Wedding Night

by Sophie Kinsella

  “I’m sorry,” I falter at last.

  “Yes. Me too.” He gives me a wry, kind smile, and I realize that he can tell I’m feeling guilty. “Although, as you say, it would have complicated things more.”

  “I didn’t mean—” I begin. “I didn’t realize—”

  “It’s fine.” He lifts a hand. “It’s fine.”

  I recognize his tone; I use it myself. It isn’t fine: it just is.

  “I really am sorry.” I repeat myself feebly.

  “I know.” He nods. “Thanks.”

  For a while we’re silent. Thoughts are spinning around my head, but I don’t quite dare to share any of them with him. I don’t know him well enough. They might inadvertently hurt him.

  At last I retreat to the safe, once-removed territory of Lottie and Ben.

  “The thing is …” I exhale. “I just want to save my sister from the same kind of hurt that we’ve both experienced. That’s all. That’s why I’m here.”

  “Can I make a small point?” says Lorcan. His mouth twitches with humor, and I can tell he wants to lighten the mood. “You haven’t even met Ben.”

  “I don’t need to,” I retort. “What you don’t realize is there’s a history to this. Every time Lottie breaks up with someone, she makes some stupid, rash, insane gesture that she then has to undo. I call them her Unfortunate Choices.”

  “ ‘Unfortunate Choices.’ I like it.” Lorcan raises an eyebrow. “So you think Ben is her Unfortunate Choice.”

  “Well, don’t you? I mean, really. Getting hitched after five minutes, planning to live in a gîte—”

  “A gîte?” Lorcan looks surprised. “Who said that?”

  “Lottie! She’s full of it. They’re going to have goats and chickens and we all have to visit them and eat baguettes.”

  “This doesn’t sound like Ben at all,” says Lorcan. “Chickens? Are you sure?”

  “Precisely! It sounds like some ridiculous pipe dream. And it’ll crumble to bits and she’ll end up divorced and bitter and just like me—” Too late, I realize I’m almost shouting. The men at the next table are looking at me again. “Just like me,” I repeat more quietly. “And that would be a disaster.”

  “You do yourself a disservice,” says Lorcan. I think he’s trying to be nice. But I’m really not in the mood for flattery.

  “You know what I mean.” I lean forward. “Would you wish the sheer hell of divorce on someone you cared about? Or would you try to prevent it?”

  “So you’re going to arrive out of the blue, tell her to get an annulment and marry Richard. You think she’ll listen?”

  I shake my head. “It’s not like that. I happen to think Richard’s great and perfect for Lottie, but I’m not going out there under the banner of Team Richard. Richard will have to be his own team. I’m on Team Don’t Mess Your Life Up.”

  “Providential for you that they’ve had such a nightmare of a honeymoon,” says Lorcan, raising an eyebrow.

  There’s a brief, charged pause in which I wonder whether to tell him about my secret operation—then decide against it.

  “Yes,” I say as nonchalantly as I can. “Lucky.”

  Noah comes pattering up again, his feet leaving wet marks in the deep-gray carpet. He snuggles onto my knee and at once I feel myself lighten. Noah carries hope round with him like an aura, and whenever I touch him a little bit of it filters into me.

  “Here!” Suddenly he’s waving at someone. “This table!”

  “Here we are.” A waitress appears, bearing a silver tray on which is an ice-cream sundae. “For the brave little soldier. You must be so proud,” she adds to me.

  Oh God. Not again. I smile back, my expression carefully vague, trying to hide my embarrassment. I have no idea where we’re heading with this. It could be heart transplant. It could be bone marrow. It could be new puppy.

  “Training for three hours a day!” She squeezes Noah’s shoulder. “I admire your dedication! Your son was telling me about his gymnastics,” she adds to me. “Thinking of the Olympics 2024, are you?”

  My smile freezes. His gymnastics? OK, I can’t put this off any longer. I’m having the Talk, right here, right now.

  “Thank you,” I manage. “Wonderful. Thank you so much.” As soon as the waitress has disappeared, I turn to Noah. “Darling. Listen to me. This is important. You know the difference between truth and lies, don’t you?”

  “Yes.” Noah nods confidently.

