Wedding Night

by Sophie Kinsella

  It would really help if my head wasn’t spinning.

  “Ben, you have to understand.” I pull my arm away again. “It’s not like when we were eighteen, OK? I don’t just want a shag. I want … other things. I want marriage. I want commitment. I want to plan a life together with someone. Kids, the whole lot.”

  “So do I!” he says impatiently. “Weren’t you listening? It should have been you all along.” His eyes are burning into mine. “Lottie. I never stopped loving you.”

  Oh my God, he loves me. I feel a rush of tears again. And, looking at him, it comes to me that I never stopped loving him either. Maybe I just didn’t realize it, because it was a kind of low-level, steady love. Like a background hum. And now it’s swelling back up into full-blown passion.

  “Nor did I,” I say, my voice trembling with sudden conviction. “I’ve loved you for fifteen years.”

  “Fifteen years.” He’s clinging to my hand. “We were insane to let each other go.”

  The romance of it all is overwhelming me. Talk about a story to tell at a wedding reception. Talk about oohs and aahs. We were apart for fifteen years, but then we found each other again.

  “We have to make up for lost time.” He crushes my fingers to his mouth. “Darling Lottie. My love.” His words are like balm. The feel of his lips on my skin is almost unbearably delicious. For an instant I close my eyes. But, no. Alarm bells are ringing. I can’t bear this one to go wrong like all the others.

  “Stop!” I whip my hand away. “Don’t! Ben, I know how this will play out, and I can’t bear it. Not again.”

  “What are you talking about?” He stares at me, baffled. “All I did was kiss your fingers.”

  His voice is a bit slurred. Kish your fingersh. But, then, so probably is mine.

  I wait until the waiter has brushed away the crumbs from our table, then launch in again, my voice lowered and trembling.

  “I’ve been here before. I know what happens. You kiss my fingers. I kiss your fingers. We have sex. It’s great. We have more sex. We’re besotted. We go on a mini-break to the Cotswolds. Maybe we buy a sofa together, or a bookshelf from Ikea. And then suddenly it’s two years later and we should be getting married … but somehow we don’t. We’ve gone off the boil. We argue and we break up. And it’s horrible.”

  My throat is tight with misery at our fate. It’s so inevitable and it’s so sad.

  Ben looks bewildered by the scenario I’ve painted.

  “OK,” he says at last, eyeing me warily. “Well … what if we don’t go off the boil?”

  “We do! It’s the law! It always happens!” I gaze at him, my eyes full of tears. “I’ve gone off the boil with too many guys. I know.”

  “Even if we don’t buy a bookshelf from Ikea?”

  I know he’s trying to be funny, but I’m serious. I’ve spent fifteen years of my life dating, I suddenly realize. Dating is not the solution to anything. Dating gave me Richard. Dating is the problem.

  “There’s a good reason you went off the boil with those other guys.” Ben tries again. “They weren’t the right guys. But I am!”

  “Who says you’re the right guy?”

  “Because … because … Jesus! What will it take?” He thrusts his fingers through his hair, looking exasperated. “OK! You win. We’ll do it the old-fashioned way. Lottie, will you marry me?”

  “Shut up.” I scowl. “You don’t have to make fun of me.”

  “I mean it. Will you marry me?”

  “Funny.” I take a slug of wine.

  “I mean it. Will you marry me?”

  “Stop it.”

  “Will you marry me?” Now he’s speaking more loudly. A couple at the next table look over and smile.

  “Shh!” I say irritably. “It’s not funny.”

  To my utter shock, he gets out of his seat, kneels down, and clasps his hands. I can see other diners turning to watch.

  My heart is pounding. No way. No way.

  “Charlotte Graveney,” he begins, swaying slightly. “I’ve spent fifteen years chasing pale imitations of you, and now I’m back here with the original I should never have let go. My life has been darkness without you and now I want to switch on the light. Will you do me the honor of marrying me? Please?”

  A weird sensation is stealing over me. I feel as if I’m turning into cotton wool. He’s proposing. He’s actually proposing. For real.

  “You’re drunk,” I parry.

  “Not that drunk. Will you marry me?” he repeats.

