Wedding Night

by Sophie Kinsella

  I almost snort with laughter. Nice try. She wants to win so badly, it’s practically etched on her skin.

  “So, are you in?” She peers at me over her Gucci shades. “Go on! It’s only a laugh!”

  I suppose she’s right. I mean, let’s face it, what else are we doing with our time?

  “OK. Sign us up.”

  “Yianni!” Melissa calls over to the bartender. “I’ve got you another couple for Couples’ Quiz.”

  “What?” Ben turns to me with a frown.

  “We’re going in for a competition,” I inform him. “We agreed to do the first activity we saw, didn’t we? Well, this is it.”

  Yianni passes two paper flyers to Ben and me, along with a bottle of wine and two glasses, which Ben must have ordered. Melissa has stood up from her bar stool. She’s on the phone again and sounds even more irate than before.

  “The beach bar, not the lobby bar. The beach bar! … OK, stay there, I’m coming.… See you later,” she mouths, and totters off in a swirl of orange caftan.

  When she’s gone, Ben and I are silent for a moment, studying the Couples’ Quiz flyers. Demonstrate your love! Prove you have what it takes as a couple!

  Despite everything, I can feel my competitive spirit rising. Not that I need to prove anything at all. But I just know there isn’t any couple at this resort more intimate and connected than Ben and me. I mean, look at them. And look at us.

  “We’re so going to lose this,” says Ben, with a snort of amusement.

  Lose?

  “No, we’re not!” I stare at him in dismay. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because we need to know stuff about each other,” replies Ben, as though it’s obvious. “Which we don’t.”

  “We know heaps about each other!” I say defensively. “We’ve known each other since we were eighteen! If you ask me, we’re going to win.”

  Ben raises an eyebrow. “Maybe. What kind of questions do they ask?”

  “I don’t know. I never watched the show.” I have a sudden idea. “But Fliss has got the board game. I’ll call her.”

  14

  FLISS

  We’re at the departure gate at Heathrow when my phone rings. Before I can move, Noah plucks it out of the side pocket of my bag and studies the display.

  “It’s Aunt Lottie phoning!” His face lights up in excitement. “Shall I tell her we’re coming to surprise her on her special holiday?”

  “No!” I grab the phone. “Just sit down a minute. Look at your sticker pack. Do the dinosaurs.” I press answer and take a couple of steps away from Noah, trying to compose myself. “Lottie, hi!” I greet her.

  “There you are! I’ve been trying to reach you! Where are you?”

  “Oh … you know. Just around.” I force myself to pause before I add, light as gossamer, “Any luck with your room yet? Or the bed? Or … anything?”

  I know from Nico that she’s still roomless. But I also know Ben tried to hire a room off another guest on the beach. Sneaky little sod.

  “Oh, the room.” Lottie sounds disconsolate. “It’s been such a bloody saga. We’ve given up for now. We’re just going to enjoy the day.”

  “Right. Sensible plan.” I breathe a slight sigh of relief. “So, how is it out there? Sunny?”

  “Boiling.” Lottie sounds preoccupied. “Listen, Fliss, d’you remember that game Couples’ Quiz?”

  I wrinkle my brow. “You mean the TV show?”

  “Exactly. You had the board game, didn’t you? What kind of questions do they ask?”

  “Why?” I say, puzzled.

  “We’re doing a Couples’ Quiz contest. Are the questions hard?”

  “Hard? No! They’re just fun. Silly things. Basic stuff that couples know about each other.”

  “Ask me some.” Lottie sounds a bit tense. “Give me some practice.”

  “Well, OK.” I think for a moment. “What kind of toothpaste does Ben use?”

  “Don’t know,” says Lottie after a pause.

  “What’s his mother called?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “What is his favorite meal that you cook for him?”

  There’s a longer pause. “Don’t know,” she says at last. “I’ve never cooked for him.”

  “If he was going to the theater, would he choose Shakespeare, a modern play, or a musical?”

  “I don’t know!” wails Lottie. “I’ve never been to the theater with him. Ben’s right! We’re going to lose!”

  Is she insane? Of course they’re going to lose.

  “Does Ben know any of those things about you, do you think?” I ask mildly.

