Wedding Night (17 page)

“Divorced.”

“Me too. Divorced. So. We know.”

“About what?”

“Sex.” I realize that came out wrong. “Marriage,” I amend.

Lorcan thinks for a moment, sipping his drink. “The more I think back over the last few years,” he says slowly, “the less I feel I know about marriage. Sex, on the other hand, I would hope I’ve nailed.”

The gin has gone straight to my head. I can feel it buzzing around, loosening my tongue.

“I’m sure you have,” I hear myself saying.

The air seems to thicken in the silence. A little too late, I realize I’ve just told a total stranger that I’m sure he’s good in bed. Do I backtrack? Qualify in some way?

No. Move on. I cast around for something anodyne, but it’s Lorcan who speaks next.

“Since we’re speaking frankly—how’ve you found it? Your divorce? Total nightmare?”

Have I found my divorce a total nightmare?

I open my mouth and draw in a deep, long breath, automatically reaching for the memory stick round my neck. Then I stop.

Not bitter, Fliss.
Not
bitter. Sweet. I need to think spun sugar, candy, flowers, fluffy lambs, Julie Andrews.…

“Oh, you know.” I give him a saccharine smile. “These things happen.”

“How long ago was it?”

“Still happening.” My smile broadens. “Should be sorted soon.”

“And you’re
smiling
?” He sounds incredulous.

“I like to be Zen about it.” I nod several times. “Stay calm, move on. Look on the bright side. Don’t dwell.”

“Wow.” Lorcan’s eyes have widened. “I’m impressed. Mine was four years ago. Still hurts.”

“That’s a real pity,” I manage. “Poor you.”

My fake smile is nearly killing me. I want to ask him how it still hurts and what happened and shall we compare ways in which our exes are total louses? I’m desperate to spill out all the details and talk incessantly about it until I hear from him what I need to hear, i.e., that I’m in the right about everything and Daniel is in the wrong.

Which, no doubt, is why Barnaby gave me a talking-to.

He’s always right. Bastard.

“So. Um. Shall I get some more drinks?” I reach for my bag and hurriedly pull out my purse.

Argh.
No
.

The purse flipped up as I tugged it out and with it came the contents of my Durex variety pack. Ribbed for Extra Pleasure falls on the table, and a Pleasuremax lands in Lorcan’s drink, splashing him in the face. A Fetherlite has fallen on top of our bowl of peanuts.

“Oh!” I quickly start grabbing them. “Those aren’t—They were for my son’s school project.”

“Ah.” Lorcan nods, politely retrieving the Pleasuremax from his drink and handing it to me. “How old’s your son?”

“Seven.”

“Seven?”
He looks scandalized.

“It’s … Long story.” I wince as he hands me the dripping condom. “Let me get you another drink. I’m so sorry.” Automatically I’ve started drying the Pleasuremax with a paper napkin.

“I’d probably chuck that one,” says Lorcan. “Unless you’re desperate.”

I glance up sharply. He looks deadpan but there’s something about his voice that makes me want to laugh.

“It’s fine,” I counter. “Waste not, want not.” I stuff it back
into my bag. “Another gin? Without the contraceptive garnish?”

“I’ll get them.” He leans back, tilting his chair to signal at the waiter, and I find my eyes running over his long, lean body. I don’t know if it’s the gin or the frisson of having told him he’s good in bed or this whole weird situation, but I’m becoming a little fixated. I’m mapping myself onto him in my head. Bit by bit. What would those hands feel like on my skin? What would his hair feel like between my fingers? His jaw is faintly stubbled, which is good. I like friction. I like spark. That’s what I’m feeling between us. The right kind of spark.

I predict he’s slow and determined in bed. Focused. Takes sex as seriously as he takes fixing his friend’s love life.

Did I just say
predict
? What exactly am I thinking myself into here?

As Lorcan lets the chair rest back on the ground, he looks at me and his eyelids flicker. He’s thinking something too. His eyes keep skimming over my legs and I casually shift in my seat so that my skirt rucks a little higher.

I bet he leaves teeth marks. No idea why. I just feel it instinctively.

I don’t know what to say. I can’t find any breezy conversational gambits in my head. I want to drink two more gins, I decide. Two gins should do it. And then …

“So.” I break the silence.

“So.” Lorcan nods, then adds casually, “Do you have to get back for your son?”

“Not tonight. He’s sleeping over at a friend’s.”

