Wedding Night (24 page)

11
FLISS

I almost can’t look at the texts. It’s like spying. It’s like rubbernecking a car crash. But I have to, even though they make me want to clap my hands over my eyes.

Lottie and Ben are having the worst wedding night known to man. No other way to put it. It’s horrendous. It’s ghastly. And it’s all my fault. My stomach is one big guilty, acidy twinge. With every bulletin I feel worse. But it’s all in a good cause, I tell myself sternly, already clicking on the new text.

Another round of margaritas. This fellow can certainly hold his drink. N

Nico’s been keeping me updated all evening with every development. His latest four texts have been reports on all the complimentary cocktails that Lottie and Ben have consumed. It’s an eye-watering amount. They started drinking at ten, local time. It’s midnight there now. Lottie
has
to be blotto.

But what about Ben? I pause a moment, tapping my phone thoughtfully against my palm. Something Lorcan said about Ben is coming back to me:
He’s a natural gambler but he lacks judgment
.

A natural gambler. Hmm. I fire a text back to Nico:

He likes to gamble.…

I’ll leave it at that. Nico will know what to do with the information.

I press
send
, then briskly shut my suitcase, trying to calm my unsettled mind. But conflicting thoughts are shooting back and forth like arrows, each landing with a piercing little stab:

I’m sabotaging my sister’s honeymoon. I’m a horrible person
.

But it’s only because I care about her happiness
.

Exactly
.

Exactly!

I mean, what if I decided not to interfere and she got pregnant and they split up and she regretted the whole thing? What then? Wouldn’t I regret NOT doing something? Would I be like the people who kept their heads down and pretended not to see when the Nazis invaded?

Not that Ben is a Nazi. As far as I know
.

I feel bad about the whole
Teletubbies
thing. That was cruel. Lottie’s almost phobic about that program
.

I wheel my suitcase out to the hall and put it next to Noah’s. He’s asleep in his room, clasping Monkey and breathing peacefully, and I pop in for a moment to watch him. He took the news of our trip with utter calmness and went straightaway
to pack his little case, asking only how many pairs of pants he needed. He’s going to run the world one day, Noah.

I head into the bathroom and run a bath, sloshing in one of the many duty-free bath fragrances cluttering my bathroom. I shop almost exclusively at airports, I’ve realized. I try on clothes before boarding and pick them up on my return. I pick up Clarins sets on the plane. I have enough cured Spanish sausage and hunks of Parmesan to last me a year. And Toblerones.

I hesitate. I have Toblerone on my mind now. A Toblerone in the bath, with a glass of wine …

After only a millisecond’s internal debate, I head to the treats cupboard in the kitchen. Six outsize Toblerones are nestling next to a ridiculously large duty-free box of Ferrero Rocher chocolates, which I give to Noah three at a time, every Saturday. He thinks they come in threes. It has never occurred to him that they might be available in quantities larger than three.

I’m just cracking off a chunk of Toblerone when my phone rings and I pick it up, wondering if it might be Nico. But the display reads:
Lottie
.

Lottie? I’m so shocked, I drop the Toblerone on the floor. I’m staring at the phone, my heart suddenly thumping, my thumb hesitating over the
answer
button. I don’t want to answer. Anyway, I’ve left it too late: it’s gone to voicemail. I put my phone down on the counter in relief, but almost at once it starts ringing again.
Lottie
.

I swallow hard. I’m going to have to do this. Otherwise I’ll only have to call her back, which might be worse. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and press
answer
.

“Lottie! You’re supposed to be on honeymoon!” I aim
for a bright, innocent tone. “What are you doing, ringing me?”

“Fliiissss?”

I perform an instant analysis on her voice. She’s drunk. Well, I knew that. But she’s tearful too. Most important, she has no idea I am involved in anything untoward, or it wouldn’t be “Fliiissss?” with a question mark.

“What’s up?” I say lightly.

“Fliss, I don’t know what to do!” she wails. “Ben’s
totally
drunk. Like, almost passed out. How do I sober him up? What do I do? Haven’t you got some magic cure?”

I do in fact have a tried and tested formula, involving black coffee, ice cubes, and deodorant squirted in the nostrils. But I’m not sharing that with her right now.

