Wedding Night

by Sophie Kinsella

  “Maybe it’s fate,” I say, not really meaning it, but Ben seizes on this idea.

  “Maybe you’re right. Think about it, Lottie. We’re going back to the guest house tomorrow. We’re returning to the place we first got it together. Maybe that’s where we’re meant to consummate our marriage.”

  “It would be pretty romantic.” This idea is growing on me. “We could find the same spot in that little cave.”

  “You still remember?”

  “I’ll always remember that night,” I say in heartfelt tones. “It’s one of my all-time great memories.”

  “Well, maybe we can top it,” says Ben, his good humor restored. “How long will you be out of action?”

  “Dunno.” I glance down at my lobster skin. “It’s a pretty bad reaction. Probably till tomorrow.”

  “OK. So we press pause. Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” I say gratefully. “We are hereby pressing pause.”

  “And tomorrow will be play.”

  “And then rewind and play again.” I grin wickedly at him. “And again. And again.”

  I can tell, we’re both cheered by this plan. We sit gazing out to sea, and I feel myself gradually soothed by the repetitive noise of the surf, punctuated by the cry of birds and, far away, the throb of music coming from the main beach. A band is playing there tonight. Maybe we’ll wander over in a while, drink a cocktail, and have a listen.

  It feels as if we’ve made our peace. As we’re sitting there, Ben carefully extends his arm behind me, then bends it round as though to cradle my back, without actually touching. It’s like a ghost embrace. My skin prickles mildly in response, but I don’t mind. All my resentment has faded away; in fact, I can’t think why it was there at all.

  “Tomorrow,” he says. “No peanut oil. No butlers. No harps. Just us.”

  “Just us.” I nod. Maybe Ben’s right: maybe we were supposed to do it at the guest house all along. “I love you,” I add impulsively. “Even more because of this.”

  “I feel the same way.” He gives me that lopsided smile and my heart swells. And suddenly I feel almost euphoric, despite my stinging skin and frustrated libido and a cricked ankle from climbing on the rocks. Because, after all, here we are, back on Ikonos, after all these years. And tomorrow we come full circle. Tomorrow we return to the most important place of our lives: the guest house. The place where we found love and experienced seismic events and changed our destinies forever.

  Ben holds out his hand as though to take mine, and I curl my fingers underneath without quite touching (my hands are swollen too). I don’t need to tell him how important this visit to the guest house is to me. He understands. He gets it like no one else does. And that’s why we’re meant to be together.

  18

  FLISS

  No. Nooo! What is this drivel?

  Ben understands me at a profound level. He thinks it’s Destiny and I do too. We’ve made so many plans for our future. He wants to do all the same things that I do. We’ll probably end up living in France in a gîte.…

  I click briskly through the next three texts with mounting dismay.

  … amazing atmosphere with white curtains next to the sea, and, OK, it didn’t work out, but that’s not important …

  … We weren’t touching but I could FEEL him, it’s like a psychic connection, you know what I mean.…

  … happiest I’ve ever been …

  They haven’t shagged, yet she’s the happiest she’s ever been. Well, if I was trying to drive them apart, I’ve squarely failed. I’ve driven them together instead. Good work, Fliss. Marvelous.

  “Everything OK?” says Lorcan, observing my expression.

  “Everything’s dandy,” I almost snarl back, and flip viciously through the leather-bound cocktail menu.

  My spirits have not exactly been high since the touchdown in Sofia. Now they’re plummeting to rock bottom. Everything has backfired and I’m bone weary and my minibar was lacking tonic water and now I’m surrounded by Bulgarian prostitutes.

  OK, they may not all be Bulgarian prostitutes, I allow, as I do another sweep of the hotel rooftop bar. Some may be Bulgarian glamour models. Some may even be business types. The light in here is dim, but it’s glinting off all the diamonds and teeth and Louis Vuitton buckles on show. Hardly the most understated place, the City Heights. Although, to their credit, they knew my name and I didn’t even need to ask for an upgrade. I’m in the most bling suite I’ve stayed in for a while, complete with two massive bedrooms, a sitting room with cinema screen, and a vast mirrored art-deco-style bathroom. I may be compelled to show it off to Lorcan later on.

