The Burnout(73)

“Yes. They are hard.” She nods several times, her eyes fixed on her glass. “Very hard.” She pauses, and I’m scrambling for something anodyne to say, when she speaks again. “You don’t get married and expect that twelve years later you’ll be texting your friends, asking for divorce lawyers, do you?” Without giving me time to answer, she adds, “Are you married?”

“No.”

“Wise,” she murmurs, her face taut. “Wise girl.”

“Well, it hasn’t really come up as an option,” I start to explain—but I can tell Hayley is lost in her own thoughts.

“What would we do with the sofa?” she says in sudden anguish, and two tears fall on her lap. “Because we both chose that sofa, and they don’t make them anymore.” She swigs her cava again, her eyes bright with more tears. “You don’t expect that either, when your bridesmaid’s blow-drying your hair, to be wondering who’ll get the sofa in twelve years’ time. Do you?”

“I don’t suppose you do,” I say feebly.

“No. You don’t.” She pauses, then adds, “My bridesmaid was a professional hairdresser. In case you were wondering. She got me the Dyson cheap too.”

“Right.” I nod. “Makes sense.”

Hayley’s gaze has moved to the back row, where Adrian is deep in conversation with Finn.

“I don’t know how he can look so calm,” she says bitterly. “But that’s always him. Just shrugs or says, ‘Sorry.’ But does he explain?”

“Explain what?” I can’t help asking.

“Everything. Everything! I have no idea how he thinks!” Fresh tears start falling on her lap. “Now, you tell me. You ask your husband—who’s a qualified carpenter, mind—you ask him nicely to put up some shelves, and he says he will—but then he doesn’t. You ask him constantly for a year. He just says he’ll get to it. At last, you hire a handyman to do it. Three simple shelves with brackets, takes no time. What do you expect your husband to say?”

“Um …” I’m trying to unpick this story. “I’m not quite sure …”

“Nothing! That’s what he said. Came in, saw the shelves, sat down, had a beer, said nothing. They were to display my grandmother’s antique plates, came to me in her will. He didn’t say anything about the plates either. Royal Doulton.” She’s speaking in an undertone, but her eyes are wild with emotion. “I wait. And I wait. At last I say, ‘So I got the shelves done, Adrian, see?’ He just shrugs. Won’t talk about it. The only word he’ll say is ‘Sorry.’ I want to know why! Was he too tired to build shelves? Then tell me! I’d understand. But blanking me! It’s so hurtful! It sums up everything that’s wrong! Why would he treat me like that?” She blinks furiously, as though holding back tears.

“I … I don’t know,” I say helplessly.

“And then there’s our intimate life,” she adds, shooting another glance at the back row. “Sorry for being so frank, but you are a woman and I can’t tell my girlfriends.” She takes a deep gulp of cava. “Whereas I don’t know you from Adam, so why should I be embarrassed if my husband doesn’t know one end of an orgasm from another?”

“No problem!” I try to sound unfazed. “Here to help.”

The irony.

Shall I give her my award-winning advice on sex? That it’s merely a matter of rubbing genitals together, so why does anyone bother?

“Do you have sex in front of the football?” Immediately she checks herself. “Sorry. I say too much when I’ve had a drink.” She puts a hand on my arm. “You’re very understanding. You’re a lovely girl.”

Now I’m wondering how many drinks Hayley had before she got on to the cava. Her cheeks are blotchy, I notice, and her eyeliner has streaked underneath her eyes.

“It’s no problem,” I say, searching for something bland to say. “I hope things get easier for you.”

“Still in the honeymoon period, you two, are you?” Her eyes swivel toward the back row. “Looks like it. Why isn’t your chap sitting with you? Don’t you mind Adrian monopolizing him?”

“Actually,” I say, trying to get a word in, “we’re not a couple.”

“Not a couple?” She peers at me blankly, as though not following. “Of course you are.”

Something is squeezing my chest. My cheeks are hot. Damn it.

“We’re not,” I say, with a resolutely cheerful smile. “So.”

“But …” She glances again at Finn, as though we’ve got crossed wires. “You’re with him. You pulled your tables together in the restaurant, I saw you.”

“I know. But we’re not together.”

“You’re not?” She turns to survey Finn, frowning. “Well. That’s just …” She gulps her cava. “That’s just bizarre. You should be.”

We should be? We should be?

I want to grab her sleeve and ask her, What do you mean? Why do you say that? Tell me everything you think about Finn and me.

But instead I sip my drink in silence, congratulating myself on my self-control. And the next moment, Herbert walks out, wearing a maroon velvet suit and carrying an ancient-looking French horn. He bows deeply, his expression grave, and announces, “Minuet.”