Hannah felt a sinking feeling inside her. Was this how it was going to be for the next few days? Having to tell the story over and over?
“Does it show?” She knew she was evading the question, but she still hadn’t made up her mind what to do about Neville. Could she really face taking it further?
Will nodded.
“I mean, it doesn’t look terrible, but it does look like you had an argument with a door and lost.”
“That’s pretty much it,” Hannah said with a shaky laugh. It was another lie—or as near to one as made no odds—but she couldn’t bear to tell Will the truth. His reaction would be worse than Emily’s—she would probably get frog-marched down to see the Master, and have to face that exquisitely polite skepticism all over again.
“Are you coming to April’s closing night on Saturday?” she asked at last, more as a way of changing the subject than because she really wanted to know.
Will’s mouth twisted, and his eyes met hers.
“No, it’s my mother’s birthday weekend and she’s not—well, never mind, that doesn’t matter. The point is, I’m going home to Somerset. I’ll be back Sunday. That’s what we were—well. You heard.”
For a minute they stood in silence, holding each other’s gaze with an intensity that was almost painful. His eyes were a clear brown, like peat water. She could see a muscle move in the side of his jaw as he swallowed. He took a step towards her, one hand outstretched, and something shivered down her spine—a prickle of desire so strong it felt like water running over her skin.
For a moment she thought he was going to touch her. But then, involuntarily, she glanced at April’s closed bedroom door—and somehow that one simple thing broke the spell between them. Will dropped his eyes and took a step back as if he had only just remembered why he was here.
“Well, see you around,” he said. And then he was gone.
There was a long pause, and then April’s bedroom door opened. She was scowling, and Hannah had the strong impression that she had been listening and waiting for Will to leave.
“Are you okay?” Hannah asked. “What happened?”
“My so-called boyfriend’s bloody mother is what happened,” April said. She was tapping her foot, radiating a furious wired energy. “How dare he. Saturday is the final night—he knows what that means to me, but no, Mummy’s not well, Mummy’s turning fifty, Mummy must come first.” She put on a whining babyish voice for the last phrases that sounded so extremely un-Will that Hannah felt she ought to protest. One look at April’s thunderous face made her reconsider.
“He did come to the opening night,” she ventured, but April rounded on her.
“So? He’s my bloody boyfriend! Or was. I’m seriously reconsidering, given he apparently doesn’t give a wet fart about my feelings. The opening night is about the lowest possible bar—I mean, everyone came to the opening night, even Hugh! Even sodding Emily! This is the most important thing I’ve ever done, Han. Is it too much to hope Will would come and support me instead of his hypochondriac mother?”
His mother’s ill? was what Hannah was thinking, but she could see, instantly, that there was no point in saying that to April. It would only fan her indignation.
“Forget about him,” she found herself saying instead. “I’ll come on Saturday. And you know what—we’ll do something afterwards. An after-party. A proper one. We’ll have all the cast back here to the bar, we’ll organize themed cocktails. The Medea. What should it be? Something bloody—cranberry juice with vodka and grenadine!”
“Isn’t that a sex on the beach?” April said, but Hannah could see she was softening, that the idea of an after-party was reeling her in. Her taut fury was relaxing a little, and she came around the side of the armchair and flung herself back into it, the springs squeaking. “An after-party would be pretty cool, though. You’d really do that for me?”
“Of course,” Hannah said. She gave April a friendly punch on the arm. “You’re my best friend.”
There was a moment’s pause, and then April’s face broke into a wide, beaming smile—that smile that felt like a megawatt spotlight had been turned on you.
“You, Hannah Jones, are the bloody best, that’s what you are.” She stood, brushing down her skirt. “Right. Coming down for supper?”
“I can’t,” Hannah said bitterly. “I’ve got to finish this essay. I spent all week revising for prelims, and now I’m just so bloody knackered, I can’t think straight.”