  “But I don’t know you anymore!” I give a half laugh. “I don’t know what you do for a living, I don’t know where you live, I don’t know what you want in life—”

  “Paper supply. Shoreditch. To be as happy as I was when I was with you. To wake up every morning and shag your brains out. To make babies who have your eyes. Lottie, I know it’s been years, but it’s still me. It’s still Ben.” His eyes crinkle in the way they always did. “Will you marry me?”

  I stare at him, breathing hard, my head ringing. But I can’t quite tell if it’s bells of joy or an alarm siren.

  I mean, I did think there was a chance he was still interested in me. But this is beyond all my fantasies. He’s held a torch for me, all these years! He wants to get married! He wants kids! A noise is playing at the back of my mind. I think it could be violin music. Maybe this is it. MAYBE THIS IS IT! Richard wasn’t it; Ben is it!

  I take a swig of water and try to fight a way through my swirling thoughts. Let’s be sensible. Let’s just think this through carefully. Did we ever argue? No. Was he good company? Yes. Do I fancy him? Hell, yeah. Is there anything else I need to know about a potential husband?

  “Do you have any nipples pierced?” I ask with sudden foreboding. Pierced nipples really aren’t my thing.

  “Not one.” He rips open his shirt in a theatrical gesture, scattering buttons, and I can’t help staring. Mmm. Brown. Taut. He’s as tasty as he ever was.

  “All you need to do is say ‘Yes.’” Ben spreads his arms with a drunken emphasis. “All you need to do, Lottie, is say ‘Yes.’ We spend most of our lives messing things up because we think too much. Let’s not overthink this one. Fuck it, we’ve wasted enough time. We love each other. Let’s just jump.”

  He’s right. We do love each other. And he wants to make babies who have my eyes. No one’s ever said anything so beautiful to me. Not even Richard.

  My head is whirling. I’m trying to stay rational, but I’m losing my footing. Is this real? Is he just talking me into bed? Is this the most romantic moment of my life or am I an idiot?

  “I … I think so,” I say at last.

  “You think so?”

  “Just … give me a moment.”

  I grab my bag and head to the Ladies’; I have to think. Clearly. Or at least as clearly as I can, bearing in mind that the room is spinning and my face in the mirror looks like it has three eyes.

  It could work. I’m sure it could work. But how can I make it work? How can I not fall into the same predictable pattern as all my other dead-end, fizzle-out relationships?

  As I comb my hair, my mind starts ranging over other first dates with other boyfriends. Other beginnings. I’ve stood in so many Ladies’ rooms over the years, refreshing my lipstick, thinking, Is this The One? Each time I’ve felt equally hopeful, equally fizzy. So where did I go wrong? What can I do differently? What can I not do that I normally do?

  Suddenly I recall that book I was looking at this morning. The Reverse Principle. Flip the arrow. Change direction. That sounds good. Yes. But how do I change direction? And now the words of that mad old woman in the Ladies’ yesterday are ringing in my head. What did she say again? Men are like jungle creatures. The minute they’ve found their kill, they eat it and fall asleep. Maybe she wasn’t so mad after all. Maybe she had something.

  Abruptly, I stop combing my hair. In a flash of inspiration, it has come to me. The answer. The left-field solution. I, Lottie Graveney, am going to reverse the pattern. I’
m going to do the opposite of what I’ve done with all previous boyfriends.

  I meet my eyes in the mirror. I look a little wild, but, then, is that any surprise? If I was exhilarated before, I’m euphoric now. I feel like a scientist who’s discovered a new, game-changing subatomic particle. I’m right. I know I’m right. I’m right!

  I stride back into the restaurant, staggering a little in my heels, and approach the table.

  “No sex,” I say firmly.

  “What?”

  “Till we’re married. No sex.” I sit down. “Take it or leave it.”

  “What?” Ben looks flabbergasted, but I just smile serenely back. I’m brilliant. If he really loves me, he’ll wait. And there’ll be no chance of anyone going off the boil. None. And the best part is, we’ll have the hottest honeymoon ever. We’ll be connected and united and blissed out. Exactly like honeymooners should be.

  His shirt is still hanging open. I picture him naked, in some gorgeous hotel bed, surrounded by rose petals. Just the idea makes me quiver.

