Wedding Night (35 page)

“So sorry,” I call over cheerfully. “Occupational hazard of drinking next to a swimming pool!”

Noah has begun his extremely splashy version of the front crawl and is drawing looks of consternation from beautiful people and beautiful waitstaff alike.

“What’s the betting that Noah is the first person
ever
to swim in this pool?” says Lorcan in amusement.

As we’re watching, Richard enters the bar, along with a group of travelers I recognize from the plane. He looks wearier than he did earlier on, and I feel a twinge of sympathy for him.

“Hi,” he greets us, and sinks onto the banquette. “Heard from Lottie again?”

“Yes, and the good news is they still haven’t got it together!” I say, to cheer him up.

“Still?” Lorcan sets down his glass with an incredulous crash. “What is
wrong
with them?”

“Allergic mishap.” I shrug carelessly. “They used peanut oil or something on Lottie and she swelled up.”

“Peanut oil?” Richard looks up suddenly, concerned. “Well, is she OK? Did they call a doctor?”

“I think she’s fine. Really.”

“Because those reactions can be dangerous. Why did they use peanut oil, for God’s sake? Didn’t she warn them?”

“I … don’t know,” I say evasively. “What’s that?” I add, to change the subject, and nod at the piece of paper Richard is holding.

“It’s nothing,” says Richard protectively, as Noah bounds up, wrapped in a chic black towel. “Nothing much.”

“It must be something.”

“Well … OK.” Richard looks fiercely from Lorcan to me,
as though daring us to laugh. “I’ve started a poem in French. For Lottie.”

“Good for you!” I say encouragingly. “Can I have a look?”

“It’s a work in progress.” Grudgingly, he hands over the paper and I shake it out, clearing my throat.

“Je t’aime, Lottie. Plus qu’un zloty.”
I hesitate, not sure what to say. “Well, it’s a start.…”

“ ‘I love you, Lottie, More than a zloty’?” Lorcan translates incredulously. “Seriously?”

“Lottie’s a difficult rhyme!” Richard says defensively. “You try!”

“You could have used ‘potty,’ ” suggests Noah. “ ‘I love you, Lottie, Sitting on the potty.’ ”

“Thanks, Noah,” says Richard grouchily. “Appreciate it.”

“It’s very good,” I say hastily. “Anyway, it’s the thought that counts.”

Richard grabs the paper back from me and reaches for the bar menu. On the front it reads
Delectable Bulgarian Specialties
, and inside are lists of bar snacks and light meals.

“That’s a good idea. Have something to eat,” I say soothingly. “You’ll feel better.”

Richard gives the menu a cursory glance, then flags down a waitress, who approaches with a smile.

“Sir? Can I help?”

“I have some questions about your ‘delectable Bulgarian specialties,’ ” he says with an uncompromising stare. “The tricolore salad. Is that a Bulgarian specialty?”

“Sir.” The girl’s smile widens. “I will check.”

“And the chicken korma. Is that a Bulgarian specialty?”

“Sir, I will check.” The girl is scribbling on her notepad.

“Richard.” I kick him. “Stop it.”

“Club sandwich.” Richard presses on. “Is
that
a Bulgarian specialty?”

“Sir—”

“Curly fries. Which area of Bulgaria do they come from?”

The girl has stopped writing now and is gazing at him, perplexed.

“Stop!” I hiss at Richard, then smile up at the girl. “Thanks so much. We’ll need a couple more minutes.”

“I was just asking,” says Richard, as she walks away. “Clarifying. I’m allowed to clarify, aren’t I?”

“Just because you can’t write French love poetry, there’s no need to take it out on an innocent waitress,” I say sternly. “Anyway, look. Meze platter. That’s a Bulgarian specialty.”

“It’s Greek.”

“And Bulgarian.”

“Like you know all about it.” He looks at the menu broodingly, then closes it. “Actually, I think I’ll turn in.”

“Aren’t you going to eat?”

“I’ll get room service. See you in the morning.”

“Sleep well!” I call after him, and he gives me a gloomy nod over his shoulder.

“Poor guy,” says Lorcan, after Richard has disappeared from view. “He really loves her.”

“I think so.”

“No one writes a poem like that unless they’re so in love that their faculties have become temporarily defective.”

“More than a zloty,”
I quote, suddenly getting the giggles.
“Zloty?”

“ ‘Sitting on the potty’ was better.” Lorcan raises his eyebrows. “Noah, you may have a future as Poet Laureate.”

