And that girl. She's absolutely certain it was his ex-girlfriend—the casual way she'd sought him out, the comforting hand on his arm. The only thing she's not certain about is the ex part. There was something so possessive about the way she looked at him, like she was laying claim to him even from a distance.
Hadley slumps against the side of a red telephone booth, cringing at how silly she must have seemed, seeking him out in the garden like that. She tries not to imagine what they must be saying about her now, but the possibilities seep into her thoughts anyway: Oliver shrugging in answer to the girl's question, identifying Hadley as some girl he met on the plane.
All morning she'd been carrying with her the memory of the previous night, the thought of Oliver acting as a shield against the day, but now it's all been ruined. Even the memory of that last kiss isn't enough to comfort her. Because she'll probably never see him again, and the way they parted is enough to make her want to curl up in a little ball right here on the street corner.
The phone begins to ring in her hand, and she looks down to see Dad's number on the screen.
"Where are you?" he asks when she picks up, and she looks left and then right down the street.
"I'm almost there," she says, not entirely sure where exactly there is.
"Where you have been?" he asks, and the way he says it, his voice tight, Hadley can tell he's furious. For the millionth time today she wishes she could just go home, but she still has the reception to get through, and a dance with her angry father, everyone staring at them; she still has to wish the couple well and suffer through the cake and then spend seven hours traveling back across the Atlantic beside someone who will not draw her a duck on a napkin, who will not steal her a small bottle of whiskey, who will not try to kiss her by the bathrooms.
"I had to go see a friend," she explains, and Dad grunts.
"What's next? Off to see one of your pals in Paris?"
"Dad."
He sighs. "Your timing could have been better, Hadley."
"I know."
"I was worried," he admits, and she can hear the harshness in his voice beginning to subside. Somehow, she'd been so focused on getting to Oliver that it hadn't really occurred to her that Dad might be concerned. Angry, yes; but worried? It's been so long since he played the role of anxious parent, and besides, he's in the middle of his own wedding. But now she can see how her leaving might have frightened him, and she finds herself softening, too.
"I wasn't thinking," she says. "I'm sorry."
"How long till you get here?"
"Not long," she says. "Not long at all."
He sighs again. "Good."
"But Dad?"
"Yeah?"
"Can you remind me where I'm going?"
Ten minutes later, with the help of his directions, Hadley finds herself in the lobby of the Kensington Arms Hotel, a sprawling mansion that seems out of place amid the crowded city streets, like it was plucked from a country estate and dropped at random here in London. The floors are made of black-and-white marble, alternating like an oversized checkerboard, and there's a great curving staircase with brass railings that stretches up beyond the chandeliered ceiling. Each time someone enters through the revolving doors, the faint scent of cut grass drifts in, too, the air outside heavy with humidity.
When she catches sight of herself in one of the ornate mirrors hanging behind the front desk, Hadley quickly lowers her eyes again. Her fellow bridesmaids will be disappointed when they see that their hard work from earlier has been ruined; her dress is so wrinkled it looks like she's been carrying it around in her purse all day, and her hair—which had been so perfectly styled—is now coming undone, stray wisps falling across her face, the bun in the back sagging badly.