“Ah.”

And now he looks directly at me and my throat is suddenly tight with longing. It’s been too long. Far too long. Not
that I’ll admit that to him. If he asks, I’ll say casually,
Oh, I had a recent short-term relationship that didn’t work out
. Easy. Normal. Not:
I’ve been so alone, so stressed, I’m totally gagging for it, not just the sex but the touching and the intimacy and the feeling of another human being beside me, holding me, even if it’s only for a night or half a night or some portion of a night
.

That’s what I
won’t
say.

A waitress comes up with our fresh drinks. She sets them down and then eyes my bouquet, followed by Lorcan’s buttonhole. “Oh! Are you two getting married?”

I can’t help bursting into laughter. Of all the questions.

“No. No. Not at all.”

“Definitely not,” Lorcan affirms.

“Only we have a special champagne deal for wedding parties,” she persists. “We get so many, what with the registry office down the road. Are you being joined by the bride and groom?”

“Actually, we’re anti-marriage,” I say. “Our motto is: make love, not vows.”

“Here’s to that.” Lorcan lifts his glass, his eyes glinting.

The waitress looks from Lorcan to me, laughs uncertainly, then retreats. I down about half my glass. My head is gently spinning and I feel another surge of longing. I’m imagining his lips on mine, his hands ripping off my dress.…

Oh God. Get a grip, Fliss. He’s probably imagining his bus home.

I look away again and stir my drink, playing for time. I can never stand this uncertain stage of meeting a man, when you have no idea how things are going. You’re chugging up the slow-climb roller coaster of a date. You know how far up you are, but you don’t know how far he is, or even if he’s
really with you. Maybe he’s mentally heading in the other direction. Here I am, already midway through sexual fantasy number 53, but he could be about to wrap up politely and head home.

“Would you like to go somewhere else?” Lorcan says abruptly, and my stomach lurches in anticipation.
Somewhere else
. Where?

“That would be great, yes.” I force myself to sound low key and chilled. “What kind of place?”

He frowns deeply, attacking his ice cubes with his stirrer, as though he has no idea where to start tackling this profound and complex question.

“We could eat,” he says finally, with no enthusiasm. “Sushi, maybe. Or …”

“Or we could not eat.”

He looks up, his guard finally down, and I feel a delicious shiver. He’s like a mirror image of me. He has a hungry look in his eye. A desperate longing. He wants to devour something, and I don’t think it’s sushi.

“That could work,” he says, his eyes flicking to my legs again. Leg man, clearly.

“So … where do you live?” I ask lightly, as though it’s a totally unrelated question.

“Not too far.”

His eyes are now locked on mine. OK, we’ve reached the top. Together. I can see the view stretching ahead. I can’t help an exhilarated little smile. I think we’re in for a good time.

7
FLISS

I’m half awake. I think. Oh God. My head hurts.

So many thoughts. Where do I start? Remembered sensations are crowding out my brain in a blur. And sudden flashes: intense, astonishing memories like squeezes of lemon. Him. Me. Under. Over … Suddenly I realize I’m mentally intoning Noah’s old picture book,
Opposites Are Fun!
Inside. Outside. This way. That way.

But now the fun’s over. It must be morning, if the light dazzling my eyelids is a clue. I’m lying, one leg thrown over the duvet, not quite daring to open my eyes. You. Me. Then. Now. Oh God,
now
.

I open one eye a chink and get an eyeful of beige duvet. Ah yes. I remember the beige duvet from last night. Clearly the ex-wife took all the White Company Egyptian cotton and he went to the nearest Linen for Divorced Men store. My head is throbbing, and after a moment the beige starts to shimmer in front of my eyes. So I close them and roll onto my back. I haven’t had a one-night stand in a long time. A looooong
time. I’ve forgotten how they go. Awkward kiss? Exchange numbers? Coffee?

Coffee. I could do with the coffee.

“Morning.” The sound of his rumbly voice finally brings me into reality. He’s here. In the room.

“Oh. Um.” I raise myself onto an elbow, playing for time, hastily rubbing sleep from my eyes. “Hello.”

Hello. Goodbye.

Pulling the duvet around me, I sit up, trying to smile, although my face feels creaky. Lorcan is fully dressed in a suit and tie, holding out a mug. I blink at him for a moment, trying to reconcile the today-him with the last-night-him. Did I
dream
some of that stuff?

