‘Give it time,’ said Sal. ‘Give it time. Right, I’m going to reception to see if we can’t get this stupid alcohol ban lifted. I’ve had enough of all this elderflower ridiculousness – I’m gasping for an after-dinner aperitif.’ She scraped back her chair and started making her way through the restaurant, pleased and relieved she’d made her little confession. It had been weird, actually, them not knowing everything.
It was busy in there: packed. People were laughing, chatting, eating food far nicer than they’d had to endure. The table by the door looked like they were having fun, Sal thought, as she walked past. A circle of twenty-something blondes, all with high ponytails or poker-straight glossy curtains, were screeching over a jug of some neon-green liquid topped with bendy straws, and a huge plate of toppling posh-looking nachos. That should be them, Sal thought – her and the girls – enjoying themselves like that, not chowing down on radishes and sipping cordial. Dinner had been so disappointing. A health-infused, limp washout. Still, at least she’d thrown her little foxy Niall grenade into the mix. As well as being a confession she was glad to have got out there, she was right – it had made things more eventful. Tamsin had perked up over it and it had given her friends something juicy to talk about. They had seemed pleased for her, too. Total nonsense about her really liking him, though, of course – of course she didn’t! They were just sleeping partners, no ‘L’ word, except ‘Lust’. It would be fun, she would find something about Niall that was flawed and then she would dump him, before anyone got hurt. It was the only way.
Sal strode into reception feeling pretty great, all in all, following her little disclosure, but then almost turned on her heel and strode right out again.
What the hell? It couldn’t be, could it? Surely it couldn’t be.
She ducked behind a pillar and had another look. That man, the one behind reception in the smart suit and the curly-ish hair, the one dealing with the woman in the red top and the white sandals, it looked just like him. It really looked just like him. She’d watch for a bit longer; no one would care that a woman was crouching behind a pillar in the middle of a busy reception area, would they? She wished she had a wig and dark glasses; that would give people something to stare at. Meanwhile, she continued staring at the man behind the reception desk. Surely it wasn’t him? It had been years, and he wasn’t even supposed to be in this country – I mean, what were the chances? Here and now? It did look like him, though, it really did. She’d just wait for him to turn face on and then she’d know for sure.
The man turned his head and smiled at the lady in the red top, handing her something. Then she must have said something funny because he threw back his head and laughed.
Shit! Sal knew for sure. It was him. It was definitely him. It was Steve Marsden, that charming, cocky git from the year above them at Warwick University. Self-proclaimed ‘party animal’ (always the worst kind) who worked for the university’s Entertainments Crew and acted as roadie for visiting bands; Phys Ed student and total gym-bunny who always did a really cringe-worthy dance to ‘Thriller’ at the Monday Night Disco; and, most importantly and potentially catastrophically, Wendy’s One That Got Away. What the hell was he doing here?
Sal waited for him to turn again and then she scuttled out of the lobby and back to the restaurant, where she took her place at the table with a bright smile.
‘How did you get on?’ asked Wendy. ‘Is the ban lifted? Can we start ordering double vodkas?’
‘Nah,’ said Sal breezily. ‘There was no one there to ask. We can try again in the morning. In fact, we could go to the bar now and just lie to their faces, say we’re on The Glamour and see if we can get away with it. Wendy,’ she continued, ‘why don’t you go with Tamsin and find us a seat? We’ll just settle the bill here.’
‘I thought we’d already paid for everything in advance,’ said Wendy, looking baffled.
‘We have, but there’ll be a bit of paper or something to sign, won’t there? Off you go.’
‘See you there,’ said Tamsin politely, getting up from the table and Wendy got up too and they drifted off, Wendy still looking confused.
Once they were safely out of the way Sal leant forward and hissed to Rose and JoJo across the white tablecloth, ‘Ladies, we appear to have ourselves a situation.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Rose.
‘Yes, what’s up?’ said JoJo. ‘You’ve gone as white as a sheet. Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine,’ hissed Sal, ‘but Wendy might not be. You’re not going to bloody believe this, but Steve bloody Marsden is out there!’
‘Steve Marsden? What? From Warwick?’ exclaimed JoJo, looking absolutely horrified.
‘What?’ cried Rose, her eyes wider that the Channel Tunnel. ‘Steve Marsden? Really? And what do you mean, out there? I thought he lived in Australia!’
‘Yes, he moved there – what, over twenty years ago?’ added JoJo. ‘Something we can never forget, can we? With how Wendy was.’
‘I know!’ groaned Sal, putting her head in her hands. ‘But, I’m telling you, he’s out there, in bloody reception.’ She lifted up her face and stared at them mournfully. ‘And I’ve got a bloody feeling he owns this bloody place!’
Rose
Rose couldn’t believe it. Steve Marsden. Here, of all places! And now, on Wendy’s hen night. What were the chances? And running The Retreat? Rose remembered he had studied Physical Education or something, at Warwick; he was often wandering round in a tracksuit, his hands in his pockets, and he was always in the gym. But he’d moved Down Under decades ago! He was someone they thought they’d never see again.
Rose leant back in her chair and exhaled. ‘I can’t believe it,’ she said. ‘Are you sure it’s him?’
‘You’ll see for yourself in a minute,’ said Sal. ‘We’ll go via the lobby to the bar. Grey suit, pink shirt – it’s definitely him.’ She grabbed the menu from the centre of the table; inside was a tall thin brochure about The Retreat which she pulled out. ‘And there, look!’ She jabbed at the small print on the back page. ‘“Proprietor: S. Marsden”. We’re screwed.’
JoJo went white. ‘Oh God,’ she muttered, putting her head in her hands. ‘So not only did I book us on the wrong package, but I also inadvertently failed to notice that Wendy’s bloody Lost Love is the bloody owner of her bloody hen weekend! How could I have got it so wrong,’ she groaned. ‘This is a disaster!’
‘How could you have possibly known?’ consoled Rose, gently rubbing the back of one of JoJo’s hands. ‘It’s not something you double-check, is it? If the ex of the bride owns the hen venue! And the chance of that being the case must be one in a hundred million or something. None of us could ever have predicted this! You’re so not to blame, JoJo.’
‘I feel like it,’ moaned JoJo. ‘I feel to blame for everything.’
‘It’s just a hideous coincidence,’ reassured Sal. ‘One of those awful things. So stop that right now, JoJo.’ She stood up. ‘Come on, people, we need to go! We need absolute, one hundred per cent confirmation.’
They hurried from the restaurant, clutching each other’s arms and almost giggling in a near-frenzy of horrified anticipation. Would it really be him, Wendy’s Lost Love? wondered Rose. And if it was, what on earth were they going to do about it?
They headed for the lobby. As they rounded a marble pillar near the entrance, Rose bumped smack bang into a man coming in the opposite direction.