Wedding Night

by Sophie Kinsella

  “We haven’t done anything,” Lottie wails in distress. “And I know you recommended this hotel, Fliss, but, quite frankly, it’s awful! I’m going to complain! They’ve ruined our honeymoon. We’ve got single beds! They say they can’t move them! I’m sitting on a single bed right now!” Her voice shrills higher. “Single beds! In a honeymoon suite!”

  “Goodness. I can’t believe it!” I’m sounding more and more stagy, but Lottie is on such a roll, she doesn’t notice.

  “So then they give us all this free booze to apologize, and this concierge guy bets Ben that he can’t drink some special Greek cocktail. Next thing, he’s downed the whole thing and everyone in the bar is cheering and he’s practically comatose! I mean, what was in it? Absinthe?”

  I dread to think what was in it.

  “We were snogging in the lift on the way back up to the room,” Lottie carries on agitatedly. “And I thought, here we go, at last—and suddenly there was this dead weight on my shoulder and Ben had fallen asleep! Mid-snog! I had to manhandle him into the room and he weighs a ton and now he’s snoring!” She sounds close to tears.

  “Look, Lottie.” I run a hand through my hair, trying desperately to think of the best way to play this. “It’s not such a big deal. Just get a good night’s sleep and … er … enjoy the hotel facilities.”

  “I’m suing this place.” She doesn’t even seem to be listening. “I don’t know how it won an award for Best Honeymoon Suite. It’s the worst!”

  “Have you eaten? Why don’t you have something from room service? They do really good sushi, or there’s an Italian pizza place.…”

  “OK. Maybe I’ll do that.” Her fury seems to subside and she gives a gusty sigh. “Sorry to lay all this on you, Fliss. I mean, it’s not your fault.”

  I can’t bring myself to answer.

  I’m doing the right thing, I remind myself furiously. What’s better, frustrated and upset for one night or married, pregnant, and regretting it your whole life?

  “Fliss? Are you still there?”

  “Oh, hi.” I swallow. “Yes. Look, try to get some sleep. I expect tomorrow will be better.”

  “Night, Fliss.”

  “Night, Lottie.”

  I switch off and stare ahead for a moment, trying to calm my guilt.

  I expect tomorrow will be better.

  Total lie. I’ve already talked to Nico. Tomorrow won’t be better.

  12

  LOTTIE

  I don’t want to be negative. But if I could describe how I expected the morning after my wedding night to be, it would not be this.

  It would not be this.

  I always imagined my new husband and me nestled in a huge white cottony bed, like in a soap-powder ad. Birds singing outside. Sunlight gently passing over our faces as we turn to each other and kiss, remembering our fabulous time last night, and murmuring sweet nothings to each other before moving seamlessly into spectacular morning sex.

  Not waking up on a single bed, with a cricked neck, un-brushed teeth, the smell of last night’s room-service pizza, and the sound of Ben groaning on the opposite bed.

  “Are you OK?” I try to sound sympathetic, even though I want to kick him.

  “I think so.” He lifts his head with what appears to be a huge effort. He looks pretty green and he’s still wearing his suit. “What happened?”

  “You won a bet,” I say shortly. “Well done, you.”

  Ben’s gaze is distant and his eyes are moving back and forth. He’s clearly trying to piece it all together.

  “I fucked up, didn’t I?” he says at last.

  “Just a bit.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah. Whatever.”

  “No, I’m sorry.”

  “Got it.”

  “No, I’m really, really sorry.” He swings his legs round and gets to his feet, swaying theatrically for a moment. “Mrs. Parr, my greatest, humblest apologies. How will I make this up to you?” He bows low, nearly falling over, and I stifle a smile. I can’t stay cross. Ben always was a charmer.

  “I can’t think.” I pout at him.

  “Any room in that bed?”

  “Might be …”

  I shuffle up, pulling open the duvet invitingly for him to snuggle in. It’s luxury goose down. We also have the choice of a pillow menu, with twenty different varieties. I read them all last night, over my pizza. But right now I couldn’t care less whether the pillow is buckwheat, hypoallergenic, or silk-covered. My husband is in bed with me. Awake. This is what matters.

  “Mmmm.” He buries his face in my neck. “You’re all cozy. Yum.”

