‘I don’t know. She looks like she’s escaped from detox or something,’ Ian says, his voice a whisper.
Lauren shifts her attention now to the attorney, who’s talking to Gwen. She’s been observing his body language throughout the meal. Something has changed. He’s sitting back now, stiffly, as if someone has said something he doesn’t like. Just a little while ago, he was leaning in towards the pretty Gwen, smiling at her, tilting his head to one side, like a male bird looking for a mate. Perhaps Riley just told him to fuck off.
She lets her gaze travel to the corner, where the engaged couple is dining. She narrows her eyes. She’d taken a rather instant dislike to Dana while they were having cocktails in the lobby. Perhaps it was simply because of her rather intimidating beauty. Perhaps it was the way she ostentatiously waved that diamond ring around. She didn’t exactly stick it under anyone’s nose and say, This is my engagement ring, isn’t it gorgeous? But she was constantly fluttering her perfectly manicured hands around, just begging people to notice it. The large diamond glittered when she smoothed her hair, when she picked up her champagne glass; her eyes sparkled when she looked at her fiancé. Everything about her was shiny and bright. She has a bright, shiny life, Lauren thinks. Then she directs her attention to the man to whom she’s engaged.
What does she think of him? She thinks he is someone who collects bright, shiny things.
She moves on to the woman who must be Candice White, dining alone at a table for two, pretending to read a magazine. But really, she’s staring at David, the attorney, who is positioned so that he is unaware of it. Lauren wonders why Candice is staring at David. Perhaps she finds him attractive. He certainly is attractive – anyone can see that. Well, good luck to her, Lauren thinks; he’s obviously interested in the younger, more fetching Gwen.
Now Candice has turned her attention away from David and she’s staring rather hard at Dana and Matthew. They are a good-looking couple, but something registers on her face – as if she recognizes Dana from somewhere. Or maybe it’s Matthew she recognizes; Lauren can’t be sure. But it seems now as if her interest is divided equally between the shiny young couple and the understated attorney.
The writer herself is rather austere looking. Dark hair pulled back from her face in a tight ponytail. Strong bones. No-nonsense skirt and sweater, equally no-nonsense glasses. She looks like she might make a competent nurse. The only flourish is a pretty scarf around her neck. Not unattractive but getting on. Maybe pushing forty. Lauren wonders idly about the book she’s writing.
It’s so pleasant here, Lauren thinks, in this enchanting dining room, with the lights low and the wind howling outside, slamming at the windows, like something wanting to get in.
Dana takes another sip of the excellent wine, tears her gaze away from Matthew for a moment, and looks around the dining room. How surprising life can be.
She’s just thinking what a small world it is, when suddenly there is a loud, ominous crash.
Dana jumps a little in her seat. She notices everybody else raising their eyes from their meals, startled.
Bradley, replacing dishes over by the buffet table, smiles and says, ‘Don’t worry – that’s just the sound of snow sliding off the roof.’
‘Goodness,’ Dana says, laughing a little, a little too loudly, ‘it sounds like someone fell off the roof!’
‘Doesn’t it?’ Bradley agrees.
Riley has the alcohol to thank for being able to keep herself together. She knows she made a bit of a spectacle of herself in the lounge, knocking back wine and champagne like a sailor. But she’s a journalist; she can hold her drink. And she’s been self-medicating more than she’d care to admit these last few years, since she started going to the ugly, dangerous parts of the world.
She hadn’t enjoyed the meal. She hadn’t liked the way the attorney insinuated himself into a place at their dining table. He was so obviously interested in Gwen. That bothered her. Riley always used to be the one men were interested in, not Gwen. Riley was the striking one, the one men noticed and pursued. Not tonight. Not any more. This, perhaps more than anything else, has brought home to her just how much she’s changed.
But it’s not jealousy that makes her wary of the attorney. There’s something about him. Some memory floating around at the back of her brain, nudging at her thoughts. But she can’t grasp it. His name is familiar; there’s some whiff of scandal about it. She wishes that there were an internet connection here; she could have googled him.
Although Gwen was obviously flattered by his interest, Riley had thrown cold water on their little romance by asking him bluntly about who he was. Judging by the way he clammed up when he found out she was a journalist, she’s pretty sure she’s on to something. He’d skipped dessert and excused himself, saying that he was going to visit the library. Gwen has been quiet since he left.
She’s sorry that Gwen has to be disappointed like this, but Riley has always been protective of her, from the time they were roommates. This weekend was supposed to be about Gwen helping Riley, but Riley has slipped again into her old role. It feels good, especially for someone who has trouble getting through the most basic aspects of her day.
Riley says, ‘Shall we go up? I’m pretty tired.’
Gwen hesitates. ‘I’m not that tired, actually,’ she says. ‘I think I might go stop by the library, get a book,’ she adds, averting her eyes.
Riley is annoyed. ‘I thought you brought a book?’ she says coldly. They both know this is true. They both know this is about Gwen choosing to go up with Riley or to spend more time with the attractive lawyer. Riley wants Gwen to choose her. She wonders what kind of friend that makes her – a protective one, or a needy one?
‘Are you okay going up on your own?’ Gwen asks. ‘I won’t be too long.’
‘Oh, don’t worry about me,’ Riley says curtly. ‘I’ll be fine.’
Friday, 8:25 PM
David finds himself alone in the library, a large room in a back corner of the hotel, to the left of the grand staircase, beyond a sitting room. It’s like something out of a Victorian novel, a cross between a library and a men’s smoking room. Like the bar at the front of the hotel, it’s rather handsome. There’s a large fireplace against the west wall. Above it hangs an antique hunting rifle; above that, a buck’s head with an impressive spread of antlers. It looks down at him with a glassy eye. There’s a worn Persian carpet on the hardwood floor. An old sofa sits at a right angle to the fireplace, a pair of chairs facing it. French doors appear to open out to a veranda, but it’s hard to tell with it being so dark outside. In the corner nearest the door is a large writing desk, which David briefly admires. But what he likes most are the beautifully made bookshelves. David touches them and admires the craftsmanship that went into them. The bookshelves are stuffed with every kind of book – from old, leather-bound sets to hardcovers and tattered paperbacks. It’s all very orderly, with little brass plates reading ‘FICTION’, ‘MYSTERY’, ‘NONFICTION’, ‘HISTORY’, ‘BIOGRAPHY’. He thinks of Bradley – he suspects this is his handiwork. He pulls an interesting-looking book from a lower shelf – a coffee-table book really – full of photographs of the failed Shackleton expedition. It seems oddly suited to this room. There’s a dim overhead light, but now David also switches on a lamp resting on a side table and sits down in the deep leather armchair. What could be nicer than to sit by a fire, in this lovely room, and read about the struggles of the ill-fated crew of the Endurance at the South Pole? But the fire hasn’t been lit, and the room is a bit chilly.
He thinks regretfully of Gwen. How unfortunate that her friend is a damned journalist with the Times. He will stay away from both of them for the rest of the weekend. He doesn’t need anyone dredging up his past.