Wedding Night (26 page)

“They wouldn’t, OK?” Ben sounds a tad impatient. “We’ve tried. Which is why I’m asking you.”

“Fifty quid.” The husband puts down his crossword, frowning thoughtfully as though this is a new clue. “What—cash?”

“Cash, check, whatever you like. A credit on your room bill. Don’t care.”

“Wait a minute.” The husband jabs his finger at Ben as if he’s suddenly worked it all out. “Is this a scam? You run up hundreds of pounds on my phone bill and give me fifty quid for the pleasure?”

“No! I just want your room!”

“But there are so many other spaces.” The wife looks puzzled. “Why do you want our room? Why not a corner of the lobby? Why not—”

“Because I want to have sex in it, OK?”
Ben explodes. I
can see heads popping up everywhere under umbrellas. “I want to have sex,” he repeats more calmly. “With my wife. On my honeymoon. Is that too much to ask?”

“You want to have sex?” The wife draws herself away from Ben as though she might catch a disease. “On
our
bed?”

“It’s not your bed!” says Ben impatiently. “It’s a hotel bed. We can have the sheets changed. Or use the floor.” He turns to me as though for confirmation. “The floor would be OK, right?”

My entire face is prickling. I can’t believe he’s dragging me into this. I can’t believe he’s telling the whole beach we’re going to do it on the floor.

“Andrew!” The wife turns to her husband. “Say something!”

Andrew is silent, frowning for a moment—then looks up.

“Five hundred and not a penny less.”

“What?” Now it’s the wife’s turn to explode. “You have to be joking! Andrew, that’s
our
room and this is
our
honeymoon and we’re not having some strange couple going in it to do … anything.” She grabs the room card, which is lying on Andrew’s sun bed, and stuffs it down her swimsuit defiantly. “You’re sick.” She glowers at Ben. “You
and
your wife.”

Heads have turned all over the beach. Great.

“Fine,” says Ben at last. “Well, thank you for your time.”

As Ben is heading back to me, a large, hairy guy in tight swimming trunks leaps up from a nearby sun bed and taps Ben on the shoulder. Even from here I can smell his aftershave.

“Hey,” he says in a heavy Russian accent. “I have a room.”

“Oh, really?” Ben turns, interested.

“You, me, your wife, my new wife, Natalya—you want to make some fun?”

There’s a pause—then Ben swivels to meet my gaze, eyebrows raised. I stare back in slight shock. Is he actually
asking me
? I shake my head violently, mouthing, “No, no, no.”

“Not today,” says Ben, in what sound like genuinely regretful tones. “Another time.”

“No worries.” The Russian guy claps him on the shoulder, and Ben comes back over to his sun bed. He slides onto it and stares savagely out to sea.

“Well, so much for that bright idea. Bloody frigid cow.”

I lean over and poke him hard in the chest. “Hey, what was that? Did you want to take him up on his offer? That Russian?”

“At least it would have been something.”

Something?
I stare at him incredulously, till he looks up.

“What?” he says defensively. “It
would
have been something.”

“Well, excuse me for not wanting to share my wedding night with a gorilla and a girl with rubber boobs,” I say sarcastically. “Sorry to spoil your fun.”

“Not rubber,” says Ben.

“You’ve looked, have you?”

“Silicone.”

I can’t help snorting. Meanwhile, Ben is deftly flinging a couple of towels up over our parasol. What’s he doing?

“Just creating a bit of privacy,” he says with a wink, and squeezes next to me on my sun bed, his hands all over me like an octopus. “God, you’re hot. You haven’t got a crotchless bikini on, have you?”

Is he serious?

Actually, a crotchless bikini would have been handy.

“I don’t think they even exist—” I suddenly notice two children watching us in curiosity. “Stop!” I hiss, and drag
Ben’s hand out of my bikini bottoms. “We’re
not
doing it on a sun bed! We’ll get arrested!”

“Shaved ice, madame? Lemon flavor?” We both jump about a million miles as Hermes ducks his head under the towels and proffers a tray bearing two cones. I am honestly going to have a heart attack before I leave this place.

For a while we sit in silence, slurping at our shaved ice and listening to the low hum of beach chatter and waves lapping the sand.

“Look,” I say at last. “It’s a shit situation, but there’s nothing we can do about it. Either we sit here, boiling with frustration and getting ratty with each other, or we go and do something till the room’s ready.”

“Like what?”

