The It Girl(46)

His face is still, almost unnaturally still, but there is a contained rage in it that frightens her, and a vein beating in his temple that she knows is a sign that he’s very close to losing his temper. Will doesn’t lose it very often—she can remember only once or twice in their whole relationship. But when he does, he really loses it. She can remember him hitting a man once, late at night, on their way home from the pub. The guy had been catcalling a woman in a headscarf with horrible racist innuendo, and when Will called him out, the man refused to apologize and then took a swing at Will.

He missed. But Will hit him back, and his punch connected. And he didn’t just hit him once, he pounded him and pounded him, while Hannah watched in a kind of mute, frozen terror, unable even to protest, she was so shocked. Will came very close to being arrested for assault that night. He was saved only because two witnesses attested to the racist abuse and that the other man had swung first—that and the fact that the man had turned out to have a long record of racially aggravated offenses, which perhaps made the police more willing to overlook Will’s actions.

But Hannah has never forgotten that moment of watching her gentle, loving boyfriend snap. That moment when his mood turned in an instant, and he became someone capable of inflicting severe injury on another human being. Seeing his face now, she is reminded of that night, and a shiver runs down her spine.

“Hannah?” Will says, his voice very level, but there’s a sound in it like a warning, and Hannah swallows, and forces herself to answer.

“Yes. Apparently he said in his email that he might pop in.” She finds herself trying to make excuses, downplay her own shock and indignation at the invasion, in order to preempt his fury. “And when I didn’t reply, he thought that was a green light. Anyway, I told him—I told him work wasn’t the place for it and he’s going to email—”

“He’s what?” Will breaks in, his voice rising.

“Will, please calm down.” Hannah’s voice is pleading, and she hates herself for it. “He’s a friend of Ryan. I can’t just tell him to go away.”

“You can and you will!”

It’s that will that does it. If he’d said should, Hannah would probably have nodded. But that will, there’s an autocratic snap to it, like she’s not his wife but his employee, his servant. And it makes all her hackles rise.

Will’s parents didn’t want them to marry—too soon, too young was what they said, with a vague implication that Will was still traumatized by losing April, but to Hannah it had sounded very much like an unspoken too common formed part of their objections. Mostly she and Will don’t talk about that—they don’t discuss the fact that neither his parents nor his sister came to their wedding, and have never really welcomed Hannah into the family. They skirt round the fact that Hannah’s mum visits regularly and helps out, the fact that Hannah’s dad contributed most of the furniture when they moved in together and guaranteed the rent on their first flat, while Will’s family basically pretend Hannah doesn’t exist.

All of that Hannah can put up with, because it’s Will’s family, not him.

But that haughty you will is a bridge too far.

“I’m sorry?” she says now, putting down the cup and folding her arms. “I will? Is that an order?”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Will says, and she can see him struggling to overcome his anger. He takes a long breath and says, more quietly, “I just meant—you’re really bad at putting yourself first, Hannah. I don’t see why you should feel beholden to some friend of Ryan’s you’ve never met, just because you feel guilty about what happened to him after college.”

“That’s not why,” Hannah snaps, but it’s not true, and Will knows it. They both feel terrible about Ryan; they were together when Hugh phoned, and Hannah remembers Will’s absolute devastation. Ryan? A stroke? But he’s so young.

Was it what happened at Pelham that caused it? The stress, the sleepless nights, six years of PTSD… If it hadn’t been for Neville, would Ryan be okay?

They will never know. But what they do know—both of them—is what utter shits they have been for not visiting. It’s been four years since Ryan’s stroke. Four years. Oh, they’ve sent cards, and Christmas presents, texted their congratulations when Ryan’s little girls were born, but it’s basically the absolute minimum. So Hannah’s denial rings hollow, and they both know it.

“Okay,” she says at last, “that’s part of it, but all I said was that he could send me an email. What harm can it do?”

“Well, the harm is this.” Will waves an arm at her, wrapped up in the armchair. “I don’t want you getting stressed out by this—stressed out by some wannabe hack’s conspiracy theories. So what if Neville never admitted his guilt. Plenty of people don’t. There doesn’t need to be some great undiscovered reason for that. And Hannah, you’re—”

He stops, and she knows why. What he wants to say is, You’re pregnant with my child, I want you to take care of yourself, but he’s holding himself back. He doesn’t want to make their baby into a stick to beat her with.

It’s the fact that he doesn’t say it that makes her capitulate.

She stands, goes over to where he’s sitting on the sofa, and putting the takeaway menus aside, she kisses him.