranked Ryan, and the weird energy the first night of April’s play, and she does not find it hard to believe that Ryan was sleeping with April. Not at all.
But if that’s the case, it’s not just Ryan who is implicated—and this, this is why she is distracted and why her answers to Will are short and strained. Because if it’s true… if it’s true it gives someone else a motive too.
Will.
It’s absurd, of course—she knows Will like she knows her own heart. But if this comes out—and if Geraint is digging, it still might—it would destroy Will. She has caught glimpses of them—the articles on the internet making snide references to De Chastaigne—who is now married to April’s college roommate—as though their happiness were somehow bought at the cost of April’s death. It’s always the boyfriend is a cliché, but clichés are clichés for a reason. With this new information, the internet gossip boards would go wild. Her and Will’s life would once again become a misery of paparazzi doorsteppers and newspaper speculation.
How can she keep this from him? It feels impossible—but then, asking him whether he knew and concealed something so momentous feels equally impossible. It would be like asking him whether he has lied to her all their relationship—and admitting to him that she thinks he may have done so. How do you ask someone something like that? And what if he tells her—
Her phone pings and she looks down, realizing that she is still frozen in the middle of the aisle, holding it out like a compass. It’s a text from Will.
Han, I’m sorry I hadn’t remembered about the antenatal appointment. I’m a horrible husband. Please don’t stress—I’m sure it’s all fine. Our baby is fine. I love you x
A wave of guilt washes over her as she realizes what she has just done—she has used this appointment, used their baby, as an alibi for her own stress over Geraint.
She is just trying to think what to reply when her phone buzzes again.
Why don’t you take a day off so you’re properly rested? Really put your feet up xx
You’re a LOVELY husband. And good idea, Hannah texts back. Love you x
She puts the phone away, picks up the rice, and goes across to the queue for the checkout, but the sinking feeling in her stomach tells her that this isn’t over. She has to find out if Geraint is telling the truth, if April really was pregnant, or she will spend the next ten years stressing about it. And only one person knows for sure.
She will take the day off tomorrow, as Will suggested. But not to put her feet up.
She will go to the appointment. And then she will go and see Ryan. And she will ask him about the rumors. But that means… that means she has to tell Will.
* * *
IT’S LATE—OR WHAT PASSES FOR late for Hannah these days. They are in bed. Will is scrolling through his phone, and Hannah is reading a dog-eared copy of Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy. She picked it up because she wanted a familiar comfort read, but she knows the clock is ticking and that she cannot put this conversation off any longer. She owes to it Will.
She puts the book down on the bedside table.
“Will…”
“Mm?” He barely looks up. She can see he’s on Twitter. He doesn’t tweet under his own name—they’ve both learned the hard way that’s not a good idea—but he has an anonymous account under the name Two Wheels Good where he retweets indignant blogs about poorly designed road junctions and articles about vintage motorbikes.
“Will… did you…” She swallows. Stops. Tries again. “Did you… did you ever hear a rumor that April was… pregnant?”
“What?” Will sits up straight, turns to look at her. The lazy postsupper, two-beer contentment is suddenly gone from his face, and his expression is wary and watchful. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“I… I heard a rumor… something on the internet—” Oh God, there it is, the actual lie she was trying not to tell, but now she’s said it she can’t take it back. “Someone said that April was pregnant when she died.”
“Ugh, what absolute bullshit,” Will says, and his face twists into something so shocked and unhappy that she wishes she had never brought it up, even though there’s a kind of comfort in seeing his surprise. “Of course she wasn’t. Where do people get this poisonous shit? More to the point, why are you reading it?”