  I feel an anticipatory squeeze inside. Not quite sure where things are with Lorcan and me. Maybe after a few drinks I’ll find out.

  This bar is fairly bling too, with glass floor-to-ceiling windows and a narrow wraparound swimming pool tiled in black, which all the beautiful people/glamour models/business types are regarding with disdain. Unlike Noah, who is hopping up and down, demanding to be allowed in.

  “Your swimsuit is all packed away,” I say for the fifth time.

  “Let him swim in his underpants,” says Lorcan. “Why not?”

  “Yes!” crows Noah, enchanted by this idea. “Underpants! Underpants!” He’s jumping up and down, totally hyper after the flight. Maybe a swim is a good idea after all.

  “OK.” I relent. “You can go in in your underpants. But quietly. Don’t splash anyone.”

  Eagerly, Noah starts to strip off, discarding his clothes with abandon.

  “Look after my wallet, please,” he says with grown-up precision, and hands me the airline wallet he was given on the flight. “I want some credit cards to go in it,” he adds.

  “You’re not quite old enough for credit cards,” I say, folding up his trousers and putting them neatly on a velvet-upholstered banquette.

  “Here’s one,” says Lorcan, and hands him a Starbucks card. “Expired,” he adds to me.

  “Cool!” says Noah in delight, and carefully slots it into his wallet. “I want it to be full like Daddy’s.”

  I’m about to make a barbed comment about Daddy’s bulging wallet—but rein myself back just in time. That would be bitter. And I’m not doing bitter. I’m doing sweetness and light.

  “Daddy works hard for his money,” I say in sugary tones. “We should be proud of him, Noah.”

  “Geronimo!” Noah is running up to the pool. A moment later he lands in a bomb with the most almighty splash. Water showers onto a nearby blonde in a minidress, who recoils in horror and brushes the drops off her legs.

  “So sorry,” I call over cheerfully. “Occupational hazard of drinking next to a swimming pool!”

  Noah has begun his extremely splashy version of the front crawl and is drawing looks of consternation from beautiful people and beautiful waitstaff alike.

  “What’s the betting that Noah is the first person ever to swim in this pool?” says Lorcan in amusement.

  As we’re watching, Richard enters the bar, along with a group of travelers I recognize from the plane. He looks wearier than he did earlier on, and I feel a twinge of sympathy for him.

  “Hi,” he greets us, and sinks onto the banquette. “Heard from Lottie again?”

  “Yes, and the good news is they still haven’t got it together!” I say, to cheer him up.

  “Still?” Lorcan sets down his glass with an incredulous crash. “What is wrong with them?”

  “Allergic mishap.” I shrug carelessly. “They used peanut oil or something on Lottie and she swelled up.”

  “Peanut oil?” Richard looks up suddenly, concerned. “Well, is she OK? Did they call a doctor?”

  “I think she’s fine. Really.”

  “Because those reactions can be dangerous. Why did they use peanut oil, for God’s sake? Didn’t she warn them?”

  “I … don’t know,” I say evasively. “What’s that?” I add, to change the subject, and nod at the piece of paper Richard is holding.

  “
It’s nothing,” says Richard protectively, as Noah bounds up, wrapped in a chic black towel. “Nothing much.”

  “It must be something.”

  “Well … OK.” Richard looks fiercely from Lorcan to me, as though daring us to laugh. “I’ve started a poem in French. For Lottie.”

  “Good for you!” I say encouragingly. “Can I have a look?”

  “It’s a work in progress.” Grudgingly, he hands over the paper and I shake it out, clearing my throat.

  “Je t’aime, Lottie. Plus qu’un zloty.” I hesitate, not sure what to say. “Well, it’s a start.…”

  “ ‘I love you, Lottie, More than a zloty’?” Lorcan translates incredulously. “Seriously?”

  “Lottie’s a difficult rhyme!” Richard says defensively. “You try!”

  “You could have used ‘potty,’ ” suggests Noah. “ ‘I love you, Lottie, Sitting on the potty.’ ”

  “Thanks, Noah,” says Richard grouchily. “Appreciate it.”

  “It’s very good,” I say hastily. “Anyway, it’s the thought that counts.”