  “Of course not! Neither of us knows anything!”

  “Right. Well …”

  “I really don’t want to lose,” says Lottie, lowering her voice savagely. “There’s this bridezilla girl here and she’s been boasting about her wedding, and if I don’t know anything about my husband and he doesn’t know anything about me …”

  Then maybe you shouldn’t have married each other! I want to yell.

  “Could you maybe … talk to each other?” I suggest at last.

  “Yes! Yes, that’s it,” says Lottie, as though I’ve cracked some fiendish code. “We’ll learn it all. Give me a list of the stuff I need to know.” She sounds determined. “Toothpaste, name of mother, favorite meals … Can you text all the questions to me?”

  “No, I can’t,” I say firmly. “I’m busy. Lottie, why on earth are you doing this? Why aren’t you lying on the beach?”

  “I got talked into it. And now we can’t back out, or we’ll look like we’re not a happy couple. Fliss, this place is mad. It’s Honeymoon Central.”

  I shrug. “You knew it would be, didn’t you?”

  “I suppose.…” She hesitates. “But I didn’t realize it would be this honeymoon-y. They have loved-up couples everywhere, and you can’t take a step without someone saying ‘Congratulations’ or chucking confetti over you. That bridezilla girl is renewing her vows already, can you believe? She was trying to talk me into doing it too.”

  For a moment I’ve forgotten where I am and the whole situation. I’m just chatting with Lottie.

  “Sounds like it’s become totally gimmicky.”

  “It is a bit.”

  “So don’t do the Couples’ Quiz.”

  “I have to.” She sounds resolute. “I’m not backing out now. So, should I know where Ben went to high school, all that kind of stuff? What about hobbies?”

  My frustration returns in a flash. This is ridiculous. She sounds like someone mugging up, trying to fool an immigration officer. For an instant I consider saying all this to her right now.

  But, at the same time, my deeper instincts tell me not to try anything by phone. All that will happen is we’ll have a steaming row and she’ll ring off and get Ben to impregnate her right then and there, probably on the beach in full view of everyone, just to show me.

  I need to get out there. Pretend that I simply wanted to surprise her. I’ll assess the territory, let her relax. Then I’ll draw her aside and we’ll have a chat. A frank chat. A long, relentless chat, from which I will not let her escape till she’s seen the whole picture. Really seen it.

  This Couples’ Quiz has played into my hands, I realize. She’s going to fall flat on her face in quite a public way. And then she’ll be ripe to hear the voice of reason.

  A flight is being announced, and Lottie immediately demands, “What’s that? Where are you?”

  “Station,” I lie smoothly. “Better go. Good luck!”

  I switch off my phone and look around for Noah. I left him sitting on a plastic chair two feet away, but he’s made his way to the desk and is deep in conversation with an air hostess, who is crouching down and listening intently to him.

  “Noah!” I call, and both their heads turn. The air hostess raises a hand in acknowledgment, stands up, and leads him back to me. She’s very curvy and tanned, with huge blue eyes and hair in a bun, and as she approaches I cat
ch a waft of perfume.

  “Sorry about that.” I smile at her. “Noah, stay here. No wandering.”

  The air hostess is gazing at me, transfixed, and I put my hand to my mouth, wondering if I have a crumb on my lip.

  “I just want to say,” she says in a rush, “that I heard about your little boy’s ordeal, and I think you’re all really brave.”

  For a moment I can’t find a reply. What the hell did Noah say?

  “And I think that paramedic should get a medal,” she adds, her voice trembling.

  I look daggers at Noah, who returns my gaze, serene and untroubled. What do I do? If I explain that my son is a complete fantasist, we all look stupid. Maybe it’s easier to go along with it. We’ll be boarding in a minute; we’ll never see her again.

  “It wasn’t that big a deal,” I say at last. “Thank you so much—”

  “Not a big deal?” she echoes incredulously. “But it was all so dramatic!”

  “Er … yes.” I swallow. “Noah, let’s buy some water.”

  I hurry him off to a nearby drinks machine, before this conversation can go any further. “Noah,” I say as soon as we’re out of earshot, “what did you say to the lady?”

