Well. Just a teeny point, which is that I still don’t remember it happening. My mind is blank. I don’t remember Ben having the flu, nor do I remember nursing him. But, then, there’s a lot about that time I don’t remember, I reassure myself. I’d forgotten all about Big Bill. I’d forgotten about the poker tournament. It’s probably buried somewhere deep inside me.
“… you know it was on that picnic! You’ve always said so!”
Abruptly, I become aware that Melissa and Matt are still squabbling about his answer.
“It wasn’t on the picnic,” says Matt obstinately. “It was in the Cotswolds. But the way you’re carrying on, maybe I wish I hadn’t!”
Melissa takes a sharp breath, and I can practically see smoke puff from her ears.
“I think I know when we fell in love, Matt! And it wasn’t in the bloody Cotswolds!”
“Which brings us to the end of our contest!” Nico puts in deftly. “And I am delighted to say that our winners are Couple Three! Ben and Lottie Parr! You win a special open-air couple’s massage and will be awarded the Happy Couple of the Week trophy at our gala prize ceremony tomorrow evening. Congratulations!” He leads an uproarious round of applause, and Ben winks at me. We take a bow, and I feel Ben squeeze my hand tightly.
“I like the sound of this couple’s massage,” he says into my ear. “I read about it earlier. They do it on the beach in a special curtained arbor with essential oils. You get glasses of champagne, and after they’ve finished, they leave you alone for some ‘private time.’ ”
Private time? I meet his eyes. At last! Ben and I alone on a beach in our own private space, with the waves crashing on the shore and glasses of champagne and our bodies slick with oil …
“Let’s do it as soon as we can.” My voice is thick with longing.
“Tonight.” His hand lightly brushes against my breast, making me shiver with anticipation. I guess we’ve abandoned the no-touching rule. We bow again to the audience and then head down off the platform. “And now let’s go for a drink,” adds Ben. “I want to ply you with alcohol.”
Turns out there are advantages to having a butler. The minute we say that we want a celebratory drink, Georgios swings into action, securing us a corner table at the posh beach restaurant, complete with champagne on ice and special lobster canapés brought down from the main restaurant. For once I don’t mind the fuss and bother as the butlers dance around us. It feels right. We should be fussed over. We’re the champions!
“So!” says Ben when at last we’re left alone. “Good day, as it turns out.”
“Very good.” I grin back.
“Two hours till our massage.” He meets my eyes, and his mouth twitches with a smile.
Two delicious hours of savoring the spectacular beach sexathon which is to come. I can cope with that. I sip my champagne and lean back, feeling the sun on my face. Life is just about perfect right now. There’s only the tiniest strain in my thoughts, which I’m trying to ignore. I can ignore it. Yes. I can.
No. I can’t.
As I sip my champagne and crunch salted almonds, I’m aware of a glitch in my mood. A weak point I keep trying to skate over. But I can’t fool myself. And I know it’s only going to worry me more, the longer I leave it.
I don’t know him. Not properly. He’s my husband and I don’t know him.
I mean, it’s fine that he votes differently from me—but the point is, I had no idea. I thought we’d covered so much ground over the last few days—but now I realize there are some gaping holes. What other surprises am I going to come across?
In recruitment, we ask the same basic question whenever we want to get to know our candidates quickly: “Where do you want to be in one year, five years, and ten years?” I’d have no idea what to put for Ben, and that can’t be right, surely?
“You’re very distant.” Ben touches my nose. “Earth to Lottie.”
“Where do you want to be in five years’ time?” I ask abruptly.
“Excellent question,” he says promptly. “Where do you want to be?”
“Don’t deflect.” I smile at him. “I want to know the Ben Parr official game plan.”
“Maybe I had an official game plan.” His eyes soften as they meet mine. “But maybe it’s changed now I’ve got you.”
I’m so disarmed by his expression that I feel my doubts melting away. He’s gazing at me with the most charming lopsided smile and a distant look to his eyes, as though he’s imagining our future together.
“I feel the same,” I can’t help blurting out. “I feel as though I’ve got a whole new future.”
