Wedding Night (19 page)

I ring off and drum my fingers, still tense. Even at my quickest, I won’t get out there for a good twenty-four hours. Lottie is already on her way to the airport. She’ll be on today’s afternoon flight. She’ll get to the hotel by this evening. The Oyster Suite will be there, waiting, with its super-king bed and sunken Jacuzzi and champagne.

How many people conceive a baby on their wedding night? Could I find this out from Google? I type in
conceive baby first night honeymoon
, then restlessly cancel it. Google isn’t the point. Lottie’s the point. If only I could stop them. If only I could get in there before they … What’s the word? Consummate it.

“Consummate.” The word provokes a vague memory. What was it again? I blink, trying to recall. Oh yes, Barnaby telling me about annulments. I can hear his voice again:
It means the contract is null and void. The marriage never existed
.

The marriage never existed!

This is it.
This
is the answer. Annulment! The loveliest word in the English language. The solution to everything. No divorce. No legal tussle. Just blink and it’s over. It never happened.

I need to do this for Lottie. I need to get her an opt-out. But how on earth can I achieve it? What can I— How can I— How does one—

And then a new idea zings across my brain.

I feel almost breathless as I consider it. I can’t believe I’m thinking this. It’s even more heinous and extreme than gatecrashing a honeymoon, but it would solve everything.

No. I can’t. I mean, I
can’t
. On every level. It’s impossible. And wrong. Anyone who did this to her own sister would be some kind of monster.

OK. So I’m a monster.

My fingers are actually trembling as I pick up the phone. I’m not sure if it’s with trepidation or determination.

“Amba Hotel, VIP Services, how may I help you?”

“Hi,” I say, my voice a bit jumpy. “Could I please speak to Nico Demetriou? Tell him it’s Fliss Graveney from
Pincher Travel Review
. Tell him … it’s important.”

As I’m put on hold, I picture Nico, all five foot three of him, his suit straining against his stomach. I knew Nico at the Mandarin Oriental in Athens and before that at Sandals in Barbados. He’s been in hotels all his life, working his way up from bellboy, and he’s now VIP concierge at the Amba. I can see him now, bustling across the marble floor of the lobby in his patent shoes, his eyes always sharply darting around.

His specialty is “Guest Experience.” Whether it’s a personalized cocktail, a helicopter trip, swimming with dolphins, or a troupe of belly dancers in your room, he’ll fix it. If I could have any partner in crime, it would be Nico.

“Fliss!” His voice booms happily down the phone. “I have heard this very minute that you are planning to pay us a visit?”

“Yes. I’ll arrive tomorrow night, I hope.”

“We are honored to see you again so soon! Can I assist you with anything in particular? Or perhaps this is a personal visit?”

I can hear the question in his voice. A hint of suspicion. Why am I coming back? What’s up?

“It’s kind of personal.” I pause, marshaling my words. “Nico, I have a favor to ask. My sister is heading out to the Amba today. She’s just got married. She’s on honeymoon.”

“Wonderful!” His voice almost blasts me away. “Your sister will have the holiday of her lifetime. I will appoint my most trusted butler for her benefit. We will meet her on arrival, and over a glass of champagne we will tailor-make her experience. Perhaps an upgrade, perhaps a special dinner—”

“Nico, no. You don’t understand. I mean, that sounds wonderful. But I have a different favor to ask you.” I twist my fingers together. “It’s … unusual.”

“I have been in this job for many years,” says Nico kindly. “Nothing is unusual for me, Nico. You wish to surprise her? You would like me to place a present in her room? You would like me to arrange a couples’ massage on the beach in a private cabana?”

“Not exactly.”

Oh God. How do I put this?

Come on, Fliss. Just say it.

“I want you to stop them from having sex,” I say in a rush.

There’s absolute silence down the line. I’ve confounded even Nico.

“Fliss, repeat to me your request again,” he says at last. “I fear I have not understood.”

I fear he has.

“I want you to stop them from having sex,” I repeat, enunciating as clearly as I can. “No sex. No wedding night. At
least, not till I get out there. Do whatever you can. Put them in separate rooms. Distract them. Kidnap one of them. Whatever it takes.”

“But they are on their honeymoon.” He sounds utterly flummoxed.

