Wedding Night (33 page)

The only plus point of the situation: I can’t blame Daniel. Not this time. This one is firmly fate/act of God. (Thanks a lot, God. Is this because of what I said in religious studies class, age eleven? I was
joking
.) Although I’d actually like to blame Daniel right now. More specifically, I’d like to kick him. Failing that, I may well kick my baggage trolley.

The crowd around the carousel is five deep. There are people waiting for luggage from several flights, and no one is in a good mood, least of all my fellow passengers from Flight 637 to Ikonos. Not many smiles. Not a lot of jolly banter.

Sofia, bloody Bulgaria. I
mean
.

Years of traveling for work have made me fairly Zen about airlines and delays and cock-ups, but I must say, this cock-up is of epic proportions. We couldn’t just land, wave the poor old lady off to hospital, and then efficiently resume our journey. Oh no. Her luggage needed to be found, and then there was a problem getting a takeoff slot, and then it turned out something had gone wrong with an engine. The upshot is an unscheduled overnight stay in Sofia. We’re being put up at the City Heights Hotel. (Not bad, four stars, great rooftop bar, as I remember.)

“That’s ours!” yells Noah for the fifty-first time. He’s tried to claim nearly every black suitcase that has appeared on the carousel, despite the fact that ours has a distinctive red strap and is probably on its way to Belgrade right now.

“It’s not, Noah,” I say patiently. “Keep looking.” A woman steps heavily on my toe, and I’m trying to remember any curse words I know in Bulgarian when my phone beeps with a text and I pull it out of my pocket.

Guess what? WE WON!!!! All going brilliantly. Ben and I make a fab team. Totally happy.
Hope u r having a lovely day too. Everything OK?? L xxx

I’m so shocked I can’t move for a moment. They
won?
How the hell did they win?

“Who’s that from?” Richard has seen me reading my phone. “Is that from Lottie?”

“Er, yes.” I’m too slow off the mark to lie.

“What does she say? Has she realized she’s made a mistake?” His face is so eager that I cringe inside. “Presumably they did terribly at the quiz?”

“Actually …” I hesitate. How do I break this to him? “Actually, they won.”

His face drops and he stares at me, aghast. “They
won
?”

“Apparently.”

“But I thought they didn’t know anything about each other.”

“They don’t!”

“You said they would tank.” Richard becomes accusing.

“I know!” I say, feeling rattled. “Look, I’m sure there’s some explanation. I must have got my wires crossed. I’ll give her a ring.” I speed-dial Lottie’s number and turn away.

“Fliss?” Even from that one syllable I can hear how ebullient she is.

“Congratulations!” I try to match her tone. “You … you
won
?”

“Isn’t it
amazing
?” she says exultantly. “You should have been there, Fliss. We did it in character! We were Dirk and Sally, you know, from that TV show we always used to watch?”

“Right,” I say in confusion. “Wow.”

“Now we’re celebrating and I’ve just had the most delicious lobster canapés and champagne. And we’re going back to the guest house tomorrow. And Ben wrote me a love poem in French.” She sighs blissfully. “This is the perfect honeymoon.”

I stare at the phone in mounting horror. Champagne? French love poetry? The
perfect honeymoon
?

“Right.” I’m trying to stay calm. “That’s … really surprising.”

What the fuck has Nico been
doing
? Has he gone to sleep?

“Yes, we were having a terrible time!” Lottie laughs happily.
“You wouldn’t believe it. We haven’t even … you know. Done it yet. But somehow that doesn’t matter.” Her tone softens lovingly. “It’s as if all the crazy disasters have brought Ben and me closer together.”

The disasters have brought them closer together?
I’ve brought them closer together?

“Wonderful!” My voice is shrill. “That’s great! So you made the right decision to marry Ben?”

“A million times over,” says Lottie ecstatically.

“Great! Marvelous!” I screw up my face, debating how best to proceed. “Only … I was just thinking about Richard. Wondering how he was doing. Are you in touch with him?”