  Richard grabs the paper back from me and reaches for the bar menu. On the front it reads Delectable Bulgarian Specialties, and inside are lists of bar snacks and light meals.

  “That’s a good idea. Have something to eat,” I say soothingly. “You’ll feel better.”

  Richard gives the menu a cursory glance, then flags down a waitress, who approaches with a smile.

  “Sir? Can I help?”

  “I have some questions about your ‘delectable Bulgarian specialties,’ ” he says with an uncompromising stare. “The tricolore salad. Is that a Bulgarian specialty?”

  “Sir.” The girl’s smile widens. “I will check.”

  “And the chicken korma. Is that a Bulgarian specialty?”

  “Sir, I will check.” The girl is scribbling on her notepad.

  “Richard.” I kick him. “Stop it.”

  “Club sandwich.” Richard presses on. “Is that a Bulgarian specialty?”

  “Sir—”

  “Curly fries. Which area of Bulgaria do they come from?”

  The girl has stopped writing now and is gazing at him, perplexed.

  “Stop!” I hiss at Richard, then smile up at the girl. “Thanks so much. We’ll need a couple more minutes.”

  “I was just asking,” says Richard, as she walks away. “Clarifying. I’m allowed to clarify, aren’t I?”

  “Just because you can’t write French love poetry, there’s no need to take it out on an innocent waitress,” I say sternly. “Anyway, look. Meze platter. That’s a Bulgarian specialty.”

  “It’s Greek.”

  “And Bulgarian.”

  “Like you know all about it.” He looks at the menu broodingly, then closes it. “Actually, I think I’ll turn in.”

  “Aren’t you going to eat?”

  “I’ll get room service. See you in the morning.”

  “Sleep well!” I call after him, and he gives me a gloomy nod over his shoulder.

  “Poor guy,” says Lorcan, after Richard has disappeared from view. “He really loves her.”

  “I think so.”

  “No one writes a poem like that unless they’re so in love that their faculties have become temporarily defective.”

  “More than a zloty,” I quote, suddenly getting the giggles. “Zloty?”

  “ ‘Sitting on the potty’ was better.” Lorcan raises his eyebrows. “Noah, you may have a future as Poet Laureate.”

  Noah bounds off to leap back into the swimming pool, and we both watch him splashing around for a moment.

  “Nice kid,” says Lorcan. “Bright. Well balanced.”

  “Thanks.” I can’t help smiling at the compliment. Noah is bright. Although “well balanced” I’m not so sure about. Do well-balanced kids boast about their fictitious heart transplants?

  “He seems very happy.” Lorcan takes a handful of peanuts. “Was custody amicable?”

  At the word “custody,” my internal radar springs into action and I feel my heart automatically start to pound, ready for battle. My body is flooding with adrenaline. I’m fingering my memory stick nervously. I have speeches lined up in my head. Long, erudite, scathing speeches. Also: I want to punch someone.

  “Only, some of my friends have had fairly torrid times with custody battles,” Lorcan adds.

  “Right.” I’m trying to achieve composure. “Right. I bet.”

  Torrid? I want to exclaim. You want to hear about torrid?

  But at the same time Barnaby’s voice is ringing in my ears like the chime of a warning bell. You said whatever you did, you wouldn’t end up bitter.

  “But you haven’t suffered?” says Lorcan.

  “Not at all.” From nowhere, I’ve mustered the most relaxed, serene smile. “Actually, it’s all been very easy and straightforward. And quick,” I add for good measure. “Very quick.”

  “You’re lucky.”

  “Very lucky.” I nod. “So, so lucky!”

  “And you and your ex get on?”

  “We’re like this.” I cross my fingers.

  “You’re incredible!” says Lorcan in marveling tones. “Are you sure you want to be divorced from him?”

  “I’m just super-glad he’s found happiness with another woman.” I smile yet more sweetly. My ability to lie is unnerving even to myself. Essentially, I’m saying the diametric opposite of the truth. It’s almost a game.

  “And do you get on with his new partner?”

  “Love her!”

  “And does Noah?”

  “It’s like one big happy family!”

  “Would you like another drink?”

  “No, I’d hate one!” Abruptly I remember that Lorcan doesn’t know we’re playing the game. “I mean, love one,” I amend.