“I know. And that’s why.”

“You are trying to disrupt your own sister’s wedding night?” His voice rises in shock. “You are trying to come between a man and his new wife? Who have been joined before God?”

I should have explained this better.

“Nico, she’s rushed into this marriage. And it wasn’t before God! It’s a big, stupid mistake. I need to talk to her. I’m flying out as soon as I can, but in the meantime, if we can just keep them apart …”

“Does she not like the fellow?”

“She likes him very much.” I wince. “In fact, she’s kind of desperate to leap into bed with him. So it’s going to be a challenge to stop them.”

There’s another silence. I can only imagine Nico’s perplexed expression.

“Fliss, I’m afraid I cannot agree to this strange request,” he says finally. “I can, however, offer your sister a complimentary dinner at the chef’s table at our five-star seafood restaurant—”

“Nico, please.
Please
listen,” I cut across him desperately. “This is my little sister, OK? She was dumped by the man she loves and she rushed into marriage like a kind of revenge. She barely knows this guy. Now she’s talking about getting pregnant. I’ve never even met him, but apparently he’s a flake. Imagine if your daughter was letting her life be ruined by the wrong guy. You’d do everything you could to stop it, wouldn’t you?”

I’ve met Nico’s daughter, Maya. She’s an adorable ten-year-old with ribbons in her hair. Surely that will get to him?

“If they don’t have sex, the marriage can be annulled.” I spell it out for him. “It won’t be legally consummated. But if they
do—
”

“If they do, it is their business!” Nico sounds at the end of his tether. “This is a hotel, Fliss, not a prison! I cannot constantly supervise my guests’ whereabouts! I cannot monitor their … activity.”

“You’re telling me you
couldn’t
do it?” I throw down the challenge. “You couldn’t stop them from getting it on for twenty-four hours?”

The thing about Nico is, he prides himself on being able to solve any problem.
Any
problem. I bet he’s already imagining how he’d do it.

“If you can do this for me, I’ll be
eternally
grateful.” I lower my voice. “And of course I’ll express my gratitude by reviewing the hotel again. Five stars. Guaranteed.”

“We have already had the privilege of a five-star review in your magazine,” he bats me back.

“Six stars, then,” I improvise. “I’ll invent a new category, just for you. ‘The new world-class super-luxe.’ And I’ll flag the hotel on the front cover. Do you know how much that’s worth? Do you know how pleased your directors would be?”

“Fliss, I understand your dilemma,” Nico shoots back. “However, you must realize that I cannot possibly interfere with guests’ private lives, especially when they are here to enjoy their honeymoon!”

He sounds fairly resolute. I’m going to have to pull something pretty massive out of the bag.

“OK!” I drop my voice still lower. “
Listen
. If you help me out with this, I’ll publish a profile of you in the magazine.
You personally, Nico Demetriou. I’ll call you … the secret of the Amba’s success. The most prized asset of the hotel. The go-to VIP manager. Everyone in the industry will see it.
Everyone
.”

I don’t need to spell out the rest. The magazine is distributed in sixty-five countries. Every CEO of every hotel at least glances through it. A profile like that would be his ticket to any job he wanted in the world.

“I know you’ve always dreamed about the Four Seasons, New York,” I add softly.

My heart is pounding a little. I’ve never abused my power before, and it’s giving me a rush. Partly good, partly bad. This is how corruption starts, I reflect. Next thing, I’ll be exchanging reviews for suitcases of cash and Trident missiles.

It’s a one-off, I tell myself firmly. A one-off with extenuating circumstances.

Nico is quiet. I can feel his conscience rubbing against professional ambition, and I feel bad for putting him in this position. But it’s not me who began this whole charade, is it?

“You’re a master, Nico.” I add some flattery. “You’re a genius at making things happen. If anyone in the world can do this, you can.”

Is he persuaded? Am I nuts? Is he even now sending an email to Gavin?

I’m on the point of giving up, when his voice suddenly comes low down the phone: “Fliss, I do not promise anything.”

I feel a sudden bubble of hope.

“I understand completely,” I reply, matching his tone. “But … you’ll try?”

“I will try. Just for twenty-four hours. What is your sister’s name?”

Yes!

