Wedding Night (23 page)

As we head up the shallow marble steps, I feel a sudden wave of euphoria. This is going to be perfect. The perfect, perfect honeymoon. I squeeze Ben’s arm.

“Isn’t this
amazing
?”

“Stunning.” He slides a hand around my waist and up under my top to my bra catch.

“Don’t! This is a posh hotel!” I jerk away, even though my whole body is longing for him to keep going. “We have to wait.”

“I can’t wait.” His darkened eyes meet mine.

“Nor can I.” I swallow. “I’m dying.”

“I’m dying more.” His fingers move down to the waistband of my skirt. “Don’t tell me you’re wearing anything under that.”

“Not a stitch,” I murmur.

“Jesus.” He makes a low, growling noise. “OK, we’re going to get our room key, and we’re going to lock the door, and—”

“Mr. and Mrs. Parr?” A voice interrupts us and I look up to see a short, dark man in a suit approaching us swiftly down the steps. His shoes are very shiny, and as he gets nearer I see a badge that reads NICO DEMETRIOU, VIP MANAGER. In one hand is a massive bouquet of flowers, which he proffers to me. “Madame. Welcome to the Amba Hotel. We are delighted to welcome you. You are on honeymoon, I understand!”

He’s ushering us through the large glass doors into a massive domed lobby. It has a marble floor and a sunken pool in which are floating little candles. Low music is playing and there’s a wonderful musky scent in the air.

“Many congratulations. Please. Sit.” He gestures to a long linen sofa. “A glass of champagne for you both!”

A waiter has appeared from nowhere, bearing two glasses of champagne on a silver tray. I hesitate, then take one, glancing at Ben.

“That’s very kind,” Ben says, not moving toward the sofa. “But we’d like to get to our suite as quickly as possible.”

“Of course. Of course.” Nico twinkles understandingly. “Your luggage is being taken up. If you can simply fill in some details …” He offers a leather-bound book to Ben, along with a pen. “Please, sit. You will find it more comfortable.”

Reluctantly, Ben sinks into the sofa and starts scrawling at top speed. Meanwhile, Nico hands me a printed sheet headed
Welcome Mr. and Mrs. Parr
, followed by a list of facilities and experiences. I run my eyes over the list, which is pretty awesome.
Guided snorkeling and champagne picnic … day trip on the hotel’s sixty-foot yacht … dinner cooked by a private chef on your terrace … starlight aromatherapy couples’ massage …

“We are delighted to present our Superlative Honeymoon Experience.” Nico beams at me. “You will be attended by a private twenty-four-hour butler. You will enjoy complimentary treatments within the private spa area in your suite. I, personally, will be at your service at all times. No request is too great or too small.”

“Thanks.” I can’t help smiling back, he’s so charming.

“Your honeymoon is a special, special time. I, Nico, will make it the experience of your lifetime.” He clasps his hands together. “Never to be forgotten.”

“OK, done.” Ben stamps a final full stop and hands the forms back. “Can we get into our room? Where is it?”

“I will escort you personally!” exclaims Nico. “Come this way, to your private penthouse lift.”

We have our own
lift
? I flash a look at Ben. I can tell that’s given him ideas. Me too.

As we stand in the lift, I’m trying to appear composed, but I can see Ben eyeing up my skirt. He’s not going to hang about. We’re going to take all of thirty seconds, and then we’ll have to do it again, and then maybe have dinner and then,
really
slowly, start all over again.…

“And here we are!” The lift doors ping open and Nico leads us cheerfully into a lobby, with marble floor and dark-wood paneled walls. “The Oyster Suite. It was recently voted top honeymoon suite by
Condé Nast Traveler
. After you.”

“Wow,” I breathe as he swings open the door. Fliss was right: this is incredible. The whole place is designed like a grotto, with Greek pillars and low daybeds and statues of Greek gods on pedestals. The only immediate downside is that the TV is blaring out
Teletubbies
. I’ve loathed
Teletubbies,
ever since I had to watch about twenty episodes while babysitting Noah. Who on earth put that on?

“Can we turn that off, please?” I say.

