Page 50 of High Season

THIRTY-SEVEN

THE DAY BEFORE THE BIRTHDAY PARTY

After the bonfire, Hannah didn’t leave her room for three days.

She said she was ill. Her mother pressed the back of her palm to her forehead and agreed that maybe she was feeling a bit hot. She promised to call up the families that Hannah had agreed to tutor, and left soup in a Tupperware container in the fridge.

Hannah did not eat the soup. The nausea was not entirely a lie.

Her stomach was clenching, turning in on itself.

The thought of food was impossible to bear.

She pulled the covers up over her head. She inhaled the sour smell of herself, the faint traces of smoke that still lingered on her skin and in her hair.

Her heart seemed to be beating much faster than usual, and she couldn’t slow it down.

Every time she dozed off, she awoke to the sear of shame. Remembering everything all over again. How those girls had laughed at her. How easily Hannah had let herself believe that they wanted to be her friend. How Blake had looked at her as if she disgusted him.

What Hannah was experiencing was not just the loss of Blake, but the loss of a dream that had simmered beneath the surface of her entire life. A belief that one day, she could be like the people who came here every summer.

She eventually crawled out of her bed on the fourth day, after her mother started to talk about doctors’ appointments and blood tests.

She went through the motions of the day—breakfast, helping out at the shop, going home to make sandwiches for lunch—feeling as though she was drifting a foot or two outside of her own body.

Her parents were supposed to be going away that evening, taking the train up to Lyon to visit Hannah’s aunt for her birthday.

They would be away for a couple of nights.

Hannah heard them talking in quiet, worried tones, debating whether they should be leaving her.

It was impossible to keep secrets in their small apartment.

“I’m fine,” she interrupted them, leaning her head around the door. “I have some work to do on my uni applications. And I’m feeling better. I’ll be OK on my own.”

She didn’t tell them exactly why she longed for privacy. How badly she wanted to crawl back beneath her sheets and grieve without the anxious eyes of her mother watching over her.

That night, after her parents had left with promises to call as soon as they arrived in Lyon, Hannah went down to the sea.

She took off her shoes as soon as she reached the sand and started to run, shedding her clothes behind her.

She was in her underwear by the time she reached the shoreline.

The coldness of the water took the air out of her lungs.

She dove beneath the surface and kicked, the salt stinging her skin, the roar of the tide in her ears.

She opened her mouth, and as the water flooded inside she let out a scream, a howl that came from so deep within it felt as if a part of her was tearing away from herself.

It erupted into the ocean as air, a dead cry that nobody would hear.

When Hannah surfaced, the hill was silhouetted against the sky.

Close to the top, she could see the glow of the pink house.

Lanterns bobbing as they were set out on the terrace.

Strings of fairy lights, everything ready for Evelyn Drayton’s birthday the next night.

Once again, the longing seized hold of her, so physical that for a split second, she thought she had a cramp.

She had imagined herself on Blake’s arm so clearly that the image felt scored onto her vision.

Now, she saw Cordelia on his arm instead.

Her perfect, shiny hair. Her small, toned body. A dress that fit her just right.

Cordelia struck Hannah as the kind of girl who already had everything. It felt stupendously, cataclysmically unfair that she got to have Blake as well.

Hannah dove back beneath the water. She held her breath for as long as she could, and then, when her lungs were aching, kicked back toward the surface. Her eyes were stinging. She squeezed them shut.

When she opened them again, she saw a figure standing on the shoreline. He was silhouetted in the half-light of dusk, but still she knew who it was. Who he was, his hands buried in his pockets, his hair tousled, his head tilted to one side as he watched her.

After all, she would know Blake Drayton anywhere.

They went back to her apartment. The air inside smelled of garlic and stewed meat, the meals that Hannah’s mother had cooked and refrigerated that afternoon for Hannah to eat over the next few days.

“Do you have anything to drink?” Blake asked.

She didn’t have the kind of drinks he would want.

The expensive bottles of vodka he and his friends drank, the multipacks of beer.

Instead, she found an open box of red wine left over from one of the rare nights her parents drank with dinner and poured him a glass.

She passed it to him, painfully aware of how out of place he looked in her kitchen.

The room felt much smaller than usual, as if the walls had inched in while she’d been away.

She was suddenly conscious of the dated yellow tiles, the washing hung up on a buckled clotheshorse because they had no space for a dryer.

“You’re not having one?” he asked.

She shook her head. She wanted to be clearheaded for this conversation. Braced for whatever Blake had to say to her. Besides, the thought of red wine still made something in her convulse.

“I’m not thirsty,” she said.

“Right,” he said. “Right.”