“Charlotte Graveney.” I’m almost gabbling with relief. “Although I guess she’ll be under Mrs. Parr. Her husband’s Ben Parr. They’re booked into the Oyster Suite. And I don’t mind what they do, as long as they don’t have sex. With each other,” I add as an afterthought.

There’s a long silence, then Nico says simply:

“This will be a very strange honeymoon.”

8
LOTTIE

I’m married! My mouth is fixed in a permanent, gleeful smile. I’m so euphoric, I feel like I might float away. Today has been the best, most magical, most extraordinary day of my life. I’m married!!
I’m married!!!

I still keep replaying the moment when I looked up from my desk to see Ben marching into the office, holding a bouquet of roses. His jaw was set and his eyes were flashing, and you could see he meant business. Even my boss, Martin, came out of his office to watch. The whole place was hushed as Ben stood at my office door and proclaimed, “I’m going to marry you, Lottie Graveney, and I’m going to do it today.”

Then he lifted me up
—lifted me up
—and everyone cheered, and Kayla came running after me with my bag and phone, and Ben handed me the bouquet and that was it. I was a bride.

I barely remember the marriage ceremony. I was in a state of shock. Ben practically jumped on each answer; I do remember that. He didn’t pause for a moment—in fact he sounded almost aggressive as he said, “I do.” He’d brought
along some environmental confetti, which we sprinkled on ourselves, and he opened a bottle of champagne and then it was time to pack and leave for the airport. I haven’t even got changed; I’m still in my work suit. I got married in my work suit and I don’t care!

I catch sight of myself in the mirror above the drinks bar and want to giggle. I look as flushed and giddy as I feel. We’re in the business-class lounge at Heathrow, waiting for the Ikonos flight. I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast, but I’m not hungry. I’m hyped up. My hands won’t stop trembling.

I take a few slices of fruit and a sliver of Emmental, just for the sake of it, then jump as I feel a hand on my leg.

“Fueling up?” comes Ben’s voice in my ear, and I feel a delicious shiver. I turn to face him and he nuzzles my neck, his hand traveling up discreetly under my skirt. That’s good. Oh, that’s good.

“I can’t wait,” he murmurs in my ear.

“Me neither,” I murmur back.

“You’re so hot.” His breath is warm against my neck.

“You’re hotter.”

Yet again I work out how long we have to wait. Our flight to Ikonos is three and a half hours. It can’t take more than two hours to go through customs and get to the hotel. Ten minutes for them to take our luggage up … five minutes to show us how the light switches work … thirty seconds to put up the DO NOT DISTURB sign …

Nearly six hours. I’m not sure I can wait nearly six hours. Ben seems the same way too. He’s actually panting. Both his hands are roaming between my thighs. I can hardly concentrate on the fig compote.

“Excuse
me
.” An elderly man pushes his way between us and starts forking Emmental slices onto his plate. He eyes
Ben and me with disfavor. “As they say,” he adds ponderously, “get a room.”

I feel myself flush. We
weren’t
that obvious.

“We’re on our honeymoon,” I shoot back.

“Congratulations.” The old man looks unimpressed. “I hope your young man will wash his hands before serving himself any food.”

Spoilsport.

I glance at Ben and we both move away, to a set of plushy chairs. I’m pulsating all over. I want his hands back where they were, doing what they were doing.

“So. Um. Cheese?” I proffer the plate to Ben.

“No, thanks.” He frowns moodily.

This is torture. I look at my watch. Only two minutes have passed. We’re going to have to fill the time somehow. Conversation. That’s what we need. Conversation.

“I love Emmental,” I begin. “Don’t you?”

“I hate it.”

“Really?” I log this new fact about him. “Wow. I had no idea you hated Emmental.”

“I went totally off it the year I lived in Prague.”

“You lived in Prague?” I say with interest.

I’m intrigued. I had no idea Ben had lived abroad. Or hated Emmental. This is the great advantage of marrying someone
without
spending years living together first. You still have stuff to find out. We’re on an adventure of discovery together. We’ll spend our whole lives exploring one another. Unwrapping each other’s secrets. We’ll never be that couple sitting in dead silence because they know everything and have said everything and are just waiting for the bill.

“So … Prague! Why?”

“I don’t remember now.” Ben shrugs. “That was the year I learned circus skills.”