The It Girl(32)

He stood back, and Hannah saw April, perched on the arm of a wingback chair, next to a square-shouldered boy wearing a navy blazer that Hannah vaguely recognized as a sporting blue.

“Everybody.” Dr. Myers looked vaguely around the room, and then put his arm around Hannah, his palm hot and a little damp against her bare shoulder. “Allow me to introduce the thrillingly gifted Hannah Jones. Who is in the process of proving, once again, that many of Oxford’s finest minds come from a state school, single-parent, working-class background.”

There was a ripple of approval from round the room. We’re so open-minded. Such a meritocracy.

Hannah opened her mouth—and then shut it again, unable to think of what to say.

She was still groping for the appropriate response when one of the students behind Dr. Myers touched his arm and whispered something and he gave a little jump.

“Oh, thank you, well remembered, Madeleine. Excuse me, Hannah. I must tend to the canapés.”

He gave her shoulder a little squeeze, and then released her and hurried away.

“I didn’t realize you were so brave,” said a mocking voice in her ear, and Hannah turned to see that April had disentangled herself from the boy in the blazer and was standing behind her. She was laughing. “Such tenacity, fighting your way up from the mean streets of Dodsworth.”

“Oh, piss off,” Hannah said crossly. “I don’t know where he got all that from. I certainly didn’t tell him I was working-class.”

“Take the compliment and run, darling. I would.”

I know, Hannah almost said, but she bit her lip.



* * *



AN HOUR INTO THE PARTY, Hannah was beginning to wish she had never come. Her feet were in agony in April’s heels, and she was listening to a long, tedious rowing anecdote from the boy in the navy blazer, the one April had shrugged off earlier in the evening.

Far from being the sophisticated soiree she had imagined, the night seemed to have descended into Dr. Myers smoking filthy cigars and holding court with the three prettiest girls in attendance—one of whom was April. He was sitting back in an armchair by the fire, April on one armrest, Rubye on the other, and a beautiful redhead Hannah didn’t know sitting on a footstool at his feet. As she watched, April turned and mouthed something over Dr. Myers’s head. She wasn’t sure what it was, but April’s expression was full of wicked laughter. She thought it might have been So predictable.

“… totally gorgeous. Maybe for a drink or something?” the rowing blue said, and then stopped, seeming to expect some kind of answer. Hannah shook herself and looked away from where Dr. Myers had slipped a hand around April’s waist, ostensibly to steady her on the chair’s narrow arm.

“I’m sorry. What did you say?”

“I said, you’re absolutely gorgeous,” the boy said. He had flushed a deep red that went from his shirt collar up to his fringe. “I’d love to take you for a drink sometime. Maybe Vincent’s? I’m a member. Or somewhere else. You choose.”

Hannah felt her color rise in sympathy.

“Oh God… that’s so kind of you, but…”

What could she say? She had a boyfriend? That was a lie, as two minutes’ inquiry in the JCR would reveal. That was the problem with living in college—though it had felt so very big on the first day, she was rapidly coming to realize how very small Pelham really was. Part of her wondered if she should say yes—was she really going to spend three years pining after someone who had never looked twice at her, someone, moreover, who was going out with her best friend?

Go out, get drunk, sleep with someone else, and put Will out of her head once and for all. That was what she would have told a friend in her position. But whoever was destined to help her get over Will, her heart knew that this boy was definitely not that person.

“I’m sorry, there—there’s someone else,” she said at last, hoping that would suffice and he would not inquire any further. The boy flushed an even deeper shade of red, his face pomegranate-colored above his dark blue blazer.

“Oh. Yeah. Sure. Of course. No worries at all. I mean, well, if you change your mind—Jonty Westwell.” He held out a hand. “I’m over in Cloisters.”

“Thanks,” Hannah said. “It’s a really kind invitation.”

She stood up, casting about for an excuse to end the conversation.

“Um… I think… I’m just going to pop to the bathroom.”

“Yeah, sure. No probs. Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too,” Hannah said, and she drained her wine, put down the glass, and hobbled painfully out into the corridor, where she stood for a moment, catching her breath and trying not to groan inwardly at the hash she had made of turning down Jonty gracefully.

“Sooooo…” said a drawling voice from behind her, and she turned to see April, closing the door of Dr. Myers’s room. “Someone else, eh? Who’s the lucky man?”

Hannah felt her cheeks flush again.

“Oh God, I only said that to get rid of him.”

“You should have said yes! I know Jonty. He’s thick as pig shit, but he’s a sweetie, and more to the point, his dad owns Westwell Pharmaceuticals.”

“He can’t be that thick,” Hannah said irritably, pulling off first one of April’s teetering high heels, then the other. She felt as if she had descended a step on an imaginary staircase, suddenly six inches shorter than April. “I mean, he did get into Oxford to study English.”