Wedding Night

by Sophie Kinsella

  I stare at the phone in mounting horror. Champagne? French love poetry? The perfect honeymoon?

  “Right.” I’m trying to stay calm. “That’s … really surprising.”

  What the fuck has Nico been doing? Has he gone to sleep?

  “Yes, we were having a terrible time!” Lottie laughs happily. “You wouldn’t believe it. We haven’t even … you know. Done it yet. But somehow that doesn’t matter.” Her tone softens lovingly. “It’s as if all the crazy disasters have brought Ben and me closer together.”

  The disasters have brought them closer together? I’ve brought them closer together?

  “Wonderful!” My voice is shrill. “That’s great! So you made the right decision to marry Ben?”

  “A million times over,” says Lottie ecstatically.

  “Great! Marvelous!” I screw up my face, debating how best to proceed. “Only … I was just thinking about Richard. Wondering how he was doing. Are you in touch with him?”

  “Richard?” Her vitriolic tone nearly takes my ear off. “Why would I be in touch with Richard? He’s well out of my life, and I wish I’d never ever met him!”

  “Ah.” I rub my nose, trying not to look at Richard. I hope he can’t hear.

  “Can you believe I was prepared to fly across the Atlantic for him? He would never have made such an effort for me. Never.” Her bitterness makes me flinch. “He hasn’t got a single romantic bone in his body!”

  “I’m sure he has!” I retort before I can stop myself.

  “He hasn’t,” she says resolutely. “You know what I think? He never loved me at all. He’s probably forgotten all about me already.”

  I look at Richard—hot, sweaty, and resolute—and I want to scream. If only she knew.

  “Anyway, Fliss, I think it’s really tasteless of you to mention Richard,” she adds crossly.

  “Sorry,” I backtrack hastily. “Just thinking aloud. I’m glad you’re having a good time.”

  “I’m having a fantastic time,” she says emphatically. “We’ve been talking and bonding and making plans—oh, by the way. That guy you hooked up with. Lorcan.”

  “Yes? What about him?”

  “He sounds a nightmare. You should avoid him. You haven’t seen him again, have you?”

  Instinctively, I glance over at Lorcan, who is up near the carousel and has hoisted Noah onto his shoulders.

  “Er … not a lot,” I prevaricate. “Why?”

  “He’s the most dreadful, arrogant man. You know he works for Ben’s company? Well, he basically talked Ben’s dad into giving him a job there, and now he has a cushy number and he’s taking over everything and trying to control Ben.”

  “Oh,” I say, nonplussed. “I had no idea. I thought they were mates.”

  “Well, I thought so too. But Ben really hates him. Apparently he once confiscated Ben’s phone in public!” Her voice rises indignantly. “Like some kind of schoolteacher. Isn’t that atrocious? I told Ben he should charge him with harassment! And there’s loads of other stuff too. So promise me you won’t go and fall for him or anything.”

  I resist the desire to give a hollow, sardonic laugh. Some chance.

  “I’ll do my best,” I say. “And you promise me you’ll … er … carry on having a wonderful time.” It’s killing me to say the words. “What’s up next?”

  “Couple’s massage on the beach,” she says happily.

  Every fiber in my body stiffens in alarm.

  “Right.” I swallow. “So, when’s that? Exactly?”

  I’m already planning the ear-bashing I’m going to give Nico. What’s going on? How can he have been so negligent? Why are they drinking champagne and eating lobster? Why did he allow Ben to write a French love poem? He should have leapt in and grabbed the pencil.

  “It’s in half an hour,” says Lottie. “They rub you with oil and then leave you alone for some private time. Honestly, Fliss.” She lowers her voice. “Ben and I are just gagging for it.”

  I’m hopping with agitation. This was not the plan. I’m stuck in bloody Sofia and she and Ben are about to conceive a baby on the beach, whom no doubt they’ll christen “Beach” and then viciously fight over in the high court when it all falls apart. As soon as I’ve said goodbye, I speed-dial Nico.

  “Well?” Richard instantly questions me. “What’s the situation?”

  “The situation is: I’m on top of the situation,” I say curtly as I’m put through to voicemail. “Hello, Nico, it’s Fliss. We need to talk, asap. Give me a call. Bye.”