  “You’re all hangover-y.” I wrinkle my nose. “Get your suit off.”

  “With pleasure.” He pulls his jacket and shirt off together in one movement, over his head, then straddles me, bare-chested, and grins down. “Hello, wife.”

  “Hello, idiot.”

  “Like I said, I’ll make it up to you.” He runs a finger down my cheek, down my neck, and under the duvet, fingering the top of my incredibly expensive cami. “We have all morning.”

  “All day.” I reach up to pull him down for a kiss.

  “We’ve earned this,” he murmurs. “Oh God. Oh Jesus.” His hands are tugging off my cami-knickers. “Lottie. I remember you.”

  “I remember you,” I manage, my voice heavy with lust. His clothes are all off now. He’s as hot as I remember; he’s as hard as I remember. This is just as good as I remember; it’s going to be amazing.…

  “Madame?” The grave voice of Georgios hits my ear. For a moment I think it’s Ben, fooling around with an impression. Then I realize it’s not Ben. Which means it’s the butler. Which means—

  I sit bolt upright, clasping the duvet round me, my heart pumping.

  The butler’s in the suite?

  “Good morning!” I call in a strangled voice.

  “Is madame ready for breakfast?”

  What the fuck? I pull an agonized face at Ben, who looks as though he wants to hit someone.

  “Didn’t you put on the DO NOT DISTURB sign?” he whispers.

  “I thought I did!”

  “Then what—”

  “I don’t know!”

  “Good morning.” Georgios appears at the door to the bedroom. “Sir, madame, I have taken the liberty of ordering you a very special treat. Most highly recommended by all our VIP honeymoon guests. Our Champagne Breakfast with Music.”

  I stare back at him, speechless. Music? What does he mean? What on earth—

  No way. I nearly convulse with shock as a girl appears at the door. She’s got long blond hair and is wearing a white Grecian tunic, and she’s wheeling along a massive harp.

  I exchange looks wildly with Ben. How do we stop this? What do we do?

  “Mr. and Mrs. Parr. Congratulations on your marriage! Today I will be playing for you a selection of love tunes, to accompany your breakfast,” the girl says, and takes a seat on a fold-up stool. Next moment she’s plucking away briskly at the harp and Georgios plus his assistant are bringing trays on stands to the bed and pouring out glasses of champagne and peeling fruit and offering us little finger bowls to refresh our hands in.

  I haven’t managed to utter a word. This is too surreal. I was about to have the hottest sex of my life. I was about to consummate my marriage. And instead I’m having a kiwi fruit peeled for me by a sixty-year-old man in a braided jacket while a harpist twangs “Love Changes Everything.”

  I’ve never really been one for the harp. But this one is making me want to hurl my basket of mini-croissants at it.

  “Please. A loving-cup toast, to celebrate your marriage.” Georgios gestures at our champagne flutes. Obediently, we link arms to sip our champagne, and with no warning Georgios throws a handful of pink confetti over us. I splutter in shock. Where did that come from? A moment later there’s a flash in my face and I realize Georgios has taken a photo.

  “A commemorative photograph,” he says gravely. “We will present it in a le
ather-bound album. Compliments of the management.”

  What? I stare at him in horror. I don’t want a commemorative photo of me looking hungover and disheveled with confetti stuck to my lip.

  “Eat,” Ben whispers in my ear. “Quick. Then they’ll go.”

  That’s a point. I reach for the teapot, and Georgios leaps forward reprovingly.

  “Madame. Let me.” He pours me a cup of tea and I take a couple of gulps. I swallow some kiwi fruit, then clutch my stomach.

  “Mmm. Delicious! But I’m stuffed.”

  “Me too.” Ben nods. “It’s been a great breakfast, but maybe you could clear it away now?”

  Georgios hesitates, seeming reluctant.

  “Sir, madame, I have for you a special egg dish. They are the finest, double-yolk eggs, prepared with saffron—”

  “No, thanks. No eggs. None.” Ben stares Georgios down. “No. Eggs. Thank you.”

