All right, women could be bores but never such bores as men, Shelley thought. The neighbours seated to her left and right were the usual, old, well-meaning bores, pillars of the Lafferton Masonic Lodge, intent on telling her everything about their working lives. Not even the grandchildren, she thought, accepting a second refill of Côtes du Rhône from the waiter, not even holidays. Why do they think I’m interested in taxes? Why do they think I want to know about traffic regulation? Why do they never ask a single question about me?
The food was edible but undistinguished, the wines better than at most of these deadly events. She looked for Tim and saw him listening with interest to the woman on his left, a large woman in electric-blue lace with eyeshadow to match. Tim knew how to behave at dinners, taking equal notice of the one on his right, then on his left, and never, ever ignoring women.
She could not catch his eye but then she saw Richard Serrailler looking in her direction. Shelley smiled slightly. Richard winked.
She drank half her glass of red wine quickly. The noise level had risen, the main course plates were being cleared away with too much clatter. It was only nine thirty. Another couple of hours had to drag by before they could think of leaving.
Between the dessert and the coffee, Shelley got up, smiling to her neighbours vaguely, and headed for the cloakrooms, through the wide doors of the banqueting room and down a flight of stairs. The buzz from the big room was shut out and it was blessedly quiet. Corridors to hotel rooms went off left and right, all empty. Even the turn-down teams had finished and left. Who, in heaven’s name, designed cloakrooms like this? A small lobby led into a huge plush-carpeted, plush-wallpapered outer room, with lines of mirrors, pink downlit basins, scent and handcream in expensive brand bottles that were probably only refilled with the cheapest, sets of tortoiseshell-backed brushes that no one used. Gilt chairs. Two plush-covered sofas.
She had not needed to come down here, she would just have gone mad if she hadn’t got away for a few minutes.
She took her comb and hairspray out and as she did so, the door opened an inch or two. Shelley glanced in the mirror. Probably some other woman bored out of her skull. ‘Ladies’ night’ – how many ‘ladies’ actually wanted or enjoyed it?
The door opened another inch.
‘Richard? This is the Ladies!’
He came in swiftly, and immediately took one of the gold chairs and jammed it against the door handle. Shelley stared at him.
‘What the hell are you doing?’
‘Now now … you know perfectly well. Naughty girl.’
She was still in a state of confusion when he had grabbed her round the waist and pushed her onto a sofa.
‘For God’s sake, Richard, you’re drunk – get out of here, what are you thinking?’
‘You know full well what I’m thinking – exactly the same as you, and no, I am not drunk. Careful not to be or it would have spoiled everything.’
The next few minutes were like none Shelley had ever known. She felt Richard’s strength and determination, panicked, bit him, lashed out, only to have him press his hand on her mouth, swearing.
‘Listen, it’s extremely ill-mannered of you to flirt with me, send out clear signals, to the extent of leading me out of the dining room with an obvious look …’
She tried to speak, furious and struggling, but his hand pressed harder and then she was afraid that he might actually smother her. She went limp.
His knee was in her groin, his hand pushing up her skirt. Fear, disbelief, shock, nausea, fury … but she knew better than to try and fight such focused strength and instead prayed for someone to come in, rattle the knob, push the door hard enough to overturn the chair. But no one came. The room was oddly silent, muffled by the plush furnishings. She heard a sound coming from her own throat, and then the grunts from his, tried to struggle again and felt his elbow jab her so hard in the stomach that for a few seconds she could not breathe.
And all the time, round and round in her head, round and round, was the thought that he had spoken the truth, that she had flirted with him, not just tonight but often in the past, exchanged looks, let his hand linger on her shoulder or her back, smiled with her eyes looking into his. What did she expect then? What else did she expect?