“You know.” I try to sound optimistic. “Fun holiday activities. Tennis, sailing, canoeing. Ping-Pong. Whatever they’ve got.”

“Sounds riveting,” says Ben moodily.

“Let’s go for a walk, anyway, and see what we can find.”

I want to get away from this beach. Everyone keeps turning to look at us while they whisper behind their paperbacks, and the Russian guy keeps winking at me.

Ben finishes his shaved ice and leans over to kiss me, his icy lips parting mine with a delicious lemony, salty taste.

“We
can’t
,” I say as his hand automatically finds my bikini top. “Look, stop.” I wrench his hand away. “It makes it too hard. No touching. Not till our room’s ready.”

“No touching?” He stares at me incredulously.

“No touching.” I nod resolutely. “Come on. Let’s walk through the hotel and whatever activity we find first, we’ll do. Yes? Deal?”

I wait for Ben to get to his feet and slip into his flip-flops.
Georgios is heading toward us down the path from the hotel, and to my disbelief he’s actually holding a salver bearing a glass of orange juice and a dish of brown M&M’s.

“Madame.”

“Wow!” I drain the orange juice in one gulp and crunch a couple of M&M’s. “That’s wonderful.”

“Is our room ready yet?” demands Ben abruptly. “It must be.”

“I believe not, sir.” Georgios’s gloomy expression descends yet further. “I believe a problem has arisen with the fire alarm.”

“The fire alarm?” Ben echoes incredulously. “What do you mean, the fire alarm?”

“A sensor was knocked as the beds were moved. Unfortunately, this must be fixed before we can allow you back into the room. It is for your own safety. My deepest apologies, sir.”

Ben has both his hands to his head. He looks so apoplectic, I’m almost scared.

“Well, how long will it be now?”

Georgios spreads his hands. “Sir, I only wish—”

“You don’t know,” Ben interrupts tensely. “Of course you don’t know. Why would you know?”

I have a horrible feeling he’s going to flip out in a minute and hit Georgios.

“Anyway.” I hastily join in the conversation. “Never mind. We’ll go and amuse ourselves.”

“Madame.” Georgios nods. “How can I assist you with this?”

Ben scowls at him. “You can—”

“Get me some more juice, please!” I trill, before Ben says
something
really
offensive. “Maybe some … some …” I hesitate. What’s the most time-consuming juice there is? “Some beet juice?”

A flicker passes across Georgios’s otherwise impassive face. I think perhaps he’s cottoned onto my ruse.

“Of course, madame.”

“Great! See you later.” We head up a path lined with white walls and bougainvillea. The sun is beating down on our heads and it’s very quiet. I know Georgios is following us, but I’m not making chitchat with him. Then he’ll
never
go.

“The beach bar’s this way,” observes Ben as we pass a sign. “We could look in.”

“The
beach bar
?” I give him a sardonic look. “After last night?”

“Hair of the dog. Virgin Mary. Whatever.”

“OK.” I shrug. “We could have a quick one.”

The beach bar is large and circular and shady, with Greek bouzouki music playing softly. Ben immediately slumps onto a bar stool.

“Welcome.” The barman approaches us with a wide smile. “Many congratulations on your marriage.” He gives us a laminated drinks menu and moves away.

“How did he know we were just married?” Ben regards him with narrowed eyes.

“Saw our shiny new wedding rings, I suppose? What shall we have?” I start looking down the menu, but Ben is lost in thought.

“That bloody woman,” he mutters. “We’d be there now. In their bed.”

“Well. I’m sure they’ll fix the fire alarm soon,” I say unconvincingly.

“This is our bloody
honeymoon
.”

“I know,” I say soothingly. “Come on, let’s have a drink. A proper drink.” I feel like having one myself, to be honest.

“Did you say it was your honeymoon?” A blond girl heralds us across the bar. She’s wearing an orange caftan with bobbles on the sleeves and has jeweled sandals with very high heels. “Of course it is!
Everyone
here is on honeymoon. When were you married?”

“Yesterday. We just arrived last night.”

“We were Saturday! Holy Trinity Church in Manchester. My dress was Phillipa Lepley. We had a hundred and twenty to the reception. It was a buffet. Then in the evening we had dancing to a band, and fifty additional guests attended.” She looks at us expectantly.

“Ours was … smaller,” I say after a pause. “Quite a lot smaller. But lovely.”

Lovelier than yours
, I add silently. I turn to Ben to back me up, but he’s swiveled away and is talking to the bartender instead.

