But I can’t.
Not with her standing there like aVoguecover brought to life, statuesque and smug, and me still blotchy-cheeked, slightly cheese-scented, barely held together by hairspray and what’s left of my dignity.
So instead, I smile. Too wide. Too bright. Practically blinding.
“I think I need to freshen up,” I say, already backing away.
Helen leans in slightly as I pass, lowering her voice just enough to make sure only I hear it.
“Good idea,” she croons, faux-sweet. “I thought I smelled Gorgonzola.”
It hits like a slap.
I don’t stop. I don’t turn. I just keep walking, chin high, praying no one can see my hands shaking.
Because if I open my mouth right now, the only thing that’ll come out is a strangled noise somewhere between a scream, a sob, and a feral howl, and I’ll be damned if I give Helen that satisfaction.
The bathroom is blissfully empty.
For the first time in what feels like hours, I’m alone. No ridiculous masks. No wannabe BAFTA dramatics. No towering goddesses making passive-aggressive cheese jokes with their cheekbones.
I grip the edge of the marble sink and let out a long, shaky breath.
The face staring back at me is flushed, sweaty, and has the haunted look of someone who mistook mascara and mild hysteria for sex appeal.
“Of course he doesn’t like you.” I mutter, dabbing at my under-eyes with a damp tissue. “She’s a lawyer-pinup hybrid who probably does yoga in her sleep and files court briefs in stilettos.”
My voice wobbles. Damn it.
“Why would he ever look at someone like me when he can have her? I’m not the love interest; I’m the blooper reel they play after the credits.”
Tears are now Niagara-level, streaming down my face. I swipe at them furiously.
“Nope,” I whisper. “I’m done. Steal a bottle of wine, Hayley. Crawl back to your room, and fully embrace your destiny as the woman who dies alone… surrounded by cats and unfinished scrapbooks.”
I’m about to leave when…
Flush.
I freeze.
The stall door creaks open and out steps Lily’s grandma, still wearing her enormous fascinator and clutching a sequinned handbag like it holds the family silver.
She takes me in with one slow sweep of her eyes. Then, with the kind of amused clarity only possessed by octogenarians and drunk prophets, says, “Bit dramatic for a pee, love.”
I blink.
She calmly reaches for a paper towel, hands it to me, then rests a surprisingly steady hand on my shoulder.
“Men are daft. Always have been. Always will be. But you? You’re brilliant. And if he can’t see that, he’s got less sense than my late husband, and that man once superglued his hand to a roast chicken.”
A startled hiccupy laugh escapes me.
“There she is,” she says with a satisfied nod, giving my shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Don’t let some size-six barrister with a Botox addiction make you forget what you’re made of. Now, fix your face, fluff your hair, and go show that lawyer bitch how a real woman carries herself.”
And with that, she tosses her towel, adjusts her fascinator, and sweeps out like a war general who’s swapped the battlefield for bingo and never lost the instinct to command.
I stare after her, awestruck.
