by Zoe May
‘We’re not far now,’ Medhi says. ‘This is Marrakech.’ He gestures out of the window at the streets lined with palm trees, one even has a camel tethered to it. I nudge Will and point. Will smiles, but he still seems a bit perturbed by the whole honeymoon thing.
The driver pulls into a driveway. I spot a sign for ‘Marrakech Palace’.
‘We’re here!’ I point out, craning my neck to take in the hotel. It’s incredibly grand with dreamlike Arabian architecture – a domed vaulted roof, tall engraved archways, marble pillars and more tall lush palm trees.
‘Yes!’ Medhi grins, turning to us. ‘Welcome!’
‘Wow!’ I utter, in shock. When Medhi said he’d done alright for himself, he really meant it. The hotel is stunning. I’d seen pictures online, but they didn’t properly capture the sheer magnificence of the place. Even Will looks completely awe-struck, having momentarily forgotten about our honeymoon predicament.
We stop outside the entrance and the driver parks the car.
‘Wait … is that … confetti?’ Will says, as he gets out and eyes the steps leading up to the hotel.
‘Oh yes! We pay attention to the small details here at Marrakech Palace,’ Medhi says.
I laugh as I take in the tiny love heart confetti in pink and red. It actually looks really cute, but you’d think the confetti featured tiny swastikas judging from the look of horror on Will’s face.
A young boy of about 12 or 13 comes bounding up to Medhi, enveloping him in a hug before helping bring our bags into the hotel. Both Will and I try to help, but Medhi isn’t having any of it.
‘This is my son, Mohammed,’ he says, ruffling the boy’s hair.
‘As-salāmu ‘alaykum,’ the boy says, smiling shyly.
‘Wa ‘alaykumu s-salām,’ Will and I return the greeting.
‘Natalie and Will just got married!’ Medhi enthuses.
‘Cool!’ Mohammed replies.
As we walk over the confetti, I glance at Will, who looks back at me with a slightly desperate squirming expression. He clearly hates lying to Medhi and his family. A woman in a stunning embroidered kaftan comes rushing up to us as we walk into the hotel’s reception, which is just as beautiful as the outside with an intricate rug laid across the marble floor and a decadent carved stone fountain in the centre.
‘Welcome to Marrakech!’ she says, throwing confetti over me and Will. ‘I’m Amira!’
She pulls me into a hug. ‘You must be Mrs Brimble!’ she says.
I laugh. ‘You can call me Natalie,’ I reply, sweeping some confetti out of my hair.
I can feel Will watching me. He must find this whole Mrs Brimble stuff a bit uncomfortable seeing as the last Mrs Brimble ended up a divorcée. Definitely worth sticking to Natalie.
‘And you must be Mr Brimble!’ She shakes Will’s hand.
‘Yes, I am,’ Will replies, smiling politely.
I don’t think he realises he has a few pieces of love heart confetti on his shoulders and in his hair.
‘We are so happy to have you here!’ Amira is just as enthusiastic as her husband.
She briefly shows us around the hotel, which is absolutely spectacular, from the enormous restaurant decked out with pillars and drapes and shimmering chandeliers to the sparkling aquamarine pool hat is just as beautiful as the pictures Mick displayed on the projector screen back at the raffle. It’s lined with deck chairs and a few guests are sipping drinks and soaking up the sun. It looks heavenly. One guest, a suave-looking man who appears to be in his forties, places his newspaper down on his lap and eyes me over the top of his sunglasses. I can’t tell if he’s checking me out or what, and before I can figure it out, Amira leads me and Will back to reception, where she gestures for us to take a seat at some comfy-looking chairs around a coffee table laden with a pot of steaming tea and a plate of pastries. Medhi sits down with us.
‘Here, help yourself,’ she says, gesturing at the pastries. Amira picks up the dish and offers them to us.
We both take one, thanking Medhi and Amira profusely.
Amira begins pouring us cups of tea. It smells delicious – of fresh mint.
‘So, you came all the way from London! How was your journey?’ Amira asks.
We tell them about our flight and our upgrade. Will’s a little quiet and it’s mostly me carrying the conversation. I find myself effortlessly playing along with the whole couple thing. I even reach over and give Will’s knee a squeeze at one point. His eyes widen, a little shocked, but I don’t think either Amira or Medhi notice.