“A future with you. Anywhere we like.” He spreads his hands. “What’s the dream, Lottie? Sell it to me.”
“France?” I say tentatively. “A farmhouse in France?” I’ve always fantasized about moving to France. “Maybe the Dordogne, or Provence? We could do up a house, find a real project.…”
“I love that idea.” Ben’s eyes are sparkling. “Find a wreck, turn it into something amazing, have friends to stay, long lazy meals—”
“Exactly!” My words tumble out, mingling with his. “We’d have a great big table and wonderful fresh food, and the children would help make the salad.…”
“They’d learn French too—”
“How many children do you want?”
My question halts the conversation for a moment. I’m holding my breath, I realize.
“As many as we can,” says Ben easily. “If they all look like you, I’ll have ten!”
“Maybe not ten.” I’m laughing in relief. We chime perfectly! My worries were unfounded! We’re totally on the same page when it comes to life choices. I almost want to get out my phone and start finding old French properties to drool over. “You really want to move to France?”
“If there’s one thing I want to do in the next two years, it’s settle myself down,” he says seriously. “Find a lifestyle I can love. And France is a passion of mine.”
“Do you speak French?”
He reaches for the paper dessert menu, produces a pencil, and scribbles a few lines on the back, then turns it to show me.
L’amour, c’est toi
La beaute, c’est toi
L’honneur, c’est toi
Lottie, c’est toi
I’m enchanted. No one’s ever written me a poem before. And certainly not in French.
“Thank you so much! I love it!” I read it through again, bring the paper right up to my face as though trying to inhale the words, then put it down.
“But what about your work?” I’m so desperate for this plan to come true now, I can’t help pressing him, just to make sure. “You couldn’t leave that.”
“I can dip in and out.”
I don’t even know quite what Ben’s work consists of. I mean, it’s a company which makes paper, obviously, but what does he do? I’m not sure he ever explained it properly, and it feels a bit late to ask.
“Have you got someone who could take the reins? What about Lorcan?” I remember Ben’s best friend. “He works with you, doesn’t he? Could he step in?”
“Oh, I’m sure he’d love to.” There’s a sudden bitter twist to Ben’s voice, and I take a mental step back.
Yikes. I’ve obviously touched a nerve. Not that I know the details, but Ben’s manner instantly evokes a background of tense meetings in boardrooms and slammed doors and emails regretted the following day.
“He’s your best man,” I say cautiously. “Aren’t you best friends?”
Ben is silent for a few moments, preoccupied with some thought or other.
“I don’t even know why Lorcan’s in my life,” he says at last. “That’s the truth. I turned round and there he was. Just there.”
“What do you mean?”
“His marriage broke up four years ago. He went up to Staffordshire to stay with my dad. Fair enough; they’d always been friendly, since we were at school together. But next thing, Lorcan’s advising my dad and getting a job in the company and
running the whole bloody show. You should have seen him and my dad, striding around the place together, making plans, leaving me out completely.”
“That sounds awful,” I say sympathetically.
“It all came to a head two years ago.” He gulps his champagne. “I just upped and left. Went AWOL. I needed to sort myself out. It freaked them so much they contacted the police.” He spreads his hands. “I never told them where I was. After that, they behaved as though I was some sort of fragile nutcase. My dad and Lorcan were thicker than ever. Then my dad goes and dies.…”
There’s a rawness to his voice which makes my skin prickle.
“And Lorcan stayed at the company?” I venture.
“Where else would he go? He’s got a cushy number. Nice salary, cottage on the estate—he’s sorted.”
“Does he have kids?”
“No.” Ben shrugs. “I suppose they never got round to it. Or weren’t into them.”
“Well, then, why don’t you quietly get rid of him?” I’m about to suggest a legal firm I know which specializes in tactfully exiting staff, but Ben doesn’t seem to be listening.
“Lorcan thinks he knows best about everything!” The words come shooting out in a resentful stream. “What I should do with my life. What I should do with my company. What advertising agency I should employ. What I should pay my cleaners. What grade of paper is best for which … I don’t know, desk diary.” He exhales. “And I don’t know the answer. So he wins.”
