‘Are you looking to join this class?’ she asked as if people peeping into the studio happened all the time. ‘Are you a member?’
When I couldn’t think fast enough, she found words for me.
‘First baby?’ she said. ‘Everyone is always a little nervous about their first.’
I smiled.
She took my name and number and said she’d give me a call once she’d checked in with the instructor. It was only as I walked away that I wished I’d given her my real name. Pilates might be enjoyable. It’s such a convenient location – just around the corner from Luke and Darcy Hogan’s house. And since I’m going to be in the area plenty soon . . .
I’m dragged back to the here and now by my obsession with that man at the bar. He’s in his early sixties, I know; tall, charismatic and with a full head of silver hair. His tailored suit is offset by a dazzlingly white shirt, and he adjusts his polka-dot dicky bow every so often – I can only imagine it’s uncomfortably tight. Do people really wear dicky bows any more, I wonder. The man at the bar is certainly alone in wearing one tonight. But somehow, instead of appearing the odd one out, every other man seems underdressed in comparison. He laughs among friends, or colleagues – I’m not sure which they are, and they all guzzle gin much too quickly.
He doesn’t notice me watching. At one point a blonde woman in his circle glances my way and I stiffen, mistaking her for Darcy Hogan for a moment. But I quickly realise I’m wrong. The woman at the bar isn’t pregnant. She also doesn’t pay me any attention. To her I’m just another inconsequential woman, in an expensive dress, attending the evening’s event.
The man at the bar didn’t notice me watching him yesterday either in the lobby. He sat opposite Luke Hogan for over an hour. They both had their laptops open in front of them and even though there was minimal paper being shared it was obvious, to anyone glancing their way, that they were in the middle of a business meeting.
It was easy to study him in the lobby. I could hide behind my own laptop, sipping coffee as I cast my eyes over the screen to scrutinise him. It’s harder to maintain a view of him now. The offensively upmarket bar is heaving with people. Each more glamorous than the next in their expensive suits and elegant dresses. It’s the type of place Darcy belongs and I don’t. The hotel decor is equally over the top, with huge leafy green plants dotted sporadically throughout in oversized gold pots. No doubt they cost a fortune, but to me they are vulgar and cheap, and a bloody nuisance.
Every so often the man moves, just a fraction, tossing his head back to laugh perhaps or twisting at an angle to catch the bartender’s attention. And for a moment I lose him, as my line of vision is obscured by a large Grecian statue next to the bar.
‘Can I get you anything else?’ someone asks over my shoulder.
I shake my head without looking to see who’s speaking to me. It’s probably the annoying person who asked me the same question an hour ago. I gave her my attention then and I lost sight of the man. I had to hurry into the lobby, teetering on high heels that I’m not used to wearing. Thankfully I caught sight of him coming out of the loos, but I’m not risking taking my eyes off him again.
‘Are you a guest of the hotel, miss?’ she asks.
Oh for God’s sake.
‘Yes,’ I say, waving my hand to dismiss her. ‘Now please . . .’
She doesn’t say anything else and soon I can no longer feel her shadow hovering over me.
Finally, the man at the bar glances my way and smiles. He’s noticed me at last. I sit a little straighter, making sure the plunging neckline of my dress is given optimum exposure, and I smile back. But he’s quickly distracted again by the blonde woman. I try to read her lips, but it’s not a skill I possess.
I’m sniggering to myself – misreading something to do with baked potatoes and wellington boots – when the voice from earlier interrupts me.
‘Sorry to disturb you,’ she says, and there’s a noticeable wobble in her tone as if I make her uncomfortable. I’m disappointed. The last thing I want to seem this evening is unapproachable. I probably shouldn’t have grunted at her earlier. I try harder now.
‘Yes,’ I say, turning my head towards the sound of her voice and very reluctantly flicking my eyes off the man and the blonde and on to her.
She’s carrying a single glass of red wine in the centre of a very shiny silver tray. The glass is different to the one already in front of me. Its stem is narrower and taller and the glass is finer and rounder. This isn’t house wine, I think, it’s the expensive stuff from the subtly lit, golden shelf behind the bar.
‘It’s from the gentleman at the bar,’ she says, pointing.
I glance back at the man. The blonde woman is gone, at last. He’s alone, swirling some lonely ice around the bottom of an almost-empty glass. He’s watching me nearly as intently as I’ve watched him for the past goodness knows how long.
‘Hmm,’ I say, flicking my hair back, off my shoulders. ‘I don’t usually accept drinks from strange men.’
‘Oh Mr Buckley isn’t a creep,’ she says quickly, as if it’s in her job description to defend him – or to reassure me. ‘He’s the owner of the hotel. He’s a lovely man. A really nice boss too.’
‘The owner. Wow,’ I say, my eyes wide as if I didn’t already know.
‘Yup. He bought this place a few years ago. It was a real tip before then. Now it’s a five-star.’
‘Hmm.’
She reaches for the glass while looking at me and I nod, letting her know it’s fine to set it down on my table.
‘Can I tell Mr Buckley it’s okay to join you so?’ she asks.
‘Does Mr Buckley usually join women, on their own, and buy them wine?’
She shuffles awkwardly. ‘He never does this,’ she says. ‘I think you’re just lucky.’
I swallow and try to hide my disgust at her idea of luck. Doesn’t she see that Mr Buckley is old enough to be my father?
‘I should probably warn you . . .’ Her eyes narrow and she lowers her voice. ‘He’s a little bit tipsy.’
I smile. Perfect.
I watch as he clicks his fingers and within seconds the barman replaces the empty glass in his hand with a new one, a slice of lime wedged among chunky ice cubes. He takes a large mouthful and walks towards me.
The girl beside me bends, and whispers in my ear. ‘He’s Andrew by the way. His name is Andrew Buckley.’
I suppress a smile. I know.
I uncross my legs as he walks closer. The girl winks at me, and leaves. And I know she wishes she was in my shoes. Silly girl. I cross my legs again, switching the one on top, and the slit in my dress gapes, exposing my tanned calves and lower thigh. I don’t miss Andrew’s gaze dropping to the parted material before he shakes his head as he disapproves and looks away.
‘Do you mind if I join you?’ he asks, placing his hand on the back of the chair opposite me, and I notice he’s not wearing his wedding ring. I wonder when he stopped.
‘Be my guest,’ I say, enjoying the irony – this is his hotel, after all.
He places his drink on the table and drunkenly helps himself to the seat opposite me. His misty eyes are on me, waiting for me to introduce myself.