  “I said I want to be in the Olympics when I grow up,” he replies promptly. “I want to do the long jump. Like this.” He breaks free of my grasp and leaps across the airport carpet. “Can I be in the Olympics?”

  I give up. We’ll have to have a big chat at some time—but not now.

  “Of course you can.” I ruffle his hair. “But, listen. No more chatting to strangers. You know that.”

  “That lady wasn’t a stranger,” he points out reasonably. “She had a badge, so I knew her name. It was Cheryl.”

  Sometimes the logic of a seven-year-old is undefeatable. We return to our seats and I sit him firmly down next to me.

  “Look at your sticker book and do not move.” I take out my BlackBerry and polish off a few quick emails. I’ve just agreed to an entire supplement on Arctic holidays when I pause, frowning. Something has attracted my attention. The top of a head, behind a newspaper. A dark crest of hair. Long-fingered, bony hands turning a page.

  No way.

  I stare, riveted, until he turns another page and I catch a glimpse of cheekbone. It’s him. Sitting five yards away, a small travel bag at his feet. What the fuck is he doing here?

  Don’t tell me he’s had the same idea as me.

  As he turns yet another page, looking calm and unruffled, I start to feel a burning anger. This is all his fault. I’ve had to disrupt my life, take my son out of school, and stress out all night, simply because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. He was the one who went blundering in. He caused all this. And now here he is, looking as cool and relaxed as though he’s off on holiday.

  His phone rings, and he puts down his paper to answer.

  “Sure,” I can hear him saying. “I’ll do that. We’ll discuss all those issues. Yes, I know there’s a time factor.” Strain appears in his face. “I know this is not ideal. I’m doing the best I can in tricky circumstances, OK?” There’s a pause as he listens, then replies, “No, I’d say not. Need to know only. We don’t want to start the rumor mill.… OK. Right. Talk to you when I get there.”

  He puts his phone away and resumes reading the paper, while I watch with growing resentment. That’s right. Lean back. Smile at a joke. Have a good time. Why not?

  I’m glaring at him so hard, I feel I might start burning holes in the paper. An elderly lady sitting next to him picks up on my glare and eyes me nervously. I smile at her quickly, to indicate that it’s not her I’m livid with—but this seems to freak her out even more.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “But … is something wrong?”

  “Wrong?” says Lorcan, misunderstanding and turning to her. “No, nothing’s wrong—” He catches sight of me and starts in surprise. “Oh. Hello.”

  I wait for him to add a fulsome, groveling apology, but he seems to feel this greeting is enough. His dark eyes meet mine, and with no warning I have a flashback: a blurred moment of skin and lips from the middle of that night. His hot breath on my neck. My hands clutching his hair. The color comes to my cheeks and I glare at him even more venomously.

  “Hello?” I echo. “Is that all you can say? ‘Hello’?”

  “I guess we’re headed to the same place?” He puts his newspaper down and leans forward, his face suddenly intent. “Are you in touch with them? Because I have to talk to Ben, urgently. I have documents for him to sign. I need him to be at the hotel when I arrive. But he won’t pick up when I call. He’s avoiding me. He’s avoiding everything.”

  I stare at him in disbelief. All he’s concerned with is some business deal. What about the fact that his best friend has married my sister in a totally stupid knee-jerk gesture caused by him?

  “I’m in touch with Lottie. Not Ben.”

  “Huh.” He frowns and turns back to the paper. How can he read the paper? I feel deeply, mortally offended that he can concentrate on the sports pages when he’s created such a mess.

  “Are you OK?” He peers up at me. “You seem a little … fixated.”

  I’m simmering all over with rage. I can feel my head prickling; I can feel my fists clenching. “Funnily enough, no,” I manage. “I’m not OK.”

  “Oh.” He glances at the paper yet again, and something inside me snaps.

  “Stop looking at that!” I leap up and grab it from his hands before I’m fully aware of what I’m doing. “Stop it!” I crumple the paper furiously and throw it on the floor. I’m panting and my cheeks are blazing.

  Lorcan stares at the paper, apparently bemused.

  “Mummy!” says Noah, in delighted shock. “Litterbug!”

  All the other airline passengers have turned to stare at me. Great. And now Lorcan is gazing up at me too, dark brows drawn together, as though I’m some inscrutable mystery.