Amira echoes some of what Medhi was saying in the car, telling us how incredibly excited they are to have us staying in their new honeymoon suite. Will and I exchange a look at one point, over the rims of our teacups, and I can tell from the slightly skittish, unnerved look in his eyes that he’s not enjoying lying to them. But surely, he realises that if we were to ‘fess up, we’d only massively disappoint them both. We faked being a couple on the plane, what’s another couple of days? I give him an encouraging look.
‘You probably want to go up to your room and relax,’ Medhi says after we’ve eaten another pastry and the tea has run out. ‘Let me take your passports and I’ll give you your room key.’
Medhi gets up and we head to the reception desk, thanking Amira once more for the lovely welcome.
I open my bag and pull out my passport. I hand it to Medhi. As lovely as he and his family are, and as delicious as the pastries and mint teas are too, my head is beginning to pound a bit from the Dom Perignon Will and I necked on the plane. Keeping up the pretence of being a married couple when you’ve had half a bottle of champagne and flown from England to Africa is a bit exhausting.
Medhi studies my passport and frowns. Oh no. What now?
‘Natale Jackson?’ he says. ‘Not Natalie Brimble.’
Oh crap. How did I not anticipate this moment? Will and I even talked about names on the plane!
I glance at Will. He pulls a face, looking completely awkward about the whole situation. He opens his mouth as though to speak, and I’m suddenly sure he’s going to say something to give us away.
‘I kept my own name,’ I blurt out. ‘I’m progressive like that. Modern!’
Will shoots me a look.
‘Right,’ Medhi replies. ‘So you have different names?’
‘Yes, it’s quite common in England,’ I tell him.
‘Oh, I see.’ Medhi smiles politely. ‘May I take your passport, Will?’
Will hesitates and for a moment I’m worried he’s going to just keep his passport, turn around and get a taxi back to the airport, but he reaches into his pocket and hands it over, shooting me a weary look as he does so. I pretend not to register it.
Medhi checks us in, handing back our passports along with our room keys.
‘Where is your wedding ring?’ he asks suddenly, eyeing Will’s ring finger, which is, of course, completely ringless.
‘Oh …’ Will’s face goes blank.
The phone at reception suddenly rings, with a loud piercing tone and I feel like Will and I have been saved by the bell, but Medhi raises a finger as though to indicate that we’ll return to this conversation in a minute. He starts speaking in Arabic to whoever is calling.
‘We should tell him,’ Will whispers, taking a few steps closer to me.
‘No, Will. I need this holiday, okay? I really need it. And they really want us here, too. They’re so excited. Please don’t ruin this for everyone. Please,’ I whisper back, imploringly, surprising myself with my own intensity. Tears have even sprung to my eyes. I guess motherhood has made me more tired over the past year than I’ve been letting on, even to myself. I do really need this holiday. I want to stay in a nice suite and just have a break from reality. Medhi and his family seem so thrilled to have us, what harm does it do to play along and pretend to be married for a few days? They’d probably be incredibly disappointed if they discovered at this point that we’re not married. Playing along really would be better for everyone.
‘Okay, okay,’ Will sighs, taking in my desperate expression.
‘Thank you, Will. I owe you,’ I say, reaching up and taking his hand. I give it a squeeze.
Medhi hangs up the phone and turns to us, spotting me squeezing Will’s hand – convenient! Hopefully, my hand squeezing will only add to the impression that we’re married. Married couples squeeze each other’s hands all the time, right?
‘So,’ Medhi sighs, and for a moment, I think he’s forgotten all about the rings, but he lasers in on mine and Will’s hands on the counter. ‘You don’t have a ring either! Surely this isn’t a progressive thing?’
‘Haha!’ I laugh. My laugh comes out more than a little high-pitched. I may have successfully managed to convince Will to play along as my husband but I’m no closer to explaining why we’re not wearing rings. Medhi’s right to be surprised. If we were married, surely we would be wearing them, so why aren’t we? Why the hell aren’t we? My mind is blank. Medhi is looking between me and Will, waiting for a response.
