The It Girl(44)

“You flirt,” April said. She picked up her glass and took a long, luxurious swallow that drained it almost halfway. “Oh my God, that’s delicious. What do you think, Hannah?”

Hannah picked up her own glass, put it to her lips, and took a gulp to match April’s. She nearly choked. It was pretty much pure alcohol, from what she could tell. In fact, it tasted like almost neat gin.

“Jesus,” she spluttered, setting down the glass. Her eyes were stinging. The Chantecaille lipstick had left a deep rose imprint on the glass. “What’s in this?”

“Six parts of gin, two parts of vodka, one part of Lillet Blanc,” the barman said laconically. April laughed and raised her glass to him across the bar.

“I’ll drink to that.”

“And how many units of alcohol is that?” Hannah said. She knew she sounded prim and censorious, but she couldn’t seem to help it.

“Does it matter?” April said. Her voice was a little stiff, like she was trying to hide her irritation. “It’s not like you’re planning on driving home. Jesus, you sound like my dad.” She took another swallow of the cocktail.

“This is like—” Hannah eyed her own glass, trying to estimate the contents. It had to be close to a quarter of a pint of liquid. “I mean what, the equivalent of four, maybe five gin and tonics? Right?” She turned to the barman, who simply shrugged and smiled at April as if they shared a private joke. “And how much does one of these cost?”

“Who cares?” April said, and now the annoyance in her voice was plain, and she wasn’t trying to hide it. “Stop being so petty, Hannah. I’m putting all of this on Daddy’s account. He won’t notice.” She picked up the glass and tossed back the remaining inch of her Vesper with something like defiance. “The same again,” she said to the bartender, thrusting the empty glass towards him. “For both of us. And what’s your name?”

“Raoul,” said the bartender. He smiled at April, showing very white, very even teeth. “Two more Vespers coming up, it will be my pleasure.”

“One, please, Raoul,” Hannah said firmly. She swallowed the remains of her Vesper, then stood up, feeling the rush of alcohol to her head. “April, I’m sorry, it’s not just the money, I have to get back. I’ve got that essay to hand in tomorrow. I did say.”

“Fuck the essay! I never do them until the last minute anyway.”

“I have left it until the last minute. I told you, it’s due in tomorrow morning.”

“Tomorrow!” April scoffed. “Tomorrow is hours and hours away! I do my best work at three a.m.”

“Well—then—great,” Hannah said. Her arguments were slipping away along with her temper. “Good for you. But I don’t. In fact I’m pretty useless after midnight, and my tutorial with Dr. Myers is at nine a.m., so—”

“Oh, Dr. Myers,” April interrupted, mocking. She made a face to the barman that Hannah couldn’t read, but it was droll, as if she had secrets she could tell if she wanted.

“Yes, Dr. Myers,” Hannah said. She was getting cross. She could feel her cheeks becoming flushed. Why was April always like this? She was the perfect friend—until she wasn’t. Funny, generous, totally inspired on occasion. When she was in the mood, there was no one Hannah would rather spend time with. But then with the flip of a switch she would turn and become mean. “What of it?”

“I wouldn’t worry about him.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? I have to worry about him, April, he’s my tutor.”

“Well, good”—April reached out and tweaked Hannah’s nose—“for”—she pinched it again—“you.”

“Will you stop that!” Hannah said irritably, pushing April’s hand away, perhaps harder than she had meant, but there was something extraordinarily annoying about the action, the patronizing element to it, the physical invasion of her space. “For God’s sake, April, I’m going back, and that’s an end to it.”

“Fine,” April said. She crossed her legs, wrapping her arms around herself, looking for all the world like some kind of Siamese cat curling up to lick her fur. The candles on the bar winked off the huge rings on her fingers and she leaned confidentially across the bar. “Raoul and I will be fine, won’t we, Raoul?”

“I will take good care of your friend,” the barman said, and he smiled again at Hannah. “Don’t worry, I will make sure Miss Clarke-Cliveden gets home safely.”

“You”—April leaned still farther over the bar so that her top slipped lower and Hannah saw a flash of rose-colored brassiere—“can call me April. And I don’t say that to all the staff.”

“Okay,” Hannah said. It was that last word that did it, that little reminder of the world April inhabited and she didn’t. “Okay, that’s it. I’m out, thank you for a lovely evening, April, I’m going to go home and get some food and I suggest that you do the same.”

But April said nothing. Instead she pointedly turned her back to Hannah and began watching Raoul carve off a long coil of lemon zest.

Hannah hesitated for a moment, wondering if she was doing the right thing but unsure what her other options were, and then picked up her bag, turned, and made her way down to the street entrance.