The It Girl(19)

In the end it seemed easier just to let him tag along however strange she felt, being escorted across the quad and through the cloisters by a fifty-something man in a porter’s uniform. When they got to the door of the library she said goodbye with some relief, silently vowing to leave by a different exit. Thank goodness there were several.

“Thank you. Honestly, you didn’t have to.”

“My pleasure,” the porter said. He put out a hand. “John Neville. You need anything at all, you just ask for me.”

“Okay,” Hannah said. She took his hand in spite of a twinge of reluctance. It was cold and soft and a little damp, like touching raw bread dough. “Thanks.”

He held her grip just a little too long. When at last he let go, she tried to walk with dignity into the library, rather than fleeing unceremoniously. But when she got up to the first floor she could not stop herself going to a window overlooking the cloisters to check if he was still there.

To her relief he was not—he was walking away, across the lawns, back to the Porters’ Lodge, and Hannah returned to the vaulted reading room with a sigh of relief.

For the next few hours, she was kept busy, tracking down books and navigating the library’s unfamiliar shelving system. But something about the encounter had shaken her, and as she sat down at the polished oak desk, the books piled up around her, it came back to her—the sensation of his cold, soft fingers on hers, and the sound of his reedy voice in her ears.

She was being silly. He was probably just a lonely middle-aged man with no talent for taking a graceful brush-off. But one thing was for sure: she had absolutely no intention of asking John Neville for help, ever again.





AFTER


“Decaf cappuccino and a brownie?” the server calls, and then, when there’s no response, “Half-fat decaf cappuccino with cinnamon, and a hazelnut brownie?”

“Oh.” Hannah shakes herself out of her reverie. “Yes, that’s me, thank you. Sorry. I wasn’t paying attention.”

The boy puts the coffee and brownie down on the table along with the receipt. Hannah picks up the cup and takes a sip. It’s good—the coffee at Cafeteria always is—but when she glances at the bill, she puts the cup down. Seven pounds forty. Was Cafeteria always so expensive? Maybe she shouldn’t have ordered that brownie. She isn’t even hungry.

Her phone rings, vibrating its way across the table with a suddenness that makes her jump. It’s probably another bloody reporter, calling from an unregistered number. Picking up the caller that morning was a mistake—she would never have done it if she’d been paying attention.

But when she digs the phone out of her bag, the caller ID gives her a jolt of surprise.

Emily Lippman.

She picks up.

“Em! This is unexpected.”

It is. She hasn’t heard from Emily for… maybe two years? It’s not that they haven’t kept in touch, exactly. They’ve been Facebook friends since uni, so Hannah knows about Emily’s flourishing academic career—she and Hugh are the only ones who really lived up to the promise of those early days. She’s read the impenetrable academic maths papers that Emily posts with a faux casual So… wrote a thing that belies the intense ambition Hannah remembers from Pelham. And for her part, Emily responds to Hannah’s infrequent posts with what seems like genuine affection. Let me know next time you’re down south! she wrote, last time Hannah posted a picture from Dodsworth.

But posting on Facebook is a false kind of intimacy, and in real life they haven’t seen or spoken to each other for a long time—not since Ryan’s wedding. In fact, she wasn’t even sure Emily had this number, though she remembers passing it round last time she swapped.

“Well, I saw the news,” Emily says now. Her disconcerting directness at least hasn’t changed, and that realization gives Hannah a reassuring feeling of familiarity. “You okay?”

“Yes,” Hannah says, with more certainty than she feels. “I mean it was a shock—but yes.”

“And I heard from Hugh that you’re pregnant. Congratulations!”

“Thanks.” The news that Emily is still in touch with Hugh is somehow a surprise. She’s never thought of them as firm friends. “I didn’t know you kept up with Hugh.”

“Just occasionally. He came down to an alumni carol service last year. Seems like he visits Oxford quite regularly—he said you and Will never come?”

“No, well, I mean, Edinburgh to Oxford is a long way,” Hannah says, though she knows the excuse must sound feeble, particularly since Hugh also lives in Edinburgh. “It’s a trek.”

“Yeah,” Emily says, but not like she’s fooled. You don’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to figure out why Hannah might not want to return to Pelham.

“Did you go to the Gaudy last year?” Hannah asks, more to divert the conversation than because she really wants to know. Personally she can’t think of anything worse than hanging around with their former classmates, reminiscing about the “best years of their lives.” What would she say? The truth? That April haunts her like an unquiet ghost? That her short time at Pelham ended in a long nightmare she’s spent the rest of her life trying to wake up from?

“No,” Emily is saying. “Hugh did, I think, but I’m not really into the whole reunion thing. But I have been back to dine a couple of times. Not often, I find the whole alumni deal unbearably smug most of the time. But I thought since I was back in Oxford I should show willing. You know, work the old network a bit.”