  “Of course, sir,” says Georgios at last. He nods at the girl, who comes to a hasty final cadence, stands up, bows, then starts trundling her harp away. The two butlers pack the trays up and remove them to a trolley outside. Then Georgios appears back in the bedroom area.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Parr, I hope you have enjoyed the Champagne Breakfast with Music. Now I will await your command. I am at your disposal entirely. No request is too large or too small.” He waits expectantly.

  “Great,” says Ben off-puttingly. “Tell you what, we’ll call you.”

  “I await your command,” repeats Georgios, and withdraws, shutting the doors to the bedroom.

  Ben and I just look at each other. I feel a bit hysterical.

  “Oh my God.”

  “Fucking hell.” Ben rolls his eyes. “That’s a first.”

  “Didn’t you want your eggs?” I say teasingly. “They’ve got saffron, you know.”

  “I know what I want.” He pushes down the straps of my cami, and just the feel of him sends sparks of lust through me.

  “Me too.” I reach for him and he gives a little shudder.

  “Where were we again?” His hands travel down under the covers, slow and purposeful. I’m so sensitive to his touch I can’t help moaning.

  His eyes are huge and urgent. His breathing is raspy. Now I’m pulling him toward me, and his lips are everywhere, and my mind is emptying as my body takes over. OK, here we go. Here we go. I’m making sounds and so is he, and it’s going to happen, it’s really going to happen.… I’m going to explode … come on, come on.…

  And then I freeze. I can hear a sound. A rustling sound. Just outside the bedroom door.

  In reflex, I shove Ben away and sit up, every sense on alert.

  “Stop! Stop it. Listen.” I can barely frame the words properly. “He’s still here.”

  “What?” Ben’s face is contorted with desire, and I’m not sure he’s understanding anything I’m saying.

  “He’s still here!” I bat Ben’s hand off my breast and gesture frantically at the door. “The butler! He hasn’t left!”

  “What?” A murderous scowl comes over Ben’s face. He swings his legs round and gets out of bed, totally naked.

  “You can’t go out like that!” I squeak. “Put on a robe.”

  Ben’s scowl becomes yet more murderous. He shrugs on a terry-cloth dressing gown and throws open the door to the bedroom. Sure enough, there’s Georgios, arranging glasses neatly on the cocktail bar.

  “Ah, Georgios,” says Ben. “I think you misunderstood. Thanks very much. That will be all for now. Thank you.”

  “I understand, sir.” Georgios makes a little bow. “I await your command.”

  “Right.” I can sense Ben’s temper starting to fray. “Well, my command is for you to go. Leave the room. Go. Adiós.” He makes a shooing motion. “Leave us alone.”

  “Ah.” At last light dawns on Georgios’s face. “I see. Very good, sir. You call me if you need anything.” He gives another bow, then heads toward the kitchen. Ben hesitates a moment, then follows him to make sure he actually exits.

  “That’s right,” I can hear him say firmly. “You go and put your feet up, Georgios. Don’t worry about us. No, we can pour our own water, thank you. Bye, then. Bye …” His voice recedes as he enters the kitchen.

  A few moments later, he appears at the door of the bedroom and pumps the air. “Gone! At last!”

  “Well done!”

  “Stubborn bastard.”

  “Just doing his job, I suppose.” I shrug. “He’s obviously got a really strong sense of duty.”

  “He didn’t want to leave,” says Ben incredulously. “You’d think he’d leap at the chance for some time off. But he kept telling me we’d need him to pour our mineral water, and I kept telling him, no, we wouldn’t, we’re not total lazy gits. Makes you wonder what kind of people stay here—” Ben breaks off mid-sentence and his jaw drops. As I turn my head, I can feel mine dropping too.

  No.

  That can’t be …

  Both of us stare in disbelief as Hermes, the assistant butler, strides into the sitting room.

  “Good morning, Mr. and Mrs. Parr,” he says cheerfully. He approaches the cocktail bar and starts arranging exactly the same glasses that Georgios was tidying ten seconds ago. “May I offer you a drink? A small snack? May I help you with your entertainment for the day?”

  “What … what …” Ben seems almost incapable of speech. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Hermes looks up, apparently perplexed by the question.

  “I am your assistant butler,” he says at last. “I am on duty while Georgios is resting. I await your command.”

  I feel like I’ve gone mad.