  “And you know that we mustn’t tell lies.”

  “Except to be polite,” chimes in Noah. “Like, ‘I do like your dress!’ ”

  This comes from another Big Talk we had, about two months ago, after Noah was disastrously honest about his godmother’s cooking.

  “Yes. But generally speaking—”

  “And ‘What delicious apple pie!’ ” Noah warms to his theme. “And ‘I’d love some more, but I’m just too full!’ ”

  “Yes! OK. But the point is, most of the time we have to be truthful. And not—for example—say that we’ve had a heart transplant when we haven’t.” I’m watching Noah closely for a reaction, but he seems unmoved. “Darling, you haven’t had a heart transplant, have you?” I say gently.

  “No,” he agrees.

  “But you told the airline staff that you’d had one. Why?”

  Noah thinks for a bit. “Because it’s interesting.”

  “Right. Well. Let’s be interesting and truthful, OK? From now on, I want you to tell the truth.”

  “OK.” Noah shrugs as though it’s neither here nor there. “Can I start my sundae now?” He picks up his spoon and digs in, sending chocolate flakes everywhere.

  “Nicely done,” says Lorcan quietly.

  “I don’t know.” I sigh. “I just don’t get it. Why does he say this stuff?”

  “Big imagination.” Lorcan shrugs. “I wouldn’t worry. You’re a good mother,” he adds, so matter-of-factly that I wonder if I misheard.

  “Oh.” I don’t quite know how to react. “Thanks.”

  “And you’re like a mother to Lottie too, I’m guessing?” He’s pretty perceptive, this Lorcan.

  I nod. “Our own mother didn’t do a great job. I’ve always had to watch out for her.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “Do you get it?” I look up, suddenly wanting to hear his true opinion. “Do you understand what I’m doing?”

  “Which bit?”

  “All of it.” I spread my arms wide. “This. Trying to save my sister from the biggest mistake of her life. Am I right, or am I insane?”

  Lorcan is silent for a while. “I think you’re very loyal and very protective and I respect you for that. And, yes, you’re insane.”

  “Shut up.” I shove him.

  “You asked.” He shoves me back and I feel a tiny electric dart, coupled with a flashback to our night together. It’s so graphic that I gasp. Looking at the way Lorcan’s mouth is tightening, I think he’s remembering exactly the same bit.

  My skin has started to prickle in a mixture of memory and anticipation. Here we are: the two of us, in a hotel. No-brainer. The thing about great sex is, it’s a gift from God which should be enjoyed to the max. That’s my theory, anyway.

  “So, do you have a big suite?” Lorcan asks, as though reading my mind.

  “Two bedrooms,” I reply carelessly. “One for me, one for Noah.”

  “Ah.”

  “Lots of space.”

  “Ah.” His eyes are locked onto mine with a promise of more, and I feel an involuntary shiver. Not that we can run upstairs and rip our clothes off straightaway. There is the small matter of my seven-year-old son sitting next to me.

  “Shall we … eat?” I suggest.

  “Yes!” Noah, finishing his ice-cream sundae, tunes in to the conversation with precision accuracy. “I want a burger and chips!”

  An hour later, between the three of us, we’ve eaten one club sandwich, one burger, one bowl of normal fries, one bowl of sweet-potato fries, one platter of s
hrimp tempura, three chocolate brownies, and a basketful of bread. Beside me, Noah is half asleep on the banquette seat. He’s had a riotous time, darting around the bar, making friends with all the Bulgarian prostitutes, scoring Cokes and packets of crisps and even some Bulgarian money, which, to his dismay, I made him give straight back.

  Now a six-piece band is playing and everyone is listening, and the lights are even dimmer than before, and I’m feeling fairly blissful. I’ve mellowed after my three glasses of wine. Lorcan’s hand keeps brushing against mine. We have an entire empty, delicious night ahead of us. I reach over to take the last sweet-potato chip from the bowl and glimpse Noah’s precious airline wallet on the seat next to him. It’s stuffed with what look like credit cards. Where on earth did he get those?

  “Noah?” I nudge him awake. “Sweetheart, what have you got in your wallet?”