“It’s not a question of winning,” I say, but I can tell Ben isn’t paying attention.
“He once confiscated my phone in public, because he thought it ‘wasn’t appropriate.’ ” Ben is burning with resentment.
“That sounds like harassment!” I say, shocked. “Do you have an effective HR head?”
“Yes.” Ben sounds sulky. “But she’s leaving. She’d never say anything to Lorcan, anyway. They all love him.”
Listening with my professional hat on, I’m aghast. This all sounds like a shambles. I want to get a piece of paper and start a five-point action plan for Ben to manage Lorcan more effectively, but that’s not exactly sexy honeymoon talk.
“Tell me,” I say instead, my voice gentle and coaxing. “Where did you go when you went AWOL?”
“You really want to know?” Ben gives me a curious, wry smile. “Not my finest moment.”
“Tell me.”
“I went to have lessons in comedy from Malcolm Robinson.”
“Malcolm Robinson?” I stare at him. “For real?”
I love Malcolm Robinson. He’s hilarious. He used to have this brilliant sketch show, and once I saw him live at Edinburgh.
“I bought them anonymously at a charity auction. It was originally a weekend, but I persuaded him to extend it to a week. Cost me a fortune. At the end of the week, I asked him to tell me, straight up, if I had any talent.”
There’s silence. I’m already cringing inside at his expression.
“What—” I say at last, and clear my throat. “What did he—”
“He said no.” Ben cuts me off, almost tonelessly. “He was blunt. Told me to give it up. Did me a favor, really. I haven’t cracked a joke since.”
I wince. “That must have been devastating.”
“It hurt my pride, yes.”
“How long had you been …?” I trail off awkwardly. I don’t know quite how to phrase it. Luckily, Ben gets the gist.
“Seven years.”
“And you just gave up?”
“Yup.”
“And you didn’t tell anybody? Your dad? Lorcan?”
“I thought they might notice I’d stopped doing gigs and ask why. They didn’t.” The hurt in his voice is unmistakable. “I didn’t have anyone else to … you know. Tell stuff.”
Spontaneously, I reach for his hand and squeeze it tight. “You’ve got me now,” I say softly. “Tell me stuff.”
He squeezes my hand back and our eyes are locked. For a moment I feel totally connected to him. Then two waiters come to clear our canapé plates; we release hands and the spell is broken.
“Strange honeymoon, huh?” I say wryly.
“I don’t know. I’m starting to enjoy it.”
“Me too.” I can’t help laughing. “I’m almost glad it’s been so weird. At least we won’t forget it.”
And I mean it. If we hadn’t had all the bedroom disasters, maybe we wouldn’t have had this drink and I might never have found out these things about Ben. It’s funny how things work out. I entwine my leg around Ben’s under the table and start working my toe up his thigh in my signature maneuver, but he shakes his head vigorously.
“No,” he says shortly. “Uh-uh. Can’t stand it. Too horny.”
“How on earth will you survive the couple’s massage, then?” I tease him.
“By telling them to keep it to ten minutes flat and then leave us alone in utter privacy,” he replies seriously. “I’m prepared to tip heavily.”
“An hour to go.” I glance at my watch. “I wonder what kind of oil they use?”
“Change the subject from oil.” He looks strained. “Give a man a break.”
I can’t help laughing. “OK, here’s a new subject. When shall we go and visit the guest house? Tomorrow?”
I’m half excited, half terrified about visiting the guest house. It’s where we met. It’s where the fire happened. It’s where my life changed. It’s where everything happened. All at one little guest house, fifteen years ago.
“Tomorrow.” Ben nods. “You have to do cartwheels along the beach for me.”
“I will.” I smile at him. “And you have to dive off that rock.”
“And then we’ll find that cave we used to go in …”
We’re both hazy-eyed and smiling, lost in memories.
“You used to wear those tiny tie-dyed shorts,” says Ben. “They drove me wild.”
“I brought them with me,” I confess.