“Richard?”
Her vitriolic tone nearly takes my ear off. “Why would I be in touch with
Richard
? He’s well out of my life, and I wish I’d never ever met him!”

“Ah.” I rub my nose, trying not to look at Richard. I hope he can’t hear.

“Can you believe I was prepared to fly across the Atlantic for him? He would never have made such an effort for me.
Never
.” Her bitterness makes me flinch. “He hasn’t got a single romantic bone in his body!”

“I’m sure he has!” I retort before I can stop myself.

“He hasn’t,” she says resolutely. “You know what I think? He never loved me at all. He’s probably forgotten all about me already.”

I look at Richard—hot, sweaty, and resolute—and I want to scream. If only she
knew
.

“Anyway, Fliss, I think it’s really tasteless of you to mention Richard,” she adds crossly.

“Sorry,” I backtrack hastily. “Just thinking aloud. I’m glad you’re having a good time.”

“I’m having a fantastic time,” she says emphatically. “We’ve been talking and bonding and making plans—oh, by the way. That guy you hooked up with. Lorcan.”

“Yes? What about him?”

“He sounds a nightmare. You should avoid him. You haven’t seen him again, have you?”

Instinctively, I glance over at Lorcan, who is up near the carousel and has hoisted Noah onto his shoulders.

“Er … not a lot,” I prevaricate. “Why?”

“He’s the most dreadful, arrogant man. You know he works for Ben’s company? Well, he basically talked Ben’s dad into giving him a job there, and now he has a cushy number and he’s taking over everything and trying to control Ben.”

“Oh,” I say, nonplussed. “I had no idea. I thought they were mates.”

“Well, I thought so too. But Ben really hates him. Apparently he once confiscated Ben’s phone in public!” Her voice rises indignantly. “Like some kind of schoolteacher. Isn’t that atrocious? I told Ben he should charge him with harassment! And there’s loads of other stuff too. So promise me you won’t go and fall for him or anything.”

I resist the desire to give a hollow, sardonic laugh. Some chance.

“I’ll do my best,” I say. “And you promise me you’ll … er … carry on having a wonderful time.” It’s killing me to say the words. “What’s up next?”

“Couple’s massage on the beach,” she says happily.

Every fiber in my body stiffens in alarm.

“Right.” I swallow. “So, when’s that? Exactly?”

I’m already planning the ear-bashing I’m going to give Nico. What’s going on? How can he have been so negligent? Why are they drinking champagne and eating lobster? Why
did he allow Ben to write a French love poem? He should have leapt in and grabbed the pencil.

“It’s in half an hour,” says Lottie. “They rub you with oil and then leave you alone for some private time. Honestly, Fliss.” She lowers her voice. “Ben and I are just
gagging
for it.”

I’m hopping with agitation. This was not the plan. I’m stuck in bloody Sofia and she and Ben are about to conceive a baby on the beach, whom no doubt they’ll christen “Beach” and then viciously fight over in the high court when it all falls apart. As soon as I’ve said goodbye, I speed-dial Nico.

“Well?” Richard instantly questions me. “What’s the situation?”

“The situation is: I’m on top of the situation,” I say curtly as I’m put through to voicemail. “Hello, Nico, it’s Fliss. We need to talk, asap. Give me a call. Bye.”

“So what did Lottie say?” demands Richard as I end the call. “Did they win?”

“Apparently so.”

“Bastard.” He’s breathing heavily. “
Bastard
. What does he know about her that I don’t? What’s he got that I haven’t? Apart from, obviously, the stately home—”

“Richard, stop!” I snap in exasperation. “It’s not a competition!”

Richard stares at me as though I’m the thickest moron that ever existed. “Of course it’s a competition,” he says.

“No, it isn’t!”

“Fliss,
everything
in a man’s life is a competition!” He suddenly loses it. “Don’t you realize that? From the moment you’re a three-year-old boy, peeing up against the wall with your friends, all you really care about is: Am I bigger than him? Am I taller? Am I more successful? Is my wife hotter?
So, the day that some smooth bastard with a private jet runs off with the girl you love: yes, it’s a competition.”

