The Hidden Girl by Louise Millar Read Free Book Online Page A

flicker to his tattoo, then away again.
    ‘Long night then?’ Clare said, nodding at the old leather sofa that Hannah’s parents had given him when they’d sold up to move to Spain. ‘That looks comfy.’
    It wasn’t, but a bad back was starting to sound preferable to another evening of Hannah’s insane decorating schedule.
    ‘It’s all right. I need to catch up anyway, so . . . Where are you off to?’ He realized he knew nothing about her.
    ‘Oh. Me and Jamie have just moved round the corner.’ She paused as if this might be something Matt had told Will. He nodded, clueless. ‘So getting home without falling on my arse again is pretty much the plan for tonight.’ She turned and pointed to a wet patch on her backside. ‘Wish me luck!’
    He grinned. ‘Good luck.’
    Clare pulled on her other glove. ‘By the way, he’s very sweet, your little guy out there, with his pipe. Though he keeps getting snow in it.’
    Will laughed, and she waved goodbye again.
    What was different about her? he wondered, opening a new file on the Mac. Her hair colour or something. In the six months or so she’d rented a studio here, she’d always walked down the corridor with a shut-off look about her; friendly enough, but self-contained, like she had something on her mind. Taking of which . . . Reluctantly he dialled Hannah, and waited for the bollocking he knew was coming.
    Five minutes later Will sat in the same spot, staring at the wall. His conversation with Hannah had broken up so many times, due to the crap signal, that he hadn’t heard most of it. The few words he did hear were seared into his head.
    ‘Why did you get . . . the bloody train if . . . snowing? I can’t do . . . all . . . my own. We’ve only . . . eleven . . . now. . . a bit.’
    In the end she’d disappeared altogether whilst talking about ‘plumbing’ and, annoyed, Will had pressed ‘End call’ instead of waiting for the signal to cut back in.
    If she said ‘bit’ one more bloody time . . .
    The door opened again. Jeremiah walked in. ‘All right, man?’
    ‘Yup, all good,’ Will said. ‘Listen, Jem, you up for another session tonight?’
    ‘Yeah, no problem, man.’ Jeremiah blew on his cold hands, as if he’d just jumped off an American railroad car.
    ‘There’s something I want to play you,’ Will said, reaching up for an old Delta blues record. Twenty-four hours suddenly stretched ahead, of doing what he wanted, when he wanted, without hearing the words ‘Barbara’ or ‘Tornley-sodding-Hall’ or hearing Hannah cutting days up into fussy, stupid little ‘bits’.
    And with that feeling came an old impulse. Will reached forward and took a beer.
    No, maybe the snow wasn’t a bad thing. He needed this. Twenty-four hours away from Hannah and her bloody schedule.
    He turned off his phone.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    Hannah stayed up painting the rear guestroom till well after midnight, cursing Will every half-hour. Eventually she climbed down the ladder and appraised the walls. Like the smallest bedroom, it now looked fresh again. A few prints on the wall, a vase of fresh flowers . . . Hannah practised her speech for Barbara next Friday out loud. ‘Yes, so this is the spare room, where my parents and Will’s mum are going to stay when they visit. It’s going to be fantastic having all this space for our families, and they’re excited about coming to stay and be part of—’
    She hesitated.
    It was becoming more difficult to stop herself imagining the future, now she was here. More difficult not to tempt fate.
    Now she’d stopped painting, the biting cold gripped her again. She could swear snow was seeping through the walls of Tornley Hall. The oven and gas hobs helped to warm the kitchen, if she kept the door shut, and the electric wall heater was on full blast in the bathroom, but the rest of the house was now a series of freezing, inhospitable no-go areas.
    Shivering, Hannah washed her paintbrush, forced herself to do her teeth and jumped