  “So what did Lottie say?” demands Richard as I end the call. “Did they win?”

  “Apparently so.”

  “Bastard.” He’s breathing heavily. “Bastard. What does he know about her that I don’t? What’s he got that I haven’t? Apart from, obviously, the stately home—”

  “Richard, stop!” I snap in exasperation. “It’s not a competition!”

  Richard stares at me as though I’m the thickest moron that ever existed. “Of course it’s a competition,” he says.

  “No, it isn’t!”

  “Fliss, everything in a man’s life is a competition!” He suddenly loses it. “Don’t you realize that? From the moment you’re a three-year-old boy, peeing up against the wall with your friends, all you really care about is: Am I bigger than him? Am I taller? Am I more successful? Is my wife hotter? So, the day that some smooth bastard with a private jet runs off with the girl you love: yes, it’s a competition.”

  “You don’t know he’s got a private jet,” I say after a pause.

  “I’m guessing.”

  There’s silence. In spite of myself, I’m rating Richard against Ben in my mind. Well, Richard would win in my book—but, then, I’ve never met Ben.

  “Well, OK. Suppose you’re right,” I say at last. “What counts as winning? Where’s the finish line? She’s married to someone else. So doesn’t that mean you’ve already lost?”

  I don’t mean to be harsh—but these are the facts.

  “When I’ve told Lottie how I really feel … and she’s still said no,” says Richard resolutely, “then I’ll have lost.”

  My stomach twinges with sympathy for him. He’s putting himself on the line here. No one can say he’s taking the easy way out.

  “OK.” I nod. “Well, you know which way I would vote.” I squeeze his shoulder.

  “What are they doing now?” He glances at my phone. “Tell me what they’re doing. I know she’ll have told you.”

  “They’ve just had champagne and lobster,” I say reluctantly. “And Ben’s written her a love poem in French.”

  “In French?” Richard looks as though someone has kneed him in the stomach. “Smarmy bastard.”

  “And they’re planning to go to the guest house tomorrow,” I tell him, as Lorcan joins us. He and Noah are wheeling three cases between them. “Well done, you two! That’s all the luggage.”

  “High five,” says Noah solemnly to Lorcan, and smacks his proffered palm.

  “The guest house?” Richard looks stricken by this piece of news. “The guest house where they met?”

  “Exactly.”

  His scowl deepens. “She always goes on about that place. The calamari that was unlike any calamari in the world. And the secluded beach that was better than any other beach. I took her to Kos once, and all she could say was it wasn’t as good as the guest house.”

  “Oh, jeez, the guest house.” Lorcan nods in agreement. “I hate that place. If I have to hear Ben tell me one more time about how the sunset was like a mind-altering experience …”

  “Lottie went on about the sunset too.” Richard nods.

  “And how they all used to get up at dawn and do fucking yoga—”

  “—and the people—”

  “—the atmosphere—”

  “And the sea was the clearest, most turquoise, most perfect sea in existence,” I chime in, rolling my eyes. “I mean, get over it.”

  “Bloody place,” says Lorcan.

&
nbsp; “I wish it had burned down,” adds Richard.

  We all look at each other, immensely cheered. There’s nothing like having a common enemy.

  “So, we should go,” says Lorcan. He proffers the handle of my wheelie case and I’m about to take it when my phone rings. I check the ID: it’s Nico. At last.

  “Nico! Where have you been!”

  “Fliss! I know what you are thinking, and I am mortified—” As he launches into some long, rambling apology, I cut him off.

  “We haven’t got time for all that. They’re about to get it together on the beach. You need to move fast. Listen.”

  17

  LOTTIE

  This is the perfect setting for a wedding night. I mean, our own private beach! How cool is that?

  We’re in a secluded little cove that you reach from the main beach over stepping stones and there’s a DO NOT DISTURB sign placed on a rock. Our two massage therapists led us here in a little procession, followed by Georgios and Hermes carrying champagne and oysters, which are waiting for us on ice. Now we’re lying on a huge double massage bed, while the two massage therapists, Angelina and Carissa, rub oil into our bodies. Billowing all around us are white curtains, so we’re totally private in our enclosure. The sky is that intense blue you only get at a certain point in the early evening, and scented candles planted in the sand are giving off a sweet aroma. Birds are swooping and calling. I can hear the tiny splash of waves on the sand, and the air has a salty tang. It’s all so scenic, I feel as though I’m in some arty pop video.

