The It Girl(8)

She should put on the kettle, take off her shoes, turn on the lights. But she does none of these things. Instead she just goes through to the living room, slumps into an armchair, and sits, trying to come to terms with what has just happened.

She is still sitting there when she hears Will’s bike draw up outside, its throaty roar reverberating off the other houses in the narrow mews. He kills the engine, and a few moments later she hears his key in the downstairs lock and the noise of him coming up the stairs.

As he opens the front door she knows she should get up, say something, but she can’t. She just doesn’t have the energy.

She hears him dump his bag in the hallway stand, come down the corridor, hissing some silly pop song between his teeth, flick on the lights—and then stop.

“Hannah?”

He’s standing in front of her, blinking, trying to make sense of her being here, alone in the dark.

“Han! What are you—is everything okay?”

Hannah swallows, trying to find the words, but the only one that comes out is a cracked “No.”

Will’s face changes at that. He falls to his knees in front of her, his face suddenly frightened, his hands on hers, holding her.

“Han, it’s not—it isn’t—has something happened? Is it the baby?”

“No!” It comes quickly this time, as she suddenly understands his concern. “Oh my God, no, nothing like that.” She swallows, forcing out the words. “Will—it’s—it’s John Neville. He’s dead.”

It’s unintentionally brutal—harsher even than the way her mother told her—but she’s too shaken and broken to figure out a better way of conveying the news.

Will says nothing, but he lets his hands drop, and his face for a second goes unguardedly, heartbreakingly vulnerable—before he closes in on himself. He stands, moves over to the bay window, and leans against the shutters, looking out into the darkness of the mews. She can see his face only in profile, pale against his dark hair and the blackness of the glass behind him.

She’s always found him hard to read in moments like this—he’s generous with his joys, but when he’s in pain or afraid, he holds his emotions close to his chest, as if he can’t bear being seen to be hurting—a legacy, she supposes, of a military father and a boarding education at a school where showing emotion was for sissies and crybabies. If it weren’t for that split second when he let his defenses drop, she would have thought he hadn’t heard what she said. Now she’s not sure what’s going on underneath his silence, behind the polite, neutral mask of his face.

“Will?” she says at last. “Say something.”

He turns and looks at her, as if he has been very far away.

“Good.”

It’s just that one word, but there’s a brutality in his voice that she’s never heard before, and it shocks her.

“Now,” he says. “What’s for supper?”





BEFORE


“Oh. My. God.” April’s voice was theatrically drawling, more than a touch of Janice from Friends, Hannah thought as she followed her down the narrow passage between the long dining tables than ran the length of the hall. It was the first time Hannah had set foot in the Great Hall as an actual Pelham student, and she felt a prickle of wonder as she looked around her at the ancient beams soaring high overhead, and the dark oak-paneled walls, dotted with oil paintings of former Masters. She might have felt overwhelmed by it all, but it was hard to feel intimidated with April beside her, bitching about the limited menu and poor acoustics. Now, April set down her tray on one of the long, crowded refectory tables and put her hands on her hips. “Will de Chastaigne, as I live and breathe.”

One of the students sitting at the long oak bench turned, his dark hair falling in his eyes, and Hannah found her heart missing a beat. The glass of water on her dinner tray slid an inch to the left and she hastily righted it.

“April!” He stood up, swinging one long leg easily over the bench, and the two embraced in a sort of part hug, part continental kiss that was so deeply un-Dodsworth that Hannah felt more than ever as if she had landed on another planet. “Good to see you! I had no idea you were coming here.”

“Well, that’s Liv for you. Doesn’t tell people anything! How is she? I haven’t seen her since exams.”

“Oh…” The boy’s tanned face suddenly flushed, a streak of color high on his cheekbones. “We, well, we broke up. My fault, if I’m being honest. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” April purred. She ran a hand down the boy’s arm, squeezing his biceps in a way that was just the right side of teasing. “Another eligible man on the scene is nothing to be sorry about.”

Behind her, Hannah shifted. The tray she was holding was becoming uncomfortably heavy and her arms were starting to ache. April must have heard the movement because she turned and gave a slightly theatrical double take, seeming to remember Hannah’s presence for the first time since she’d spoken to Will.

“God, where are my manners? Will, this is Hannah Jones, my roommate. She’s studying Eng Lit. We’ve got a suite, don’tcha know, so I’ve got a feeling we’ll be hosting aaaall the parties this term. Hannah, this is Will de Chastaigne. I went to school with his ex. Our boarding schools were… what would you call it?” She turned back to Will. “Twinned?”