“You don’t know he’s got a private jet,” I say after a pause.

“I’m guessing.”

There’s silence. In spite of myself, I’m rating Richard against Ben in my mind. Well, Richard would win in my book—but, then, I’ve never met Ben.

“Well, OK. Suppose you’re right,” I say at last. “What counts as winning? Where’s the finish line? She’s married to someone else. So doesn’t that mean you’ve already lost?”

I don’t mean to be harsh—but these are the facts.

“When I’ve told Lottie how I really feel … and she’s still said no,” says Richard resolutely, “
then
I’ll have lost.”

My stomach twinges with sympathy for him. He’s putting himself on the line here. No one can say he’s taking the easy way out.

“OK.” I nod. “Well, you know which way I would vote.” I squeeze his shoulder.

“What are they doing now?” He glances at my phone. “Tell me what they’re doing. I know she’ll have told you.”

“They’ve just had champagne and lobster,” I say reluctantly. “And Ben’s written her a love poem in French.”

“In French?” Richard looks as though someone has kneed him in the stomach. “Smarmy
bastard
.”

“And they’re planning to go to the guest house tomorrow,” I tell him, as Lorcan joins us. He and Noah are wheeling three cases between them. “Well done, you two! That’s all the luggage.”

“High five,” says Noah solemnly to Lorcan, and smacks his proffered palm.

“The guest house?” Richard looks stricken by this piece of news. “The guest house where they met?”

“Exactly.”

His scowl deepens. “She always goes on about that place. The calamari that was unlike any calamari in the world. And the secluded beach that was better than any other beach. I took her to Kos once, and all she could say was it wasn’t as good as the guest house.”

“Oh, jeez, the guest house.” Lorcan nods in agreement. “I hate that place. If I have to hear Ben tell me one more time about how the sunset was like a mind-altering experience …”

“Lottie went on about the sunset too.” Richard nods.

“And how they all used to get up at dawn and do fucking yoga—”

“—and the people—”

“—the atmosphere—”

“And the sea was the clearest, most turquoise, most perfect sea in existence,” I chime in, rolling my eyes. “I mean, get over it.”

“Bloody place,” says Lorcan.

“I wish it
had
burned down,” adds Richard.

We all look at each other, immensely cheered. There’s nothing like having a common enemy.

“So, we should go,” says Lorcan. He proffers the handle of my wheelie case and I’m about to take it when my phone rings. I check the ID: it’s Nico. At
last
.

“Nico! Where have you been!”

“Fliss! I know what you are thinking, and I am mortified—” As he launches into some long, rambling apology, I cut him off.

“We haven’t got time for all that. They’re about to get it together on the beach. You need to move fast. Listen.”

17
LOTTIE

This is the
perfect
setting for a wedding night. I mean, our own private beach! How cool is that?

We’re in a secluded little cove that you reach from the main beach over stepping stones and there’s a DO NOT DISTURB sign placed on a rock. Our two massage therapists led us here in a little procession, followed by Georgios and Hermes carrying champagne and oysters, which are waiting for us on ice. Now we’re lying on a huge double massage bed, while the two massage therapists, Angelina and Carissa, rub oil into our bodies. Billowing all around us are white curtains, so we’re totally private in our enclosure. The sky is that intense blue you only get at a certain point in the early evening, and scented candles planted in the sand are giving off a sweet aroma. Birds are swooping and calling. I can hear the tiny splash of waves on the sand, and the air has a salty tang. It’s all so scenic, I feel as though I’m in some arty pop video.

Ben reaches out his hand to take mine, and I squeeze it back, wincing as Carissa tackles a particularly stubborn knot in my neck. Mmm. Ben and me and a canopied bed on the
beach, which we’ll have to ourselves for two hours afterward. The therapists have stressed that several times. “Two hours,” Angelina kept saying. “Plenty of private time. You will be relaxed as a couple.… All the senses will be stimulated.… No one will disturb you, this is guaranteed.…”

She didn’t quite wink, but she might as well have. Obviously this is the open-air shagging service, which they’re too coy to spell out in the brochure.