Noah bounds off to leap back into the swimming pool, and we both watch him splashing around for a moment.

“Nice kid,” says Lorcan. “Bright. Well balanced.”

“Thanks.” I can’t help smiling at the compliment. Noah
is
bright. Although “well balanced” I’m not so sure about. Do well-balanced kids boast about their fictitious heart transplants?

“He seems very happy.” Lorcan takes a handful of peanuts. “Was custody amicable?”

At the word “custody,” my internal radar springs into action and I feel my heart automatically start to pound, ready for battle. My body is flooding with adrenaline. I’m fingering my memory stick nervously. I have speeches lined up in my head. Long, erudite, scathing speeches. Also: I want to punch someone.

“Only, some of my friends have had fairly torrid times with custody battles,” Lorcan adds.

“Right.” I’m trying to achieve composure. “Right. I bet.”

Torrid?
I want to exclaim.
You want to hear about torrid?

But at the same time Barnaby’s voice is ringing in my ears like the chime of a warning bell.
You said whatever you did, you wouldn’t end up bitter
.

“But you haven’t suffered?” says Lorcan.

“Not at all.” From nowhere, I’ve mustered the most relaxed, serene smile. “Actually, it’s all been very easy and straightforward. And quick,” I add for good measure. “Very quick.”

“You’re lucky.”

“Very lucky.” I nod. “So, so lucky!”

“And you and your ex get on?”

“We’re like this.” I cross my fingers.

“You’re incredible!” says Lorcan in marveling tones. “Are you sure you want to be divorced from him?”

“I’m just super-glad he’s found happiness with another woman.” I smile yet more sweetly. My ability to lie is unnerving even to myself. Essentially, I’m saying the diametric opposite of the truth. It’s almost a game.

“And do you get on with his new partner?”

“Love her!”

“And does Noah?”

“It’s like one big happy family!”

“Would you like another drink?”

“No, I’d hate one!” Abruptly I remember that Lorcan doesn’t know we’re playing the game. “I mean, love one,” I amend.

As Lorcan summons a waiter, I eat a couple of nuts and try to come up with more divorce-related lies. But even as I’m composing them—
We all play table tennis together! Daniel’s naming his new baby after me!
—my head is buzzing. My fingers are fiddling at the memory stick with more and more agitation. I don’t like this game anymore. My inner good fairy is losing her glow. The bad fairy is barging in and wants to have a say.

“So, your husband must be a great guy,” says Lorcan, after he’s given our order. “For you two to have such a special relationship.”

“He’s a star!” I nod, my teeth gritted.

“Must be.”

“He’s just so thoughtful and kind!” I’m clenching my fists by my sides. “He’s such a charismatic, charming, unselfish, caring—” I break off. I’m panting. There are actual stars in front of my eyes. Complimenting Daniel is bad for my health; I can’t do it anymore. “He’s a … a … a …” It’s like a sneeze. It has to come out.
“Bastard.”

There’s a slight pause. I can see some men at a nearby table looking over with interest.

“A bastard in a good way?” hazards Lorcan. “Or … oh.” He sees my face.

“I lied. Daniel is the biggest nightmare that any divorced wife has had to put up with, and I’m bitter, OK? I’m bitter!” Just saying it is a relief. “My bones are bitter, my heart’s bitter, my blood is bitter.…” Something occurs to me. “Wait. You’ve had sex with me. You know I’m bitter.”

There’s no way he couldn’t have picked that up from our night together. I was fairly tense. I think I swore a lot.

“I wondered.” Lorcan tilts his head affirmatively.

“Was it when I shouted, ‘Screw you, Daniel!’ just as I came?” I can’t help cracking, then lift a hand. “Sorry. Bad-taste joke.”

“No apology needed.” Lorcan doesn’t even blink. “The only way to survive a divorce is to tell bad-taste jokes. What do you do if you miss your ex-wife? Take better aim next time.”

“Why is divorce so expensive?” I automatically counter. “Because it’s worth it.”

“Why do divorced men get married again? Bad memory.”

He waits for me to laugh, but I’m lost in thought. My adrenaline tidal wave has ebbed away, leaving behind the detritus of old familiar thoughts.

“The thing is …” I rub my nose hard. “The thing is, I
haven’t
survived my divorce. Wouldn’t ‘survival’ imply I’m the same person I was before?”

“So who are you now?” says Lorcan.

“I don’t know,” I say after a long pause. “I feel scalded inside. Like, third-degree burns. But no one can see them.”