  “You’re kidding.” His face has completely dropped. “Why?”

  “Because I want things to be different. I want to break the mold. I love you, yes? You love me? We want to make a life together?”

  “For fifteen years I’ve loved you.” He shakes his head. “Fifteen fucking years, we wasted, Lottie—”

  I can tell he’s going to start another drunken speech.

  “So.” I cut him off. “We wait a bit longer. And then we can have a wedding night. A proper wedding night. Think about it. We’ll both be gagging for it by then. Absolutely … gagging.” I reach under the table with my bare foot and slowly walk it up the inside of his leg. His face is transfixed. Never fails, this one.

  For a moment, neither of us talks. Let’s say we’re communicating in a different way.

  “Actually …,” he says at last, his voice thick, “that could be fun.”

  “A lot of fun.” Casually, I unbutton my top a couple of notches and lean forward, giving him maximum view of my uplift bra. My other foot is moving up to his crotch now. Ben seems unable to speak. “Remember the night of your birthday?” I say huskily. “On the beach? We could reprise that.”

  If we reprise that, I am wearing protective knee guards. I had scabs for a week. As if he’s reading my mind, Ben closes his eyes and moans faintly. “You’re killing me.”

  “It’ll be amazing.” I have a sudden memory of us as teenagers, lying entwined in my room at the guest house, lit only by the flickering of all my scented candles.

  “Do you know how hot you are? Do you realize how badly I want to get under this table now?” He grabs my hand and starts nibbling at the tip of my thumb. But this time I don’t move it away. My entire body seems wired to the feel of his lips and teeth on my skin. I want them everywhere. I remember this. I remember him. How could I have forgotten?

  “Wedding night, huh?” he says at last. My toes are still doing their stuff, and there’s pretty firm evidence that he’s enjoying it. All still in working order, then.

  “Wedding night.” I nod.

  “You realize I’ll die of frustration meanwhile?”

  “Me too. And then I’ll explode.” He takes my thumb right inside his mouth, and I gasp inwardly as the sensation rockets through my body. We need to leave soon or the waiter will be telling us to get a room.

  And when Richard hears about this—

  No. Don’t go there. This has nothing to do with Richard. It’s fate. It’s part of a bigger picture. A huge, sweeping romantic story starring Ben and me, with Richard only a bit part along the way.

  I know I’m drunk. I know this is rushed. But it feels so right. And if there’s still a soreness deep in my heart, then this is like some magical soothing lotion. I was meant to break up with Richard. I was meant to be miserable. The karma for my suffering is that now I get a wedding ring and the hottest sex of my life.

  I feel like my raffle prize wasn’t a thousand pounds. It was a million pounds.

  Ben’s eyes are glazed. I’m breathing more and more heavily. I’m not sure I can stand this.

  “When shall we get married?” I murmur.

  “Soon.” He sounds desperate. “Really, really soon.”

  5

  FLISS

  I hope Lottie’s OK, I really do. I’ve been away for two weeks and I haven’t heard one word from her. She hasn’t answered any of my friendly texts, and the last phone call we had was when she was planning to fly to San Francisco and surprise Richard. As Unfortunate Choices go, that one took the biscuit. Thank God I headed it off.

  But since then: nothing. I’ve tried leaving voicemails as well as texting, but no response. I did manage to get through to her intern, who assured me that she was coming in to work every day—so at least I know she’s alive and well. But it’s not like Lottie to be incommunicado. It troubles me. I’ll go round and see her tonight, make sure she’s OK.

  I pull out my phone and send her yet another text: Hi, how’s it going??? Then I put it away and survey the school playground. It’s thronging with parents, children, nannies, dogs, and toddlers on scooters. It’s the first day of term, so there are lots of tanned faces and shiny shoes and new haircuts. And that’s just the mothers.

  “Fliss!” A voice greets me as we get out of the car. It’s Anna, another mother. She’s clutching a Tupperware container in one hand and a dog lead in the other, at the end of which her Labrador is itching to get away. “How are you? Hi, Noah! Been meaning to have that coffee …”

  “Love to.” I nod.

  Anna and I talk about having coffee every time we see each other—which would be getting on for two years now—and it hasn’t yet happened. But somehow that doesn’t matter. Somehow that’s not the point.