  “What’s the problem?” he says at last. “Are you pissed off?”

  Is he joking?

  “Yes!” I erupt. “I am a little pissed off that, after I had sorted out the whole situation with Ben and my sister, you had to go barging in and wreck it!”

  I can see the truth slowly dawning on his face. “You’re blaming me?”

  “Of course I’m blaming you! If you’d said nothing, they wouldn’t be married!”

  “Uh-uh.” He shakes his head adamantly. “Incorrect. Ben’s mind was made up.”

  “Lottie said it was because of you.”

  “Lottie was wrong.”

  He’s not going to back down, is he? Bastard.

  “All I know is, I’d sorted the situation,” I say stonily. “I’d managed it. And then this happened.”

  “You thought you’d sorted it,” he corrects me. “You thought you’d managed it. When you know Ben as well as I do, you’ll realize that his mind flips direction like a fish. Previous agreements count for nothing. Agreements to sign crucial, time-sensitive documents, for example.” There’s a sudden irritation in his voice. “You can pin him down all you like. He still slips away.”

  “That’s why you’re here?” I glance at his briefcase. “Just for these documents?”

  “If Muhammad won’t come to the mountain, the mountain has to cancel all his plans and get on a plane.” His phone bleeps with a text and he reads it, then starts typing a reply. “It would really help me if I could talk to Ben,” he adds as he types. “Do you know what they’re doing?”

  “Couples’ Quiz,” I reply.

  Lorcan looks baffled, then types some more. Slowly, I sit down. Noah has descended onto the floor and is making a hat out of Lorcan’s newspaper.

  “Noah,” I say, without conviction. “Don’t do that. My son,” I add to Lorcan.

  “Hello,” says Lorcan to Noah. “Nice hat. So, you never told me. What are you doing here, exactly? Joining the happy couple, I assume. Do they know?”

  The question takes me off guard. I sip the water, my mind working hard. />
  “Lottie asked me to go out there,” I lie at last. “But I’m not sure if Ben knows yet, so don’t mention that you’ve seen me, OK?”

  “Sure.” He shrugs. “A little odd, asking your sister to join you on honeymoon. Isn’t she having a good time?”

  “Actually, they’re thinking of renewing their vows,” I say in sudden inspiration. “Lottie wanted me there as a witness.”

  “Oh, please.” Lorcan scowls. “What kind of shit idea is that?”

  His tone is so dismissive, I find myself getting irritated.

  “I think it’s rather a nice idea,” I contradict him. “Lottie’s always wanted a ceremony by the sea. She’s quite a romantic.”

  “I’m sure.” Lorcan nods as though digesting this, then looks up, deadpan. “What about the ponies? Is she having those?”

  Ponies? I peer at him blankly. What on earth—

  Matching ponies. Great. So he did hear me yesterday morning. My face fills with blood, and just for an instant I feel myself losing my cool.

  The way to deal with this, I swiftly decide, is to be direct. We’re grown-ups. We can acknowledge an embarrassing situation and move on. Exactly.

  “So. Um.” I clear my throat. “Yesterday morning.”

  “Yes?” He leans forward, with mock interest. He’s not going to make this easy for me, is he?

  “I don’t know exactly what you …” I try again. “Obviously I was talking on the phone to my sister when you came into the room. And what you heard was totally out of context. I mean, you’ve probably forgotten what I said. But just in case you haven’t, I wouldn’t want you to … misinterpret anything.…”

  He’s not paying me any attention. He’s taken out a notepad and is writing on it. So rude. Still, at least that means I’m off the hook. I offer the water bottle to Noah, who sips absentmindedly, his attention fixed on his newspaper hat. Then I look up as Lorcan taps me on the shoulder. He hands me his notepad, on which are lines of writing.

  “I believe I have a good memory for words,” he says politely. “But please correct me if any of it is wrong.”

  As I read the lines, my jaw drops in dismay.

  Small. Seriously, tiny. The whole night was such an ordeal. I had to pretend I was having a good time, and all along … No. Terrible. And afterward wasn’t much better. I feel ill at the very thought. In fact, I might throw up. And then Lorcan will never love me, and we’ll never get married in a double wedding on matching ponies.