“Gosh,” I say sympathetically. “Poor you. I … I don’t know what to suggest. Maybe some coffee?”

“He can’t even sit up! He drank all these stupid cocktails, and I had to help him up to our room, and then he just crashed out on the bed and it’s supposed to be our
wedding
night.”

“Oh no!” I try to sound shocked. “So haven’t you even—”

“No! We haven’t!”

I can’t help exhaling with relief. I was worried they might have slipped in a quick one without anyone knowing.

“We haven’t done
anything
,” Lottie wails in distress. “And I know you recommended this hotel, Fliss, but, quite frankly, it’s awful! I’m going to complain! They’ve
ruined
our honeymoon. We’ve got single beds! They say they can’t move them! I’m sitting on a single bed right now!” Her voice shrills higher. “Single beds! In a honeymoon suite!”

“Goodness. I can’t believe it!” I’m sounding more and more stagy, but Lottie is on such a roll, she doesn’t notice.

“So then they give us all this free booze to apologize, and this concierge guy bets Ben that he can’t drink some special Greek cocktail. Next thing, he’s downed the whole thing and everyone in the bar is cheering and he’s practically comatose! I mean, what was in it? Absinthe?”

I dread to think what was in it.

“We were snogging in the lift on the way back up to the room,” Lottie carries on agitatedly. “And I thought, here we go, at last—and suddenly there was this dead weight on my shoulder and Ben had fallen asleep! Mid-snog! I had to manhandle him into the room and he weighs a ton and now he’s snoring!” She sounds close to tears.

“Look, Lottie.” I run a hand through my hair, trying desperately to think of the best way to play this. “It’s not such a big deal. Just get a good night’s sleep and … er … enjoy the hotel facilities.”

“I’m suing this place.” She doesn’t even seem to be listening. “I don’t know how it won an award for Best Honeymoon Suite. It’s the worst!”

“Have you eaten? Why don’t you have something from room service? They do really good sushi, or there’s an Italian pizza place.…”

“OK. Maybe I’ll do that.” Her fury seems to subside and she gives a gusty sigh. “Sorry to lay all this on you, Fliss. I mean, it’s not
your
fault.”

I can’t bring myself to answer.

I’m doing the right thing
, I remind myself furiously.
What’s better, frustrated and upset for one night or married, pregnant, and regretting it your whole life?

“Fliss? Are you still there?”

“Oh, hi.” I swallow. “Yes. Look, try to get some sleep. I expect tomorrow will be better.”

“Night, Fliss.”

“Night, Lottie.”

I switch off and stare ahead for a moment, trying to calm my guilt.

I expect tomorrow will be better
.

Total lie. I’ve already talked to Nico. Tomorrow won’t be better.

12
LOTTIE

I don’t want to be negative. But if I could describe how I expected the morning after my wedding night to be, it would not be this.

It would not be this
.

I always imagined my new husband and me nestled in a huge white cottony bed, like in a soap-powder ad. Birds singing outside. Sunlight gently passing over our faces as we turn to each other and kiss, remembering our fabulous time last night, and murmuring sweet nothings to each other before moving seamlessly into spectacular morning sex.

Not
waking up on a single bed, with a cricked neck, un-brushed teeth, the smell of last night’s room-service pizza, and the sound of Ben groaning on the opposite bed.

“Are you OK?” I try to sound sympathetic, even though I want to kick him.

“I think so.” He lifts his head with what appears to be a huge effort. He looks pretty green and he’s still wearing his suit. “What
happened
?”

“You won a bet,” I say shortly. “Well done, you.”

Ben’s gaze is distant and his eyes are moving back and forth. He’s clearly trying to piece it all together.

“I fucked up, didn’t I?” he says at last.

“Just a bit.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. Whatever.”

“No, I’m sorry.”

“Got it.”

“No, I’m really,
really
sorry.” He swings his legs round and gets to his feet, swaying theatrically for a moment. “Mrs. Parr, my greatest, humblest apologies. How will I make this up to you?” He bows low, nearly falling over, and I stifle a smile. I can’t stay cross. Ben always was a charmer.

“I can’t think.” I pout at him.

“Any room in that bed?”