  Ben reaches out his hand to take mine, and I squeeze it back, wincing as Carissa tackles a particularly stubborn knot in my neck. Mmm. Ben and me and a canopied bed on the beach, which we’ll have to ourselves for two hours afterward. The therapists have stressed that several times. “Two hours,” Angelina kept saying. “Plenty of private time. You will be relaxed as a couple.… All the senses will be stimulated.… No one will disturb you, this is guaranteed.…”

  She didn’t quite wink, but she might as well have. Obviously this is the open-air shagging service, which they’re too coy to spell out in the brochure.

  Carissa has finished with my neck. She and Angelina move to the head end of the bed and in synchronization begin a head massage. I’m relaxing more and more—in fact, I’d probably fall asleep if it weren’t that I’m also absolutely hopping with lust. Just the sight of Ben slick with oil and naked beside me was enough. We are going to use every minute of that two hours, I vow. We have earned this sex. He’ll only have to touch me and I’ll explode—

  Ting!

  I’m jolted out of my reverie. From nowhere, Angelina and Carissa have produced matching little bells, which they’ve struck above our heads in a kind of ritual.

  “Finish,” whispers Carissa, and tucks my sheet around me. “Now relax. Take it easy.”

  Yes! It’s over! Sexy private time, here we come. I watch through semi-closed eyes as Angelina and Carissa withdraw from our curtained enclosure. There’s no sound at all except for the cotton curtains, flapping gently in the breeze. I stare up at the blue, unable to speak, I’m so overcome by torpor and lust. I think this is the most blissful state I’ve ever been in. Post-massage; pre-sex.

  “So.” Ben’s hand squeezes mine again. “At last.”

  “At last.” I’m about to lean over and kiss him, but he’s too fast. Before I know it, he’s straddling me, holding a small bottle of oil. He must have brought it along secretly. He thinks of everything!

  “I don’t like anyone massaging you but me.” He pours oil onto my shoulders. It smells musky and sensual and gorgeous. I inhale pleasurably as he covers me all over with it, using firm, sweeping gestures which make me shiver.

  “You know, you’re very talented, Mr. Parr,” I say, my voice jerky with lust. “You could set up a spa.”

  “I want only one client.” He starts to rub the oil into my nipples, over my stomach, lower down.… At once I’m whimpering with desire. I have so, so wanted him.…

  “You like this?” His eyes are intent.

  “I’m tingling all over. It’s unbearable.”

  “So am I.” He leans in to kiss me, his hands moving down with purpose, between my thighs.…

  “Oh God.” I’m breathless. “I really am tingling.”

  “Me too.”

  “Ow!” I can’t help wincing.

  “I know you like it a bit rough.” He chuckles, but I’m not sure I can join in. I’m tingling too much. Something’s wrong.

  “Can we stop a moment?” I push him away. My skin feels like it’s crawling with insects. “I’m a little sore.”

  “Sore?” His eyes glint with amusement. “Babe, we haven’t even started.”

  “It’s not funny! It’s painful!” I stare agitatedly at my arm. It’s turned red. Why is it red? Ben moves in on me again, and I try my hardest to moan with appreciation as his lips nuzzle their way down my neck. But, truthfully, they’re moans of pain.

  “Stop!” I say at last, in desperation. “Time out! I feel like I’m on fire!”

  “So do I,” pants Ben.

  “Really! I can’t do this! Look at me!”

  At last Ben moves back and surveys me, his eyes cloudy with desire. “You look great,” he says briefly. “You look awesome.”

  “No, I don’t! I’m all red.” I survey my arms with mounting alarm. “And I’m swelling up! Look!”

  “These are swelling up, all right.” Ben cups one of my breasts appreciatively. Isn’t he listening?

  “Ow!” I wrench his arm away. “This is serious. I think I’ve had an allergic reaction. What’s in that oil? Not peanut oil? You know I’m allergic to peanuts.”