‘Err …’ I glance at Will, my mind racing. Could they have been stolen? Or lost? But why would we both have lost our rings at the same time? We wouldn’t have both been simultaneously that ditzy. Crap, I can’t think of anything. I look at Will with pleading eyes, willing him to come up with something. He’s the journalist. Aren’t they meant to be good at thinking on their feet? But Will stares back at me, looking equally stumped.
‘Umm …’ He looks towards Medhi, who raises his brows expectantly.
The silence is deafening. Our bubble is about to burst. Damn it. So much for my pretend marriage. Over before it even began.
‘They’re in our luggage,’ Will says finally.
Phew. Yes! Go Will.
I nod enthusiastically. ‘Yes, they’re in our luggage,’ I reiterate dumbly.
‘But … why?’ Medhi asks. Good point. I look to his ring finger. Gold band on it, naturally. In the place that normal married people wear them. Not stashed away in a bag somewhere.
‘Umm …’ Will squirms, chewing his lip. Then his eyes flash with inspiration and I can tell he’s had a brainwave. ‘We, er, set off the metal detector at the airport when we were checking in so we put our rings in our hand luggage.’
Nice one. I smile proudly at him.
‘But why didn’t you just put your rings back on after?’ Medhi asks.
Jeez. Is Medhi obsessed with rings or something? What is this? The Spanish Inquisition?
Will glances at me. He looks so uncomfortable. His cheeks are a little flushed. I wish I could step in and help but I have absolutely no idea what to say. Plus, Will’s the one who’s been married before. Surely, he knows a bit more about what it’s like to wear a wedding ring than I do?!
‘We thought there might be another check-in point, so we just kept them off. Didn’t want to keep taking them on and off in case we mislaid them. They’re obviously really important to us,’ Will says.
I nod enthusiastically, feeling so impressed with Will. I knew he’d be able to lie.
‘Ah, I see,’ Medhi sighs with satisfaction. ‘Very wise.’
Very wise indeed.
‘Yes, you know what it’s like! Being married!’ Will tuts, rolling his eyes indulgently.
I kick his ankle, urging him to stop. Enough already.
‘Well, thanks so much, Medhi,’ I interject, before Will can ruin things. ‘We’re so delighted to be staying here. We’d better head up to our room and unpack.’
‘Of course,’ Medhi says, before calling over to his son to get him to show us the way.
Mohammed leads us to the lift and we head up to the second floor. He shows us down the corridor to our room.
‘This is your suite,’ he mutters, gesturing towards the door.
‘Thank you!’ I reply, but he’s already hurrying back along the corridor. He certainly has a long way to go if he’s going to ever become as ebullient as his dad.
‘We need rings,’ I hiss at Will once Mohammed is out of earshot. Will slides the key into the hotel room door.
‘Yeah! I know,’ Will sighs, shaking his head as he twists the key in the lock.
‘Do you think Medhi bought all that ring stuff?’ I ask, hoping Will is going to assure me Medhi he bought it hook, line and sinker.
‘I’m not sure,’ Will sighs. ‘We should definitely get rings to be on the safe side,’ he says as he finally manages to turn the key in the door and get it open. He opens the bedroom door to reveal a huge, wide room. The walls and ceiling are painted a soft terracotta with a brushed texture that makes it look rustic and dreamy – a far from my hedgehog wallpaper back home. Ornately carved silver lanterns hang from the ceiling, each adorned with pieces of coloured glass. I flick the light switch on and the room is showered in tiny diamond-shaped shards of light.
‘Wow!’ I utter, glancing at Will, who looks equally impressed.
The room is shaped like an octagon, and arched doorways with intricately carved wooden doors lead out to a balcony. One of the doors is open, revealing a view of tall palm trees soaring above the stone fortress-like walls of the hotel, and beyond, the Atlas Mountains, the same reddish terracotta shade as the walls stretch into the distance. The view is spectacular.
‘They brought up our luggage already,’ Will says, gesturing at our bags which have been left by the side of the bed. The bed. I somehow skimmed past that part of the room. It’s enormous. A massive, sumptuous, king-sized bed piled high with heart-shaped cushions and surrounded by a cocoon of luscious red and pink drapes, with crisp white sheets covered in sumptuous satin cushions, red foil-wrapped heart-shaped chocolates, and pink and red rose petals.