  We’re trapped in butler hell.

  Is this how rich people live? No wonder celebrities look so miserable the whole time. They’re thinking, If only the butler would let us have some bloody sex.

  “Please.” Ben looks almost demented. “Please go. Now. Go.” He’s ushering Hermes toward the door.

  “Sir,” says Hermes in alarm. “I do not use the guest entrance, I use the kitchen entrance—”

  “I don’t care which bloody entrance you use!” Ben practically yells. “Just go! Get out! Vamoose! Scram!” He’s batting Hermes toward the door as though he’s a pest, and Hermes is backing away, looking terrified, and I’m watching from the doorway, the duvet wrapped around me, and all three of us jump violently as the doorbell rings. Ben stiffens and looks around as though suspecting a trick.

  “Sir.” Hermes is composing himself. “Please, sir. You permit I answer the door?”

  Ben doesn’t answer. He’s breathing heavily through his nostrils. He glances at me and I give an agonized shrug. The doorbell rings again.

  “Please, sir,” repeats Hermes. “You permit I answer the door?”

  “Go on, then,” says Ben, glowering. “Answer it. But no cleaners. No turndown service, no turnup service, no champagne, no fruit, and no bloody harps.”

  “Very good, sir,” says Hermes, eyeing him anxiously. “You permit me.”

  Hermes edges past Ben, into the lobby, and opens the door. In sweeps Nico, followed by the six workmen from last night.

  “Good morning, Mr. Parr, Mrs. Parr!” he breezes. “I trust you slept well? A thousand apologies for last night. But I have good news! We have come to change your bed.”

  13

  LOTTIE

  This can’t be happening. We’ve been turfed out of our own honeymoon suite.

  What is wrong with them? I’ve never seen such an inept crew in my life. They unscrewed the legs of one bed, shuffled it round, and lifted it up and pronounced it too big, then Nico suggested they screw the legs back on and start again … and all the time Ben was simmering to a boil.

  At last he started yelling so loudly, the workmen gathered protectively around Nico. To his credit, Nico kept his cool, even when Ben started brandishing the hair dryer. Nico asked if we would please leave the suite while the workmen were operational and perhaps we would enjoy a complimentary à l
a carte breakfast on the veranda?

  That was two hours ago. There’s only so much à la carte breakfast you can eat. We’ve been back to the room to get our beach stuff and there are still people in there, all peering at the beds and scratching their heads. The room is full of bed legs and headboards and a super-king mattress propped up against the wall. Apparently it’s the “wrong kind of bed.” What does that even mean?

  “How hard can it be to swap a couple of beds?” says Ben with a furious scowl, as we head toward the beach. “Are they morons?”

  “That’s just what I was thinking.”

  “It’s ridiculous.”

  “Ludicrous.”

  We pause by the entrance to the beach. It’s quite something. Blue sea, golden sand, rows of the plushiest sun beds I’ve ever seen, white umbrellas billowing in the breeze, and waiters hurrying around with drinks on trays. Any other day, I’d be salivating at the sight.

  But there’s only one thing I want right now. And it’s not a suntan.

  “They should have given us another room,” says Ben for the hundredth time. “We should be suing.”

  As soon as they asked us to leave, Ben requested a substitute room, and for one heavenly moment I thought everything was going to work out after all. We could disappear into a spare room, have a wonderful morning together, emerge in time for lunch.… But, no, Nico wrung his hands and said he was devastated and mortified but the hotel was fully booked, could he offer sir a complimentary hot-air-balloon ride instead?

  A complimentary bloody hot-air-balloon ride. I thought Ben was going to throttle him.

  As we’re pausing by the towel stand, I become aware of a presence lurking. It’s Georgios. Where did he appear from? Has he been following us? Is this all part of the service? I nudge Ben, and he raises his eyebrows.

  “Madame,” says Georgios gravely. “May I help you with your towels?”

  “Oh. Um, thanks,” I say awkwardly. I don’t really need help, but it would be rude to tell him to go away.

  Georgios collects two towels and we follow a beach attendant to a pair of sun beds facing the sea. Lots of guests are already ensconced, and there’s a smell of sun cream in the air. Waves are washing gently onto the beach. This is fairly blissful, I have to admit.