  As Lorcan summons a waiter, I eat a couple of nuts and try to come up with more divorce-related lies. But even as I’m composing them—We all play table tennis together! Daniel’s naming his new baby after me!—my head is buzzing. My fingers are fiddling at the memory stick with more and more agitation. I don’t like this game anymore. My inner good fairy is losing her glow. The bad fairy is barging in and wants to have a say.

  “So, your husband must be a great guy,” says Lorcan, after he’s given our order. “For you two to have such a special relationship.”

  “He’s a star!” I nod, my teeth gritted.

  “Must be.”

  “He’s just so thoughtful and kind!” I’m clenching my fists by my sides. “He’s such a charismatic, charming, unselfish, caring—” I break off. I’m panting. There are actual stars in front of my eyes. Complimenting Daniel is bad for my health; I can’t do it anymore. “He’s a … a … a …” It’s like a sneeze. It has to come out. “Bastard.”

  There’s a slight pause. I can see some men at a nearby table looking over with interest.

  “A bastard in a good way?” hazards Lorcan. “Or … oh.” He sees my face.

  “I lied. Daniel is the biggest nightmare that any divorced wife has had to put up with, and I’m bitter, OK? I’m bitter!” Just saying it is a relief. “My bones are bitter, my heart’s bitter, my blood is bitter.…” Something occurs to me. “Wait. You’ve had sex with me. You know I’m bitter.”

  There’s no way he couldn’t have picked that up from our night together. I was fairly tense. I think I swore a lot.

  “I wondered.” Lorcan tilts his head affirmatively.

  “Was it when I shouted, ‘Screw you, Daniel!’ just as I came?” I can’t help cracking, then lift a hand. “Sorry. Bad-taste joke.”

  “No apology needed.” Lorcan doesn’t even blink. “The only way to survive a divorce is to tell bad-taste jokes. What do you do if you miss your ex-wife? Take better aim next time.”

  “Why is divorce so expensive?” I automatically counter. “Because it’s worth it.”

  “Why do divorced men get married again? Bad memory.”

  He waits for me to laugh, but I’m lost
in thought. My adrenaline tidal wave has ebbed away, leaving behind the detritus of old familiar thoughts.

  “The thing is …” I rub my nose hard. “The thing is, I haven’t survived my divorce. Wouldn’t ‘survival’ imply I’m the same person I was before?”

  “So who are you now?” says Lorcan.

  “I don’t know,” I say after a long pause. “I feel scalded inside. Like, third-degree burns. But no one can see them.”

  Lorcan winces but doesn’t reply. He’s one of those rare people who can wait it out and listen.

  “I started to wonder if I was going mad,” I say, staring into my glass. “Could Daniel really see the world that way? Could he really be saying those awful things and could people be believing him? And the worst thing is, no one else is in it with you. A divorce is like a controlled explosion. Everyone on the outside is OK.”

  “Everyone on the outside.” Lorcan nods vigorously. “Don’t you hate those people? Telling you not to think about it.”

  “Yes!” I nod in recognition. “And saying, ‘Be positive! At least you haven’t been horribly disfigured in an industrial accident!’ ”

  Lorcan bursts into laughter. “You know the same people I know.”

  “I just wish beyond anything that he was out of my life.” I exhale, resting my forehead briefly in my hands. “I wish they could do … I don’t know. Keyhole surgery for ex-husband removal.” Lorcan gives an appreciative smile and I gulp my wine. “What about you?”

  “It was fairly grim.” He nods. “There was some nastiness about money, but we didn’t have kids, so that made it simpler.”

  “You’re lucky you didn’t have kids.”

  “Not really,” he replies tonelessly.

  “No, really, you are,” I persist. “I mean, when you get into custody, it’s a whole other—”

  “No, really, I’m not.” There’s an acerbic edge to his voice I haven’t heard before, and I suddenly remember I know very little of his private life. “We couldn’t,” he adds shortly. “I couldn’t. And I would say that that fact contributed about eighty percent to our breakup. Make that a hundred percent.” He takes a deep gulp of whiskey.

  I’m so shocked I don’t know what to say. In those few words, he’s conveyed a background story of such sadness that I feel instantly guilty for having complained about my own plight. Because at least I have Noah.