Lorcan winces but doesn’t reply. He’s one of those rare people who can wait it out and listen.

“I started to wonder if I was going mad,” I say, staring into my glass. “Could Daniel
really
see the world that way? Could he
really
be saying those awful things and could people be believing him? And the worst thing is, no one else is in it with you. A divorce is like a controlled explosion. Everyone on the outside is OK.”

“Everyone on the outside.” Lorcan nods vigorously. “Don’t you
hate
those people? Telling you not to think about it.”

“Yes!” I nod in recognition. “And saying, ‘Be positive! At least you haven’t been horribly disfigured in an industrial accident!’ ”

Lorcan bursts into laughter. “You know the same people I know.”

“I just wish beyond anything that he was out of my life.” I exhale, resting my forehead briefly in my hands. “I wish they could do … I don’t know. Keyhole surgery for ex-husband removal.” Lorcan gives an appreciative smile and I gulp my wine. “What about you?”

“It was fairly grim.” He nods. “There was some nastiness about money, but we didn’t have kids, so that made it simpler.”

“You’re lucky you didn’t have kids.”

“Not really,” he replies tonelessly.

“No, really, you are,” I persist. “I mean, when you get into custody, it’s a whole other—”

“No, really, I’m
not
.” There’s an acerbic edge to his voice I haven’t heard before, and I suddenly remember I know very little of his private life. “We couldn’t,” he adds shortly. “I
couldn’t. And I would say that that fact contributed about eighty percent to our breakup. Make that a hundred percent.” He takes a deep gulp of whiskey.

I’m so shocked I don’t know what to say. In those few words, he’s conveyed a background story of such sadness that I feel instantly guilty for having complained about my own plight. Because at least I have Noah.

“I’m sorry,” I falter at last.

“Yes. Me too.” He gives me a wry, kind smile, and I realize that he can tell I’m feeling guilty. “Although, as you say, it would have complicated things more.”

“I didn’t mean—” I begin. “I didn’t realize—”

“It’s fine.” He lifts a hand. “It’s fine.”

I recognize his tone; I use it myself. It isn’t fine: it just is.

“I really am sorry.” I repeat myself feebly.

“I know.” He nods. “Thanks.”

For a while we’re silent. Thoughts are spinning around my head, but I don’t quite dare to share any of them with him. I don’t know him well enough. They might inadvertently hurt him.

At last I retreat to the safe, once-removed territory of Lottie and Ben.

“The thing is …” I exhale. “I just want to save my sister from the same kind of hurt that we’ve both experienced. That’s all. That’s why I’m here.”

“Can I make a small point?” says Lorcan. His mouth twitches with humor, and I can tell he wants to lighten the mood. “You haven’t even met Ben.”

“I don’t need to,” I retort. “What you don’t realize is there’s a history to this. Every time Lottie breaks up with someone, she makes some stupid, rash, insane gesture that she then has to undo. I call them her Unfortunate Choices.”

“ ‘Unfortunate Choices.’ I like it.” Lorcan raises an eyebrow. “So you think Ben is her Unfortunate Choice.”

“Well, don’t you? I mean,
really
. Getting hitched after five minutes, planning to live in a
gîte—
”

“A
gîte
?” Lorcan looks surprised. “Who said that?”

“Lottie! She’s full of it. They’re going to have goats and chickens and we all have to visit them and eat baguettes.”

“This doesn’t sound like Ben at all,” says Lorcan. “Chickens? Are you sure?”

“Precisely! It sounds like some ridiculous pipe dream. And it’ll crumble to bits and she’ll end up divorced and bitter and just like me—” Too late, I realize I’m almost shouting. The men at the next table are looking at me again. “Just like me,” I repeat more quietly. “And that would be a disaster.”

“You do yourself a disservice,” says Lorcan. I think he’s trying to be nice. But I’m really not in the mood for flattery.

“You
know
what I mean.” I lean forward. “Would you wish the sheer hell of divorce on someone you cared about? Or would you try to prevent it?”

“So you’re going to arrive out of the blue, tell her to get an annulment and marry Richard. You think she’ll listen?”

I shake my head. “It’s not like that. I happen to think Richard’s great and perfect for Lottie, but I’m not going out there under the banner of Team Richard. Richard will have to be his own team. I’m on Team Don’t Mess Your Life Up.”

“Providential for you that they’ve had such a nightmare of a honeymoon,” says Lorcan, raising an eyebrow.

There’s a brief, charged pause in which I wonder whether to tell him about my secret operation—then decide against it.