Oh my God, it’s Hayley. She’s being ushered to her chair by Cassidy and looks about as thrilled to be here as I am.
“I saved you a seat!” Cassidy is whispering breathily to her. “Hotel guests get the premium seats. All complimentary!”
Meanwhile, Nikolai is still holding forth in Polish. He gives a sudden dramatic sob and I squirm uncomfortably. They really should have provided a translation. I glance at Hayley, who is sitting rigidly, and notice that her eyes are a little glassy too. She sees me looking and bristles, so I hastily turn back and fix my eyes on Nikolai, who finishes with a flourish, then bows to the ragged smattering of applause.
“Nikolai, that was wonderful!” says Cassidy, leaping up in her role as MC. “And now maybe you could tell us what the poem was about?” She beams encouragingly at Nikolai, who is mopping his face with a hanky. He nods, then clears his throat as though for a speech.
“The gentleman, he love her,” he proclaims, his voice still throbbing with emotion. “But she not love him.”
There’s silence, as we all wait for more—then realize that’s it.
“Well!” exclaims Cassidy. “I think we all really picked up on the drama there, Nikolai, thank you very much. And now a small interval, while Herbert prepares his French horn. Please enjoy your cava.” She leads a further round of applause, and Nikolai bows several times, looking spent and exhausted, as if he’s just played Hamlet.
I sip my cava—then see Finn coming into the lobby, accompanied by Adrian. They’re both holding glasses of what looks like whisky, and from their flushed faces I’d guess this isn’t their first drink.
“Mr. Birchall!” Cassidy salutes him loudly. “And Mr. West! Just in time! There are seats in the front row for you. Or—” She stops dead as the two guys plonk themselves down in the back row, well away from Hayley and me. “That’s also fine.”
I can’t meet Finn’s eye. I can’t even look in his direction. I expect he went straight to the bar to get over the embarrassment of having a fellow guest throw herself at him.
“Pleasant concert,” says Hayley, making me jump.
“Yes.” I nod.
“Although I didn’t understand a word of that poem.”
“Me neither,” I admit. “It sounded very passionate, though.”
“Yes,” says Hayley tightly. “Well. Passion.” She leaves a pause before adding, “I’m Hayley, by the way. My husband’s Adrian. You probably heard that the other night.”
“I’m Sasha,” I volunteer. “Nice to meet you properly.”
Hayley’s hand is clenching her glass and she’s quivering all over. She seems brimming over with misery. I feel like with one little tap, it would all come spilling out.
“I’ve got the hair dryer, by the way,” I venture warily. “In case you need it.”
“I travel with my Dyson, thank you,” says Hayley, and swigs her drink, blinking hard.
Oh God. I can’t bear it. She looks so unhappy. Should I venture onto personal ground? Should I encourage her to talk? What if she snaps at me? She’s pretty scary when she’s in full flow.
Well, if she snaps, she snaps. I can at least have a go.
“I’m sorry if things are hard,” I say in a low, soft voice.
Hayley’s head whips round as if suspecting a trick—but when she sees my sincere face, something seems to break inside her.
“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.”