“Of course, madame. Let me first show you the amenities. As well as the lift entrance, there is a dedicated front door.” Nico strides briskly through the marble-floored rooms. “Here we have the bathroom, with a walk-in rain shower. Here is your private spa room, kitchen with staff entrance, small library, sitting room with cinema screen.…”

I’m trying to look interested as he demonstrates how to use the DVD player. But my head is fuzzy with desire. We’re here. We’re actually
here
. In our honeymoon suite. On our wedding night. And as soon as this guy finishes his spiel and leaves … in a matter of seconds, maybe … Ben will be ripping off my skirt and I’ll be ripping off his shirt, and … Oh God, I can’t wait a moment longer.…

“The minibar is situated within this cabinet and works by electronic sensor—”

“Uh-huh.” I manage a polite nod, but my whole body is pulsing with lust. I don’t care how the bloody minibar works.
Just stop talking and leave us alone to have sex
.

“And through here is the bedroom.” Nico swings open a door. I take an expectant step forward—then stop in dismay.

“Whaaat?”
I hear Ben exclaim beside me.

The room is large and grand, with a domed glass ceiling. And under the dome are two single beds.

“I … wh—” I’m so wrong-footed I can barely get out a word. “Beds.” I turn to Ben and point. “The beds.”

“Yes, these are the beds, madame.” Nico gestures at the singles with a proud beam. “This is the bedroom.”

“I
know
those are beds!” I’m gulping for air. “But why are they singles?”

“On the website, it shows a super-king bed,” Ben takes over. “I saw a picture of it. Where’s that gone?”

Nico looks baffled at the question. “We offer many different sleeping options for the suite. The previous occupants of the suite must have ordered two beds, such as you see. They are two very fine beds.” He slaps one. “Finest quality. Is this not satisfactory?”

“No, it’s not bloody satisfactory!” snaps Ben. “We need a double bed.
One
bed. Super-king. Best you’ve got.”

“Ah.” Nico pulls a regretful face. “A thousand apologies, sir. I am desolated. Since this was not ordered in advance—”

“We shouldn’t have to order it in advance! It’s our honeymoon! This is the honeymoon suite!” Ben’s breathing hard. “What kind of honeymoon suite has two single beds in it?”

“Please, sir. Do not alarm yourself,” says Nico soothingly. “I understand. I will order a double bed immediately.” He takes out his phone and launches into a stream of Greek. At last he switches off and beams again. “The matter is in hand. Again, my apologies. While we are sorting out this problem, may I offer you a complimentary cocktail downstairs at the bar?”

I quell a snappy reply. I don’t want a cocktail at the bar. I want my wedding night.
Now
.

“Well, how long is it going to take?” Ben scowls. “This is
ridiculous
.”

“Sir, we will complete the substitution as quickly as possible. The removers will be with us as soon as— Ah!” There’s a knocking sound at the door, and Nico brightens. “Here we are!”

Six guys in white overalls troop into the room, and Nico addresses them in Greek. One guy lifts up the end of a bed
and looks at it doubtfully. He says something in Greek to another guy, who shrugs and shakes his head.

“What?” says Ben in agitated tones, looking from one to the other. “What’s the problem?”

“No problem,” says Nico reassuringly. “Perhaps I could recommend that you take a seat in your sitting room while we address this small matter?”

He ushers us out and we find ourselves in the sitting room. The TV is still playing
Teletubbies
at full volume. I jab at it with the remote, but it doesn’t switch off. Nor does the volume control work. Is the remote out of juice?

“Please,” I say shortly. “I can’t stand this. Could you turn it off?”

“And it’s cold in here,” adds Ben. “How do we adjust the air-conditioning?”

It
is
pretty freezing in here. I’d already noticed.

“I will summon your butler,” says Nico with a beam. “He will attend to you.”

He disappears out the door and I look at Ben in disbelief. We should have been having sex by now. We should have been having the hottest time of our life. Not sitting on a sofa with “Time for Tubby Bye-Bye” blaring at us, in a subzero room with six workmen next door.

“Come on,” says Ben suddenly. “The library. That’s got a sofa.”

He hustles me in there and shuts the door. There are shelves of fake-looking books and a desk with hotel writing paper and a chaise longue upholstered in heavy brown linen. Ben shuts the door and faces me.

“Oh my
God
,” he exhales incredulously.

“Oh my God.” I echo. “Insane.” We both draw breath.
And then it’s as if the starting pistol has been fired for the Most Erogenous Zones in a Minute contest. He’s all over me. I’m all over him. His hands are everywhere. My bra is unhooked, my top is ripped off, and I’m unbuttoning his shirt.… His skin is so warm, so delicious, I want to savor him for a bit, but Ben’s already looking purposefully around the room.