  “Credit cards,” he says sleepily. “I found them.”

  “You found credit cards?” My blood freezes. Oh God. Has he stolen someone’s credit cards? I grab the wallet and pull out the cards in consternation. But they’re not credit cards after all. They’re—

  “Room keys!” says Lorcan, as I pull out about seven at once. The entire wallet is stuffed with electronic room keys. He must have about twenty of them.

  “Noah!” I shake him awake again. “Darling, where did you get these from?”

  “I told you, I found them,” he says resentfully. “People put them down on tables and things. I wanted some credit cards for my wallet.…” His eyes are already closing again.

  I look up at Lorcan, my hands full of room keys splayed out like playing cards.

  “What do I do? I’ll have to give them back.”

  “They all look the same,” observes Lorcan, and gives a snort of laughter. “Good luck with that.”

  “Don’t laugh! It’s not funny! There’ll be a riot when everyone finds out they’re locked out of their rooms.…” I look again at the electronic cards and suddenly snuffle with laughter myself.

  “Just put them back,” says Lorcan decisively.

  “But where?” I look around the tables of smartly dressed beautiful people, all enjoying the band, oblivious to my agitation. “I don’t know whose key is whose, and I can’t find out without going to the front desk.”

  “Here’s the plan,” says Lorcan decisively. “We’ll scatter them around the room like Easter eggs. Everyone’s watching the band. No one’ll notice.”

  “But how will we know whose key is whose? They’re identical!”

  “We’ll guess. We’ll use our psychic powers. I’ll take half,” he adds, and starts grabbing key cards out of the wallet.

  Slowly, cautiously, we get to our feet. The lights are dim and the band is playing a Coldplay song, and no one turns a hair. Lorcan walks authoritatively toward the bar, leans slightly to his left, and deposits a key card on a bar table.

  “Sorry,” I hear him say charmingly. “Lost my balance.”

  Following his lead, I approach another group, pretend to look at a light fitting, and drop three cards down onto the mirrored surface of the table. The sound of them landing is covered by the band, and no one even notices.

  Lorcan is planting cards on the main long bar, moving along quickly, deftly reaching between bar stools and behind backs.

  “You dropped this, I think?” he says, as a girl turns a questioning face to him.

  “Oh, thank you!” She takes the card from him, and my insides curdle. I am half appalled and half delighted at what feels like the most massive prank. There’s no way that’s the key to her room. There are going to be some very angry guests later on.…

  Now Lorcan is up near the stage, leaning right over a blond lady and blatantly flipping a key card onto her table. He meets my eye and winks at me, and I want to laugh. I get rid of my remaining cards as quickly as I can and hurry back to Noah, who is now fully asleep. I summon a waiter and quickly scribble a signature on our bill, then hoist Noah into my arms and wait for Lorcan to join us.

  “If I’m found out, my name will be mud,” I murmur.

  “In Bulgaria,” points out Lorcan. “Population 7.5 million. That’s like your name being mud in Bogotá.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t want my name to be mud in Bogotá either.”

  “Why not? Maybe it is already. Have you been to Bogotá?”

  “Yes, as it happens,” I inform him. “And I can tell you, my name is not mud there.”

  “Maybe they were being polite.”

  This conversation is so ridiculous, I can’t help smiling.

  “Come on, then. Let’s escape before we get attacked by angry key holders.”

  As we walk out of the bar, Lorcan holds out his arms.

  “I’ll carry Noah if you like. He looks heavy.”

  “Don’t worry.” I smile automatically. “I’m used to it.”

  “Doesn’t mean he’s not heavy.”

  “Well … OK.”

  It feels odd, handing over Noah to Lorcan. But the truth is, I do have a dodgy shoulder and it is a bit of a relief. We reach our suite and Lorcan carries Noah straight to his bed. He’s so sound asleep, he doesn’t stir. I remove his shoes but nothing else. He can clean his teeth and put his pajamas on tomorrow night, if he wants to.

  I turn off Noah’s light and head to the door, and for a moment Lorcan and I stand there together, for all the world like two parents.

