Ms. Ashley tenses. We all wait, wondering exactly which we Mrs. Rogers means, until she turns slowly and looks at her husband.
“Bigamy is a serious crime, darling,” she says.
* * *
? ? ? ? ?
When the police car pulls up the hotel’s sweeping gravel drive, most of the hotel staff, Mr. Townsend, and even the Jacobses （their cheerfully waving baby included） have come to watch the drama unfold.
The two former Mrs. Rogerses stand at opposite ends of the crowd, stony-faced, as Mr. Rogers gawps in the face of the policeman currently reading him his rights.
“This is ridiculous,” he says, looking back at us all. He is giving off odious these-sorts-of-things-don’t-happen-to-men-like-me vibes, which makes me want that policeman to use the handcuffs currently dangling from his belt. “You’re having me arrested? Are you quite serious?”
“I think they’re pretty serious, mate,” says the policeman. “I know I certainly am. Get in the car.”
“This is all a terrible misunderstanding,” Graham implores in the general direction of his wives.
The policeman taps on the roof of the car. “In. Now.”
“Now, see here,” says Graham, and then—to whoops from the crowd—the policeman places one hand firmly on his head and shoves him in the back seat.
The car door slams shut. Ms. Brown flips Graham the bird as the police drive away, and Ms. Ashley yells an insult so colourful that Mr. and Mrs. Hedgers immediately scoop up the children and flee the scene before Ruby asks anyone to repeat it.
“Is it too early to get drunk?” Ms. Brown asks Barty and Mrs. SB.
“I leave that to your judgement,” Barty says. “But I will mention that we have a twenty-four-hour license.”
“Perfect,” says Ms. Brown, heading inside. “Come on,” she says to Ms. Ashley without looking at her. “I think you and I need to chat.”
As the two of them settle in at our grand mahogany bar with a Bloody Mary each, I notice my hands are shaking on the menu I’m carrying over to them. It’s just . . . I always try to see the best in people. To think that everyone is fundamentally quite nice really. And then someone does something this awful, and it makes me wonder how the hell you’re meant to know who to trust.
I play with my necklace, the one my mum gave me. It’s times like these that I miss my parents the most.
“I really hate you right now,” Ms. Ashley is saying as I reach them at the bar.
“Oh, same to you, love,” says Ms. Brown. “Maybe we’ll get to the solidarity part later.”
“If we drink enough alcohol,” Ms. Ashley says, taking a vicious bite from her stick of celery.
“Can I interest you in some breakfast to go with that . . . ?” I ask, my voice a little squeaky.
“You,” Ms. Ashley says, zeroing in on me as she sucks up half her cocktail through the straw. “The ring meddler.”
“I really am so sorry,” I say wretchedly. Today I seem to have done the exact opposite of adding sparkle. I’ve made everything significantly gloomier.
“Not your fault, love,” says Ms. Brown, already waving at Ollie for another drink. “A lot of men are shits. You do your best to dodge ’em, but . . .”
Ollie shrinks into himself, shaking up the next cocktail as quietly as possible.
“Izzy!” Arjun calls. “There’s something for you at the front desk! Ask me how I know!”
I spin to look at him. His hair is a mess and he’s not wearing his apron, which always makes him look a bit weird, as if he’s not wearing his shoes.
“How do you know?” I say obligingly.
“Because you are here, and Lucas is off somewhere else, and Ollie is behind the bar ballsing up that Bloody Mary, and so I had to leave the kitchen to answer the reception bell!”
I glance at the two women, but they don’t seem to mind someone else doing a bit of shouting.
“No food, love,” Ms. Brown says to me. “Just keep the booze coming.” This is directed at Ollie.
I move to go after Arjun and then remember something. “Oh! Do you want the ring?” I blurt, patting my pocket.
Ms. Brown stares at me, then looks down at her hand, and across at Ms. Ashley’s. They are both still wearing their wedding rings.
“I think we’ve got enough rings here, don’t you? Just sell it. Keep the money. Looks like this place could use it,” she says, nodding after Arjun. “Get that man some help, eh, love?”
I mean, I don’t think this ring is worth quite enough to employ a sous-chef for Arjun, but I appreciate the intention, and I’m glad we’re getting something out of this disaster. I thank them and leave the Mrs. Rogerses to it, heading to the lobby as Arjun flounces back into the kitchen again.