This is the first time I’ve noticed a trait that Ben has in common with Richard—i.e., being totally antisocial and narrow-minded about new people. The number of times I’ve struck up a conversation with some really interesting, fun person, and Richard just wouldn’t join in. Like that fascinating woman we met at Greenwich once, who he point-blank refused to be introduced to. And, OK, it turned out she was a bit of a weirdo and tried to get me to invest £10,000 in a houseboat, but he wasn’t to
know
that, was he?

“Ring?” The girl shoves her hand forward. Her nails are orange to match her caftan, I notice. Does that mean all her caftans are orange or that she repaints her nails every night? “I’m Melissa, by the way.”

“Lovely!” I thrust my left hand forward to match, and my platinum wedding band glints in the sunshine. It’s studded with diamonds and is really quite fancy.

“Very nice!” Melissa raises her eyebrows, impressed. “It’s an amazing feeling, isn’t it, wearing a wedding ring?” She leans forward conspiratorially. “I catch my reflection and see the ring on my hand and I think,
Bloody hell! I’m married!
”

“Me too!” I suddenly realize I’ve missed this: girly chat about getting married. That’s the downside of rushing off with no family or bridesmaids at your side. “And being called ‘Mrs.’ is weird too!” I add. “Mrs. Parr.”

“I’m Mrs. Falkner.” She beams. “I just love it. Falkner.”

“I like Parr.” I smile back.

“You know this place is
the
honeymoon resort? They’ve had celebs here and everything. Our suite is to
die
for. And we’re renewing our vows tomorrow night, on the Love Island. That’s what they call it, the Love Island.”

She gestures down toward the sea, at a wooden jetty extending into the distance. At the end it broadens into a large platform which has been set up with a gauzy white canopy.

“We’re having cocktails afterward,” she adds. “You should come along! Maybe you could renew your vows too!”

“Already?”

I don’t want to sound rude, but that’s the weirdest thing I’ve ever heard. I got married yesterday. Why would I renew my vows?

“We’ve decided to renew ours every year,” says Melissa complacently. “Next year we’re going to do them in Mauritius, and I’ve already seen exactly the dress I want to wear. Last month’s
Brides
. The Vera Wang on page fifty-four. Did you see it?” Melissa’s phone trills before I can answer, and she frowns. “Excuse me a moment.… Matt? Matt, what on
earth are you doing? I’m at the bar! As we arranged. The bar … No, not the spa, the
bar
!”

She exhales impatiently, then puts her phone away and beams at me again. “So, you two
must
go in for the Couples’ Quiz this afternoon.”

“Couples’ Quiz?” I echo blankly.

“You know. Like the TV show. You answer questions about your partner and the winners are the couple who know each other best.” She gestures at a nearby poster, which reads:

TODAY at 4 PM:
COUPLES’ QUIZ on the BEACH
.
BIG PRIZES!! FREE ENTRY!!

“Everyone’s entered,” she adds, sipping at her drink through a straw. “They put on loads of activities for honeymooners here. It’s all marketing nonsense, of course.” She casually brushes back her hair. “I mean, honestly, as if marriage were a competition.”

I almost snort with laughter. Nice try. She wants to win so badly, it’s practically etched on her skin.

“So, are you in?” She peers at me over her Gucci shades. “Go on! It’s only a laugh!”

I suppose she’s right. I mean, let’s face it, what else are we doing with our time?

“OK. Sign us up.”

“Yianni!” Melissa calls over to the bartender. “I’ve got you another couple for Couples’ Quiz.”

“What?” Ben turns to me with a frown.

“We’re going in for a competition,” I inform him. “We agreed to do the first activity we saw, didn’t we? Well, this is it.”

Yianni passes two paper flyers to Ben and me, along with a bottle of wine and two glasses, which Ben must have ordered. Melissa has stood up from her bar stool. She’s on the phone again and sounds even more irate than before.

“The beach bar, not the lobby bar. The beach bar! … OK, stay there, I’m coming.… See you later,” she mouths, and totters off in a swirl of orange caftan.

When she’s gone, Ben and I are silent for a moment, studying the Couples’ Quiz flyers.
Demonstrate your love! Prove you have what it takes as a couple!

Despite everything, I can feel my competitive spirit rising. Not that I need to prove anything at all. But I just
know
there isn’t any couple at this resort more intimate and connected than Ben and me. I mean, look at them. And look at us.