Hens Reunited by Lucy Diamond

clumsily now, disentangling herself from Steve’s embrace and sending a scented tidal wave sloshing over the curved edge of the bath. ‘Just going to check out the minibar,’ she mumbled, clambering out inelegantly. ‘Want anything?’
    Loaded question. He looked at her and, for a moment, the pair of them were frozen in this awful tableau while she waited for his reply. Then he spoke. ‘Complete annihilation,’ he said. ‘Whatever they’ve got.’
    Complete annihilation? God. That sounded pretty desperate. A broken man – and she’d done the breaking. Was it possible to mend the pieces of their relationship, glue them carefully back together, or were things shattered beyond repair?
    It was Sunday now, and things still felt messy. Breakfast on Saturday had been a muted affair; a fry-up and coffee in the glitzy hotel restaurant, polite quiet conversation on neutral territory, flicking through the paper. Steve’s eyes were the giveaway. He had sparkly eyes, Steve, blue-grey with rogue flecks of yellow, light and amused, the skin at the edges frayed with laughter lines. But his eyes were dull that morning, his face sagging slightly. He hadn’t bothered to shave, and his iron-filing stubble seemed a reproach; a don’t-kiss-me statement. Or was she being paranoid?
    She’d sat there barely able to eat her egg on toast, feeling as if she were stewing inside with guilt. She was actually starting to wish she’d said yes now, if only to evaporate the choking melancholic haze that hung over them. If she’d said yes, it wasn’t as if they’d necessarily have to do anything about getting married for years. People had long engagements, didn’t they? Just saying yes didn’t mean you actually had to go through with it. And as for the children bit . . . Well. She’d have to work up to that one. Or not. Maybe she could put that conversation off for a while, too. Say a few years . . .
    Her heart thumped the more she thought about it. It wasn’t too late, was it? Could she backtrack, say that she’d reconsidered?
    She sat forward in her chair. ‘Steve,’ she said suddenly. ‘I’ve been thinking—’
    ‘So have I,’ he said, lifting his eyes to hers for what felt like the first time all morning. ‘I think I’m going to move out for a bit.’
    Crash. She felt faint, reeling from the slap of his words. She gripped the sides of the table as if the room were moving. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t want you to.’
    ‘I don’t really want to either,’ he admitted. His voice was dulled with sadness. ‘But I need a bit of space. I need to think about . . . what we said last night. Or rather, what we didn’t say.’
    ‘No, wait,’ she said feverishly. This was all wrong. She could see the whole chain of events playing out in her head – the proposal, the rejection, the difficult silence, the guilt shag . . . each knocking the next one along, like toppling dominoes. She hadn’t expected the split. The last domino of all, falling flat on its face with a smack.
    Cause and effect, her maths brain said. Question and answer. The wrong answer.
    Her cutlery fell from her fingers onto the plate. Solid silver against china, clatter, clatter. ‘Steve, listen, I—’ She was trying to dredge up the right words, willing them to come to her tongue, but her brain felt overpowered by what he’d just said. ‘I wish I’d said yes!’ she burst out. Her throat constricted, tears dangerously close. ‘Is it too late to say yes?’
    He looked at her deadpan. ‘Katie . . . you said no,’ he reminded her. ‘You made it pretty clear last night.’ He hesitated, looking wretched for a moment, then got to his feet. ‘I’m going to pack my stuff. You stay as long as you like, I’ve paid for the room until eleven. And . . . and I’ll call you in a few days to talk.’
    She got up too, and clutched at his hand. ‘No, wait! You can’t go yet! Can’t we talk about it? You haven’t even finished your breakfast!’ It was so