  “It’s just oil.” Ben seems evasive. “I don’t know what’s in it.”

  “You must! You must have looked at the label when you bought it.” There’s a short silence. Ben looks a bit sulky, as though I’ve caught him out.

  “I didn’t buy it,” he says at last. “Nico gave it to me, compliments of the hotel. It’s their signature blend or something.”

  “Oh.” I can’t help feeling disappointed. “And you didn’t check? Even though you know I’m allergic?”

  “I’d forgotten, OK?” Ben sounds thrown. “I can’t remember every tiny little thing!”

  “I hardly think your wife’s allergy is ‘every tiny little thing’!” I say furiously, feeling an uncharacteristic urge to hit him. It was all going so brilliantly. Why did he have to slather me with evil peanut oil?

  “Look, maybe if we get the right angle it won’t hurt you so much.” Ben looks around desperately and pushes aside the curtains. “Try standing on those rocks.”

  “OK.” I’m as eager as he is to make this work. If we minimize actual contact … I clamber onto the rocks, trying not to flinch too much. “Ow—”

  “Not like that—”

  “Ouch! Stop!”

  “Try the other way.…”

  “If you could rotate a bit … Oof!”

  “Was that your nostril?”

  “This isn’t working,” I say, after slipping off the rocks for the third time. “I could try kneeling on the rocks if we had some padding.…”

  “Or on the edge of the bed …”

  “I’ll go on top.… No! Ow! Sorry,” I wince, “but that’s really painful.”

  “Can you put your leg behind your head?”

  “No, I can’t,” I say resentfully. “Can you?”

  The atmosphere has totally disintegrated, as we try one acrobatic position after another. I keep gasping, and not in a good way. By now my skin is seriously inflamed. I need some soothing aqueous cream, urgently. But I also need to have sex. It’s unbearable. I want to weep with frustration.

  “Come on!” I say to myself crossly. “I’ve had root-canal surgery. I can do this.”

  “Root-canal surgery?” Ben sounds mortally offended. “Sex with me is like root-canal surgery?”

  “That’s not what I meant!”

  “You’ve been
avoiding sex with me all holiday,” he snarls, suddenly losing his temper. “I mean, what kind of a bloody honeymoon is this?”

  This is such an unfair accusation that I recoil with shock.

  “I haven’t avoided sex!” I cry. “I want it as much as you do, but I … It’s so painful.…” I cast around desperately. “Could we try tantric sex?”

  “Tantric sex?” Ben sounds contemptuous.

  “Well, it works for Sting.” I feel near tears of disappointment.

  “Is your mouth sore?” says Ben, a note of hope in his voice.

  “Yes, I got oil on my lips. They’re really smarting.” I catch his drift. “Sorry.”

  Ben unhooks his leg from mine and slumps onto the bed, his shoulders hunched. Despite everything, I can’t help feeling relieved that he’s not chafing against me anymore. It was sheer torture.

  For a while we just sit there in stony misery. My flesh is still swollen and vivid red. I must look like an overgrown glacé cherry. A tear rolls down my cheek, then another.

  He hasn’t even asked me if my allergy is dangerous. I mean, not that it is, but still. He isn’t exactly concerned, is he? The first time Richard saw me react to peanuts, he wanted to drive me to the ER right then. And he’s always scrupulous about checking menus and the boxes of ready meals. He’s really thoughtful—

  “Lottie.” Ben’s voice makes me jump a mile with guilt. How can I be thinking about my ex-boyfriend when I’m on my honeymoon?

  “Yes?” I turn quickly, in case he guessed my thoughts. “Just thinking about … nothing in particular …”

  “I’m sorry.” Ben spreads his hands in a frank gesture. “I didn’t mean it, but I’m so desperate for you.”

  “Me too.”

  “It’s just bad luck.”

  “We seem to be having more than our fair share of bad luck,” I say ruefully. “How can one couple have such a catalog of disasters?”

  “Less ‘honeymoon,’ ” he quips, “more ‘horrormoon.’ ”

  I smile at his feeble joke, feeling mollified. At least he’s making an effort.