“Might be …”

I shuffle up, pulling open the duvet invitingly for him to snuggle in. It’s luxury goose down. We also have the choice of a pillow menu, with twenty different varieties. I read them all last night, over my pizza. But right now I couldn’t care less whether the pillow is buckwheat, hypoallergenic, or silk-covered. My husband is in bed with me. Awake. This is what matters.

“Mmmm.” He buries his face in my neck. “You’re all cozy. Yum.”

“You’re all hangover-y.” I wrinkle my nose. “Get your suit off.”

“With pleasure.” He pulls his jacket and shirt off together in one movement, over his head, then straddles me, bare-chested, and grins down. “Hello, wife.”

“Hello, idiot.”

“Like I said, I’ll make it up to you.” He runs a finger down
my cheek, down my neck, and under the duvet, fingering the top of my incredibly expensive cami. “We have all morning.”

“All day.” I reach up to pull him down for a kiss.

“We’ve earned this,” he murmurs. “Oh God. Oh Jesus.” His hands are tugging off my cami-knickers. “Lottie. I remember you.”

“I remember you,” I manage, my voice heavy with lust. His clothes are all off now. He’s as hot as I remember; he’s as hard as I remember. This is just as good as I remember; it’s going to be amazing.…

“Madame?” The grave voice of Georgios hits my ear. For a moment I think it’s Ben, fooling around with an impression. Then I realize it’s not Ben. Which means it’s the butler. Which means—

I sit bolt upright, clasping the duvet round me, my heart pumping.

The butler’s in the
suite
?

“Good morning!” I call in a strangled voice.

“Is madame ready for breakfast?”

What the
fuck
? I pull an agonized face at Ben, who looks as though he wants to hit someone.

“Didn’t you put on the DO NOT DISTURB sign?” he whispers.

“I thought I did!”

“Then what—”

“I don’t know!”

“Good morning.” Georgios appears at the door to the bedroom. “Sir, madame, I have taken the liberty of ordering you a very special treat. Most highly recommended by all our VIP honeymoon guests. Our Champagne Breakfast with Music.”

I stare back at him, speechless. Music? What does he mean? What on earth—

No
way
. I nearly convulse with shock as a girl appears at the door. She’s got long blond hair and is wearing a white Grecian tunic, and she’s wheeling along a massive harp.

I exchange looks wildly with Ben. How do we stop this? What do we do?

“Mr. and Mrs. Parr. Congratulations on your marriage! Today I will be playing for you a selection of love tunes, to accompany your breakfast,” the girl says, and takes a seat on a fold-up stool. Next moment she’s plucking away briskly at the harp and Georgios plus his assistant are bringing trays on stands to the bed and pouring out glasses of champagne and peeling fruit and offering us little finger bowls to refresh our hands in.

I haven’t managed to utter a word. This is too surreal. I was about to have the hottest sex of my life. I was about to consummate my marriage. And instead I’m having a kiwi fruit peeled for me by a sixty-year-old man in a braided jacket while a harpist twangs “Love Changes Everything.”

I’ve never really been one for the harp. But this one is making me want to hurl my basket of mini-croissants at it.

“Please. A loving-cup toast, to celebrate your marriage.” Georgios gestures at our champagne flutes. Obediently, we link arms to sip our champagne, and with no warning Georgios throws a handful of pink confetti over us. I splutter in shock. Where did
that
come from? A moment later there’s a flash in my face and I realize Georgios has taken a photo.

“A commemorative photograph,” he says gravely. “We will present it in a leather-bound album. Compliments of the management.”

What?
I stare at him in horror. I don’t want a commemorative photo of me looking hungover and disheveled with confetti stuck to my lip.

“Eat,” Ben whispers in my ear. “Quick. Then they’ll go.”

That’s a point. I reach for the teapot, and Georgios leaps forward reprovingly.

“Madame. Let me.” He pours me a cup of tea and I take a couple of gulps. I swallow some kiwi fruit, then clutch my stomach.

“Mmm. Delicious! But I’m stuffed.”

“Me too.” Ben nods. “It’s been a great breakfast, but maybe you could clear it away now?”

Georgios hesitates, seeming reluctant.

“Sir, madame, I have for you a special egg dish. They are the finest, double-yolk eggs, prepared with saffron—”

“No, thanks. No eggs. None.” Ben stares Georgios down. “No. Eggs. Thank you.”