“You didn’t!” His eyes light up.
“I’ve kept them, all this time.”
“You angel.”
I grin wickedly back at him, feeling my desire rocket. Oh God. How am I going to wait an hour? How can I fill the time?
“I’m going to let Fliss know how we got on.” I reach for my phone and type a quick text:
Guess what? WE WON!!!! All going brilliantly. Ben and I make a fab team. Totally happy.
I can’t help smiling as I type. She won’t believe her eyes! In fact, I hope the news cheers her up a bit. She sounded hassled before. I wonder what’s going on. On impulse, I add to my text:
Hope u r having a lovely day too. Everything OK?? L xxx
16
FLISS
There’s nothing wrong with Sofia, Bulgaria. It’s a great city. I’ve been here many times before. It boasts beautiful churches and interesting museums and an outdoor book market. However, it is not where I want to be standing at six in the evening, hot, sweaty, and harassed, waiting for my baggage at the carousel, when I should be on the Greek island of Ikonos.
The only plus point of the situation: I can’t blame Daniel. Not this time. This one is firmly fate/act of God. (Thanks a lot, God. Is this because of what I said in religious studies class, age eleven? I was joking.) Although I’d actually like to blame Daniel right now. More specifically, I’d like to kick him. Failing that, I may well kick my baggage trolley.
The crowd around the carousel is five deep. There are people waiting for luggage from several flights, and no one is in a good mood, least of all my fellow passengers from Flight 637 to Ikonos. Not many smiles. Not a lot of jolly banter.
Sofia, bloody Bulgaria. I mean.
Years of traveling for work have made me fairly Zen about airlines and delays and cock-ups, but I must say, this cock-up is of epic proportions. We couldn’t just land, wave the poor old lady off to hospital, and then efficiently resume our journey. Oh no. Her luggage needed to be found, and then there was a problem getting a takeoff slot, and then it turned out something
had gone wrong with an engine. The upshot is an unscheduled overnight stay in Sofia. We’re being put up at the City Heights Hotel. (Not bad, four stars, great rooftop bar, as I remember.)
“That’s ours!” yells Noah for the fifty-first time. He’s tried to claim nearly every black suitcase that has appeared on the carousel, despite the fact that ours has a distinctive red strap and is probably on its way to Belgrade right now.
“It’s not, Noah,” I say patiently. “Keep looking.” A woman steps heavily on my toe, and I’m trying to remember any curse words I know in Bulgarian when my phone beeps with a text and I pull it out of my pocket.
Guess what? WE WON!!!! All going brilliantly. Ben and I make a fab team. Totally happy. Hope u r having a lovely day too. Everything OK?? L xxx
I’m so shocked I can’t move for a moment. They won? How the hell did they win?
“Who’s that from?” Richard has seen me reading my phone. “Is that from Lottie?”
“Er, yes.” I’m too slow off the mark to lie.
“What does she say? Has she realized she’s made a mistake?” His face is so eager that I cringe inside. “Presumably they did terribly at the quiz?”
“Actually …” I hesitate. How do I break this to him? “Actually, they won.”
His face drops and he stares at me, aghast. “They won?”
“Apparently.”
“But I thought they didn’t know anything about each other.”
“They don’t!”
“You said they would tank.” Richard becomes accusing.
“I know!” I say, feeling rattled. “Look, I’m sure there’s some explanation. I must have got my wires crossed. I’ll give her a ring.” I speed-dial Lottie’s number and turn away.
“Fliss?” Even from that one syllable I can hear how ebullient she is.
“Congratulations!” I try to match her tone. “You … you won?”
“Isn’t it amazing?” she says exultantly. “You should have been there, Fliss. We did it in character! We were Dirk and Sally, you know, from that TV show we always used to watch?”
“Right,” I say in confusion. “Wow.”
“Now we’re celebrating and I’ve just had the most delicious lobster canapés and champagne. And we’re going back to the guest house tomorrow. And Ben wrote me a love poem in French.” She sighs blissfully. “This is the perfect honeymoon.”
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