The It Girl(28)

“Wonderful. Eight p.m.”

“Can I bring anything?”

“No, just yourself.”

Outside, in the corridor, she leaned against the wall, feeling a smile spreading across her face. Particularly promising. Could it really be true?

The big question, of course, was what to wear. Very informal, Dr. Myers had said, which was the worst kind of invitation. At least with the ones that said “white tie” or “academic gowns,” you knew where you stood. Very informal could mean anything from party dresses to jeans.

“Jeans,” April said decisively when Hannah asked her advice, “and a pleated poplin camisole, very high at the neck, no sleeves, single pearl button fastener behind. Business at the front, party in the back.”

“Yes,” Hannah said impatiently, “but I don’t have a—” What was it? A pleated something something? “A top like that. Friday is two days away. I haven’t got the time to go shopping.” Or the money, she thought but did not say. Such considerations didn’t weigh with April.

“You may not have one,” April said, “but I have. Come through here.”

Hannah had not been into April’s bedroom for several weeks—with a joint sitting area, they didn’t need to go into each other’s rooms to socialize, and since Will was a frequent visitor, Hannah was always half-afraid of what she might find if she knocked.

Now, she was amazed afresh not just at the difference between April’s room and her own—a difference which had seeped out into the living room, where the boring, regulation university furniture was slowly being replaced or supplemented by April’s own luxuriously expensive taste—but by the mess. There were clothes everywhere: Designer garments piled up in corners. Beaded tops slung over lamps. Jimmy Choos hanging casually by a strap from a desk chair. But not just clothes. Half-drunk cups of coffee languished on the windowsill, sporting an extravagant coating of mold. Books were scattered like splay-winged birds. An open bottle of pills spilled across the nightstand. A half-eaten doughnut leached grease into a pile of essays, and a makeup palette lay burst open on the rug, colored powder ground into the carpet pile.

In one corner a lamp burned, low and golden, and April clutched her head.

“Oh shit, every time I come in here I’m shocked at how awful it is. I wish I could pay Sue to sort it, but she’s such a bitch.”

“She’s not a bitch,” Hannah said reflexively, “she’s just busy,” but she was eyeing the chaos and silently agreeing that it was going to take more than April to sort this out. There were weeks of mess here, and university rules stated that they had to clear their rooms for the Christmas break. “How do you find anything?”

“Well at any rate, I know where the camisole is. I tried it on but it’s too big for me so you might as well take it.”

She picked her way through the mess to the far corner, near a long gilt-edge mirror that looked like an antique, and began rooting through a pile of clothes there.

“Aha!” Her voice was triumphant as she held up a crisp, starched top in old ivory. “Here it is. It’ll be perfect. Try it on. Go on!”

She made no move to turn around or give Hannah her privacy, so after a slightly awkward pause, Hannah turned her back and stripped off the T-shirt she was wearing, sliding the camisole over her head.

Then she turned around.

“So?”

She could tell at once, even without looking in the mirror, that April was right—the top suited her. April’s expression told her that. She clapped her hands together and spun Hannah around so that she could do up the single mother-of-pearl button at the back of Hannah’s neck.

“Oh, that is perfect,” April breathed, reverentially and seriously. She turned Hannah around again, facing the mirror. “Bend over?”

Hannah bent, obediently, and April tutted.

“Well you can’t wear a bra. The whole point of that top is the back; look, when you stand straight it’s totally demure.” She demonstrated, holding up a hand mirror so that Hannah could see behind herself. “And when you bend or twist…” Hannah did so, seeing the sliver of creamy spine that immediately showed between the pleats. It was indeed completely spoiled by her very basic supermarket bra showing through the gap. “But you don’t need a bra, oh, you’re going to look gorgeous.”

“Thank you,” Hannah said, rather awkwardly. “And—I mean, should I dry-clean it before I return it? Wash it?”

“I told you.” April sounded impatient. “It’s yours.”

“But April—” Hannah plucked at the tag still dangling from an inner seam. “I can’t take this—it’s brand-new. If I don’t cut the tags you could return it, and—” Her eyes alighted on the price. “Jesus Christ! April, this was eight hundred quid!”

“I’m not going to return it,” April said carelessly. “So if you don’t take it, it’s just going to rot in the corner there.”

She stood back, appraising Hannah seriously, and then said, “The jeans are fine, but you need proper shoes. Have you got any heels?”

Hannah nodded, and went through to her own room to find the pair of black Dolcis heels her mum had bought her for formal events and interviews just before term started. When she returned wearing them, April made a face of barely concealed disgust.