He seemed temporarily stalled, glancing around the room. Hannah found herself bristling. Was he really so shocked by where she lived?

“Shall we…” His eyes hovered on the sofa, covered with diving equipment that her parents had brought back from the shop for cleaning. “Is there somewhere we can sit down and talk?”

“We can talk here.”

It was a strange thrill, to see him hesitate. To know that he was thrown by this—that he had expected Hannah to scurry to clear space on the sofa, or offer up her room. It felt like something close to power.

“Fine,” Blake said. He straightened, gathering himself. “Hannah, about the other night—”

“You mean about the fact you have a girlfriend?”

Her voice came out steely. Stronger than she expected it to. He winced at the word.

“She’s not my… Jesus. She’s not my girlfriend, Hannah. Cordelia is… she’s an ex. I broke up with her a few months back. But she’s… she’s crazy, Hannah. She’s still obsessed with me. And her parents have a house out here, so she’s impossible to avoid…”

“It didn’t look like she was your ex.”

“I know, I know.”

He combed one hand through his hair, agitated.

“She’s… it’s hard to explain. She’s not well, Hannah. She’s… she’s unstable . She went berserk when I tried to break up with her. She was threatening to kill herself. When she turned up at the beach I freaked out. She was acting like we were still together. I didn’t know what to do.”

“So that’s why you pushed me off you?” Hannah didn’t try to hide the skepticism in her voice.

“Hannah, you don’t know what she’s capable of. When I saw you at the beach… well, I was worried what she’d do, if she knew about us. I was worried she’d hurt herself. That she’d hurt you .”

She hesitated then. She could almost see it. Cordelia, with her pristine exterior, her gilded life. Of course she would believe she was entitled to anything she wanted. Even Blake.

“Hannah,” Blake said. “You know me. You know how I feel about you. Do you really think it’s all been a lie? Do you think, this entire summer, I’ve been stringing you along?”

She thought of when he kissed her beneath the waves. When they had had sex for the first time, her body thrumming with alcohol and desire. Something flickered within Hannah then. A small, certain part of herself that said no. She could not believe that all of that had been a lie.

At least, she did not want to believe it.

“Hannah,” he said. “I don’t want Cordelia. I want you . I’ve always wanted you.”

And there it was. The thing that Hannah had so badly wanted to hear, even now. Even with her eyes still red and raw from crying over him. That flicker turning into a flame.

“I want to be with you,” he said.

“It’s really over between you two?” she said. Her voice was smaller than it had been a few minutes ago. Quieter. “You promise?”

He stepped toward her. Placed his wineglass down on the kitchen counter.

“I promise,” he said.

He was nearing her now. Reaching out toward her. Hannah held out one hand to stop him coming any closer.

“You have to prove it to me,” she said. “You have to show me I can trust you.”

“Yes, of course,” he said. “Of course.”

“How?”

He faltered at this, one arm still extended toward her.

“I… how?”

“Yeah.” She folded her arms across her chest. “How will you prove it?”

“I…” His hand dropped down. “I just… I will. You have to let me show you.”

“By telling people that you’re with me?” she said. “No more hiding. No more sneaking around. If you’re serious about this—about us—you’ll tell people we’re together.”

“Yes,” he said. “Of course. I can do that.”

She was speaking in a way that she hadn’t known she could. Demanding things she had never thought to ask. She lifted her chin, emboldened.

“And your mum’s party,” she said.

“What about it?”

“I want to go to it. If you’re serious about me, you’d want me there. As your date.”

“Hannah.” He reached out toward her again. Snatched hold of her hand. “Come on. We don’t need to show the people at my mum’s party that I’m serious about you. They’re not important. This is what’s important. Us.”

She pulled her hand away.

“I mean it, Blake. Either we’re doing this, or we’re not. If you want me, then show me that. Show everyone else that.”

There was a second—only a second—when she thought he would say no. When she thought he would turn. That he would leave. Then his hands were on her waist. Her back. His mouth close to her face.

“Alright,” he said. “Come to the party. Come, and I’ll show you. I’m serious about this, Hannah. I want this.”

Something in her relented then.

“Come on,” he was saying, his breath hot, his touch urgent. “Let’s go to your room.”

And so, they went. And so, she let him kiss her. Undress her. Let him fuck her on her childhood bed, with a force and an urgency that she was not expecting.

But Hannah was not thinking about how he pushed her hard into the mattress, facedown on the bed. The way that he abruptly flipped her over, pressing his hand against her throat as he came.

Instead, Hannah was thinking of silk dresses. Champagne. Evelyn Drayton looking at her as if she was a person for the very first time.

She was thinking of all the ways that tomorrow would be different. The way that her entire life would be different now.