“Cup of tea?” The mug he’s proffering is cheap and striped. From Crockery for Divorced Men, I’m guessing.

“Oh.” I grimace. “Sorry. Don’t do tea. Water’s fine.”

“Coffee?”

“I’d
love
a coffee. And a shower?”

And a change of clothes. And those documents I left at home and the Molton Brown gift set for Elise’s birthday … My brain is slowly starting to crank into gear. This was really not a sensible move. I’ll have to whiz back home, postpone my nine a.m. phone interview.… I’m already searching around for my phone. I need to call Sebastian’s house, too, and say good morning to Noah.

My eye falls on the purple bridesmaid’s dress. Double shit.

“Bathroom’s this way.” Lorcan gestures out the door.

“Thanks.” I gather up the duvet and try to wrap it around myself elegantly, like an actress in a sitcom bedroom scene, but it’s so heavy it’s like trying to wear a polar bear. With an almighty effort I drag it off the bed, take one step, and immediately
trip over, bumping into a bureau and hitting my elbow.

“Ow!”

“Dressing gown?” He holds out a rather swanky paisley number. I guess the wife couldn’t swipe that.

I hesitate a moment. Wearing his dressing gown seems a bit cutesy. A bit
Let me put on your great big manly shirt and allow the sleeves to flap endearingly around my fingers
. But I have no choice.

“Thanks.”

He averts his eyes politely, like a massage therapist in a spa—i.e., completely pointlessly, since he’s seen it all—and I slip into the gown.

“I’m sensing you’re a coffee snob.” He raises his eyebrows. “Would I be right?”

I open my mouth to say, “Oh no, anything’s fine!” Then I stop. I
am
a coffee snob. And I’m a tad hungover. And, truth is, I’d rather have no coffee than some depressing cup of dishwater.

“Kind of. But don’t worry. I’ll have a two-second shower and get out of here—”

“I’ll go out for it.”

“No!”

“It’ll take two seconds. Same as your shower.”

He disappears, and I start to look around for my handbag. I’ve got a hairbrush in there. And some hand cream, which could double up as moisturizer. As my gaze rakes around the room, I find myself wondering if I like him. Whether I might see him again. Whether this might even become … a thing?

Not a
serious
thing. I’m mid-divorce; it would be nuts to leap into a relationship. But it was good last night. Even if I’m only remembering half of it accurately, that half was enough
to want to reprise it. Maybe we could have some kind of regular arrangement, I find myself thinking. Every month, like a book club.

Where
is
my bag? I wander farther into the room and see a fencing mask hanging on a hook. There’s a sword too, or whatever they call them. I’ve always liked the idea of fencing. Oh, I can’t resist. Gingerly, I take the thing off its hook and put it on. There’s a mirror hung on the wall, and I head over to it, brandishing the sword.

“Arise, Sir Thingummy,” I say to my reflection. “Haaa-yah!” I do a kung fu action at myself, and the paisley dressing gown flaps round my ankles.

Now I’ve got the giggles. And suddenly I want to share this ridiculous moment with Lottie. I pull out my phone and speed-dial her.

“Hi, Fliss!” she answers at once. “OK, I’m on the
Brides
website. Veil or no veil? I think veil. What about a train?”

I blink at the phone, wanting to laugh. She’s become a bridezilla. Naturally. The great thing about Lottie is she doesn’t bear grudges or dwell when she’s thwarted in life. She just changes direction and charges off, eyes on the horizon.

“Veil.”

“What?”

“Veil.” I realize my voice is muffled in the helmet and shove it up to the top of my head. “
Veil
. So, you called the wedding off OK? Ben didn’t mind?”

“I had to talk him into it, but he was OK in the end. He said he only wanted what I wanted.”

“Did you take your honeymoon night at the Savoy anyway?”

“No!” She sounds shocked. “I told you, we’re waiting till we’re married!”

Damn. She’s still on that crazy plan. I was hoping the lust goggles might have slipped a little.

“And Ben’s happy with that?” I can’t help sounding skeptical.

“Ben wants
me
to be happy.” Lottie’s voice takes on a familiar, syrupy tone. “You know what? I’m so glad we talked, Fliss. The wedding’s going to be
so
much nicer. And the plus is: you and Ben can meet each other first!”

“Gosh, introduce him to your family
before
you walk up the aisle and commit your life to him forever? Are you sure about that?”