  “That bloody travel project,” Anna is saying as we walk toward the school entrance. “I was up at five a.m. finishing that off. Up your street, I suppose, travel!” She gives a cheerful laugh.

  “What travel project?”

  “You know, the art thing?” She gestures to her container. “We did a plane. Utterly lame. We covered a toy with silver foil. Hardly homemade, but I said to Charlie, ‘Sweetie, Mrs. Hocking won’t know there’s a toy underneath.’ ”

  “What travel project?” I say again.

  “You know. Make a vehicle or whatever. They’re showing them all off at assembly.… Charlie, come on! The bell’s rung!”

  What bloody travel project?

  As I approach Mrs. Hocking, I can see another mother, Jane Langridge, standing in front of her, holding out a model of a cruise ship. It’s made out of balsa wood and paper. It has three funnels and rows of little portholes cut out perfectly and teeny clay figures on top, sunbathing round the blue-painted swimming pool. I stare at it, speechless in awe.

  “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Hocking,” Jane is saying. “Some of the paint is still wet. We’ve had such fun making it, haven’t we, Joshua?”

  “Hello, Mrs. Phipps,” calls out Mrs. Hocking cheerfully. “Nice holiday?”

  Mrs. Phipps. It sets my teeth on edge every time I’m addressed this way. I haven’t got round to becoming “Ms. Graveney” for school purposes. Truth is, I’m unsure what to do. I don’t want to unsettle Noah. I don’t want to make a big deal of rejecting his surname. I like having the same name as Noah. It feels homey and right.

  I should have chosen a brand-new surname when he was born. Just for us. Divorce-proof.

  “Mummy, did you bring the hot-air balloon?” Noah is peering up at me anxiously. “Have we got the hot-air balloon?”

  I stare at him blankly. I have no idea what he’s talking about.

  “Noah told us he was making a hot-air balloon. Super idea.” Mrs. Hocking descends on us, beaming. She’s a woman in her sixties who lives in tapered trousers. She’s so cool and unhurried, I inevitably feel like a gabbling lunatic next to her. Now her eyes rest on my empty hands. “Do you have it?”

  Do I look like I have a hot-air balloon about my person?


  “Not on me,” I hear myself saying. “Not exactly on me.”

  “Ah.” Her smile fades. “Well, if there’s any chance you could get it to us this morning, Mrs. Phipps, we’re setting up the display for assembly.”

  “Right! Of course!” I flash her a confident smile. “I just need to— One tiny detail— Let me just talk to Noah a moment.” I draw him away and bend down. “Which hot-air balloon, darling?”

  “My hot-air balloon for the travel project,” says Noah, as though it’s obvious. “We have to bring them in today.”

  “Right.” It’s nearly killing me, staying bright and breezy. “I didn’t know you had a project. You never mentioned it.”

  “I forgot.” He nods. “But remember we had a letter?”

  “What happened to the letter?”

  “Daddy put it in his fruit bowl.”

  I feel a volcanic surge of fury. I knew it. I bloody knew it.

  “Right. I see.” I grind my fingernails into my palms. “Daddy didn’t tell me there was a project. What a pity.”

  “And we talked about what to make, and Daddy said, ‘What about a hot-air balloon?’ ” Noah’s eyes start to gleam. “Daddy said we would get a balloon and cover it with papier-mâché and make a basket and people. And ropes. And paint it. And the people could be Batman.” His little cheeks are glowing with excitement. “Has he made it?” He looks at me expectantly. “Have you got it?”

  “I’ll just … check.” My smile feels glued into place. “Play on the climbing frame a moment.”

  I step away and speed-dial Daniel.

  “Daniel Phi—”

  “It’s Fliss.” I cut him off evenly. “Are you by any chance speeding toward the school holding a papier-mâché hot-air balloon with Batman in the basket?”

  There’s quite a long pause.

  “Oh,” Daniel says at last. “Shit. Sorry.”

  He doesn’t sound remotely concerned. I want to kill him.

  “No! Not ‘Oh. Shit. Sorry.’ You can’t do this, Daniel! It’s not fair on Noah and it’s not fair on me and—”

  “Fliss, relax. It’s just some little school project.”