‘Oh, lovely!’ I say weakly.
‘Yes, lovely,’ Will replies through gritted teeth.
Chapter 9
‘So …’ I utter, picking up a rose petal from the crisp white bedsheet and holding it between my fingers. I give it a sniff, but I can’t smell anything.
‘So …’ Will echoes.
I drop the petal back on the bed and perch at the end. ‘What exactly do you do on honeymoons then?’ I ask.
He feigns a serious expression and sits down next to me.
‘Well, Nat, ever heard of this thing called the birds and the bees? Or do we need to have a little talk?’ Will jokes, a smile playing at his lips.
‘Oh, shut up!’ I retort, giving him a shove.
‘Ouch!’ Will recoils, clutching his arm as though I’ve hurt him.
A silence passes between us and I suddenly become aware of the air-conditioning fan whirring overhead. ‘I mean, obviously we’re not going to do that so what are we going to do?’ I ask.
‘Tricky one …’ Will muses.
‘We can’t exactly go downstairs and start exploring, can we? Wouldn’t a normal pair of newlyweds be tearing each other’s clothes off right now?’ I ask.
Will smiles. ‘Yes, they probably would be. It’s one thing faking wedding rings, but you’re not going to suggest we fake sex, are you? Banging the bed and crying out in ecstasy?’
I roll my eyes and pick up one of the pink satin love heart shaped pillows. ‘No, Will, I wasn’t going to suggest we fake sex!’
‘Phew.’
‘But what are we going to do up here?’ I ask.
‘I saw a mini Scrabble at the airport, should have bought it.’ I can’t tell if he’s joking.
‘Mini scrabble?’ I echo, deadpan.
‘It would have passed the time,’ Will points out. I have a strong feeling he’s not joking.
‘Talk about unromantic!’
‘Okay …’ Will looks around the room, as though for inspiration. His eyes land on a small fridge in the corner of the suite. He gets up and wanders over to it.
‘What’s that?’ I ask as he pulls open the door.
‘Mini bar,’ Will says, peering inside.
From where I’m sitting, I can just about make out a few bottles, but I can’t see what they are.
Will pulls out a bottle
of champagne from the fridge that has a ribbon tied around the neck and a note. He inspects it.
‘“Congratulations! Wishing you a lifetime of love and happiness”,’ Will reads out. He looks over and raises an eyebrow.
‘Wow! Are all honeymoons like this? I feel like we’re getting a hero’s welcome when all we did was get married – at least that’s what they think,’ I say.
Will closes the fridge door and comes back to the bed, holding the bottle of champagne by the neck.
‘Well, my honeymoon wasn’t like this at all,’ he says, perching at the end of the bed.
‘Oh really?’ I ask in a deliberately casual tone, even though my interest is suddenly piqued at the prospect of Will broaching the subject of his marriage.
‘What was it like?’ I ask.
‘Well …’ Will pauses, as though searching for the right words to describe it. ‘There were a lot of horses involved,’ he says.
‘Horses?’ I balk.
‘Yes,’ Will grumbles. ‘I was pretty much third wheel to a Mustang called Bernie.’
I snort with laughter. ‘Okay, you need to elaborate!’
‘My wife was really into horse-riding and persuaded me that we should have our honeymoon in Cornwall. She chose a lovely hotel and I thought we’d relax, enjoy the beach, unwind, but little did I know the hotel was five minutes from a stable and she’d already arranged to ride one of the horses pretty much every day,’ Will recalls, rolling his eyes at the memory.
‘When she was meant to be riding you,’ I tease, trying not to laugh.
‘Exactly!’ Will agrees.
‘That’s tragic. Usurped by a horse,’ I comment.
‘I know. I guess that was a red flag right there!’
I want to know more, but I’m suddenly hit with the urge to pee.
‘One sec,’ I say as I dash through a door leading to what must be the bathroom.
I’m expecting a toilet, a bath, maybe some nice towels, but I certainly wasn’t expecting a jacuzzi. The bathroom is ridiculously and unnecessarily large. All the fittings are a matching textured brown stone and everything looks brand new. It’s completely gorgeous with a huge jacuzzi in the centre. Like the bed, the floor and the jacuzzi have been scattered with rose petals.