“Sofa?” he pants. “Or desk?”

“Don’t care,” I manage.

“I can’t wait any longer.”

“What if they hear?”

“They won’t hear.” He’s unhooking my skirt. I’m almost popping.
At last, at last, at last … yes … yes …

“Sir? Madame?” There’s a rapping at the door. “Sir, madame? Mr. Parr?”

What?

“Noooo,” I whimper. “Noooooo …”

“What the
fuck—
” Ben looks livid. “Hello?” he raises his voice. “We’re busy. Come back in ten.”

“I have a gift from the management,” comes a voice through the door. “Fresh cookies. Where would you like me to put it?”

“Anywhere,” Ben calls back impatiently. “Don’t care.”

“Please, sir, could you kindly sign for the gift?”

I think Ben might explode. For a moment neither of us speaks.

“Sir?” The rapping comes again. “Can you hear me? I have here fresh cookies, courtesy of the management.”

“Just sign quickly,” I mutter. “Then we’ll come back in here.”

“Jesus
Christ—
”

“I know.”

We’re both trying to tidy ourselves up a bit. Ben buttons up his shirt and takes a few deep breaths.

“Think about tax returns,” I suggest helpfully. “OK, let’s get these bloody cookies.”

Ben swings open the library door to reveal an elderly man in a smart gray braided jacket, holding a silver salver with a dome on it.

“Welcome to the Amba Hotel, Mr. and Mrs. Parr,” he says with grave dignity. “I am your personal butler, Georgios, at your service any time of day. I present some fresh cookies, courtesy of the management.”

“Thank you,” says Ben curtly. “Put them anywhere.” He scribbles on the pad that the butler is holding out.

“Thank you, sir.” Georgios places the silver salver on a coffee table. “My colleague will be here presently with the juice.”

“Juice?” Ben stares at him. “What juice?”

“Fresh juice, courtesy of the management,” Georgios says. “To accompany the cookies. My assistant butler, Hermes, will bring it directly. If you need more ice, you call for me.” He hands Ben a card. “Here is my number. At your service.”

Ben is breathing hard. “Listen,” he says. “We don’t want any juice. Cancel the juice. We want a little
privacy
. OK?”

“I understand,” says Georgios at once. “Privacy. Of course.” He nods solemnly. “This is your honeymoon and you wish for privacy. This is a special time for a man and a woman.”

“Precisely—”

Ben’s voice is cut off as an almighty banging noise starts.

“What the
hell
 …” We both hurry into the sitting room.
A guy in white overalls is standing at the door to the bedroom, having an altercation with someone in the room. Nico comes hurrying over, wringing his hands anxiously.

“Mr. and Mrs. Parr, my apologies for this dreadful noise.”

“What’s going on?” Ben’s eyes are wild and starey. “What’s that hammering sound?”

“There is a small problem with the removal of the beds,” Nico replies placatingly. “Very, very small.”

Another man in white overalls appears round the side of the door, a massive hammer in his hand. He shakes his head ominously at Nico.

“What’s that?” demands Ben. “What’s he shaking his head for? Have you switched the beds yet?”

“And can you
please
do something about that TV?” I chime in with a wince. “It’s unbearable.” Every time there’s a pause in the banging, the Teletubbies blare out. Is it my imagination, or are they even louder than before?

“Sir, madame, my humblest of apologies. We are working on the bed with all haste. And as for the TV …” Nico is holding a remote, which he jabs at the wall. Immediately the volume doubles.

“No!” I clap my hands to my ears. “Too loud! Wrong way!”

“Apologies!” shouts Nico over the racket. “I try again!”

He zaps the remote several times, but nothing happens. He bangs it against his head and shakes it. “It has jammed!” he says in tones of astonishment. “I call an engineer.”

“Excuse me.” Another man in a braided jacket has appeared out of nowhere. “The door was open. I have here some fresh juice courtesy of the management. Madame, where would you like me to place the juice?”

“I … I …” I’m almost gibbering. I want to scream. I want
to erupt. This is supposed to be our wedding night. Our
wedding night
. And we’re standing in a hotel suite, surrounded by hammering workmen, butlers with salvers, and the noise of
Teletubbies
drilling into my brain.

“Madame,” says Nico gently. “I am mortified that we are inconveniencing you. Please may I offer you again a complimentary cocktail in the bar?”