  “So,” says Lorcan at last, and a luscious anticipation starts to grow within me again. I can feel an internal limbering-up, that little dance of muscles yearning to be used. I’m doing better than Lottie on the shag front flashes through my mind, giving me a pinch of guilt—but only a small one. It’s all for the best. She can have another honeymoon, another time.

  “Drink?” I say, not because I really want one but to prolong the moment. This suite is the perfect setting for a shag-fest, what with all the smoky, sexy mirrors and soft, sensual rugs and the (fake) open fire flickering in the grate. There are also several conveniently placed pieces of furniture, which I’ve already eyed up.

  When I’ve poured Lorcan a whiskey, I sit down with my own glass of wine on an amazing creation of a chair. It’s made of deep-purple velvet, with wide rolltop arms and a deep seat and an erotic swoop to its back. I’m hoping that I strike quite a figure as I lean provocatively on one of the arms and allow my dress to ruck up. There’s a delectable, urgent pulsing deep inside me. But, still, I’m not going to hurry anything. We can talk first. (Or just stare at each other with desperate want. Also good.)

  “I wonder what Ben and Lottie are up to.” Lorcan breaks the silence. “Presumably not …” He shrugs significantly.

  “No.”

  “Poor guys. Whatever you think, it’s the worst luck for them.”

  “I guess,” I say noncommittally, and sip my wine.

  “I mean, no sex on your honeymoon.”

  “Terrible.” I nod. “Poor them.”

  “And they’d waited, hadn’t they?” His face crinkles in remembrance. “Jesus. You’d think they’d shag in the loos and just have done with it.”

  “They tried, but they got caught.”

  “No way.” He looks at me, startled. “You serious?”

  “At Heathrow. In the business-class lounge.”

  Lorcan throws back his head and roars with laughter. “I’m going to rib Ben about that. So your sister fills you in on everything, does she? Even her sex life?”

  “We’re pretty close.”

  “Poor girl. Foiled even in the Heathrow loos. It’s the worst luck.”

  I don’t answer at once. The wine I’m drinking is stronger than the stuff I drank downstairs and it’s going to my head. It’s tipping me over the edge. My head is a bit of a maelstrom. Lorcan keeps talking about “bad luck,” but he’s wrong. Luck has nothing to do with it. Ben and Lottie have not consummated their marriage because of me. Because of my power. And suddenly I feel the urge to share this with him.

  “Not so much luck …” I le
t the word trail in the air and, sure enough, Lorcan picks up on it at once.

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s not chance that Ben and Lottie haven’t done it yet. It’s design. My design. I’ve been in charge of the whole thing.” I lean back proudly, feeling like the queen of remote-control honeymoon-fixing, all-powerful in my empress’s chair.

  “What?” Lorcan looks so taken aback, I feel another twinge of pride.

  “I have an agent helping me on the ground,” I clarify. “I issue commands, he carries them out.”

  “What the hell are you talking about? Agent?”

  “A member of staff at the hotel. He’s been making sure that Ben and Lottie don’t get it together till I get there. We’ve been acting as a team. And it’s worked! They haven’t.”

  “But how— What—” He rubs his head, baffled. “I mean, how do you stop a couple from having sex?”

  God, he’s slow.

  “Easy. Mess with their beds, spike their drinks, stalk them everywhere they go … Then there was the peanut-oil massage—”

  “That was you?” He looks thunderstruck.

  “It was all me! I orchestrated everything!” I produce my phone and wave it at him. “It’s all in here. All the texts. All the instructions. I managed it all.”

  There’s a long silence. I’m waiting for him to say how brilliant I am, but he looks stunned.

  “You sabotaged your own sister’s honeymoon?” There’s something about his expression which makes me feel a little uneasy. Also the word “sabotaged.”

  “It was the only way! What else was I supposed to do?” Something about this conversation is going wrong. I don’t like his expression, or mine. I know I appear defensive, which is not a good look. “You do understand I had to put a stop to it? Once they’ve consummated it, it’ll be too late for an annulment. So I had to do something. And this was the only way—”

  “Are you nuts, woman? Are you out of your mind?” Lorcan’s tone is so forceful, I recoil in shock. “Of course it wasn’t the only way!”

  “Well, it was the best way.” I jut my chin out.