Wedding Night

  “I care!” I say in shock.

  “Well, you should stop. You go on and on about that bloody fire—”

  “No, I don’t!”

  “Yes, you do.”

  Something inside me snaps.

  “Well, you go on and on about sailing!” I shout, stung. “Where did all that come from?”

  We glare at each other in a kind of shocked uncertainty. It’s as though we’re sizing each other up for a game but aren’t sure of the rules. At last, Ben launches in with a fresh salvo.

  “Basically, how can I trust anything you say anymore?” he says.

  “What?” I recoil in utter shock.

  “You didn’t nurse me through the flu, but you let me think you did.” His gaze is unrelenting. “Why would anyone do that?”

  “I was … confused.” I gulp. “I’m sorry, OK?”

  Ben’s expression doesn’t alter. Sanctimonious bastard.

  “Well, OK.” I launch a counterattack. “Since we’re doing home truths, can I ask how you’re planning to sail a season in the Caribbean when we’re moving to France?”

  “We might move to France,” he retorts impatiently. “We might not. We were only knocking a few ideas around. Jesus!”

  “We weren’t knocking ideas around!” I stare at him in horror. “We were making plans! I was basing my whole life on them!”

  “Everything OK?” Sarah rejoins us on the veranda, and Ben instantly switches on his charming, lopsided smile.

  “Great!” he says, as though nothing’s happened. “We’re just chilling out.”

  “More coffee? Or Scotch?”

  I can’t answer her. I’m realizing the awful truth: I’m basing my whole life on this guy sitting in front of me. This guy with his charming smile and easy manner who suddenly seems alien and unfamiliar and just wrong, like a guest bedroom in someone else’s house. Not only do I not know him, I don’t understand him, and I’m afraid I don’t much like him.

  I don’t like my husband.

  It’s like a clanging in my ears. A death knell. I have made a monumental, humongous, terrifying mistake.

  I have an instinctive, desperate longing for Fliss, but at the same time I realize I can never, never admit this to her. I’ll have to stay married to Ben and pretend everything’s OK till the end of my days. It’s too embarrassing otherwise.

  OK. So that’s my fate. I feel quite calm about it. I married the wrong man and must simply live with it in misery forever. There’s no other way.

  “… great place for a honeymoon,” Sarah’s saying as she sits down. “Are you having a good time?”

  “Oh yeah,” says Ben sarcastically. “Really great. Super.” He flicks an antagonistic look at me, and I bristle.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Well, we’ve hardly been enjoying the usual ‘honeymoon pleasures,’ have we?”

  “That’s not my fault!”

  “Who turned me down this morning?”

  “I was waiting for the cove! We were supposed to be doing it at the cove!”

  I can see that Sarah is uncomfortable, but I can’t stop myself. I feel as if I’m boiling over.

  “There’s always some excuse,” Ben snarls.

  “I’m not making excuses!” I exclaim, absolutely livid. “What, you think I don’t want to … you know?”

  “I don’t know what to think!” Ben throws back furiously. “But we haven’t, and you don’t seem bothered about it! You do the math!”

  “I am bothered about it!” I yell. “Of course I’m bothered!”

  “Wait,” says Sarah, looking warily from Ben to me. “You guys haven’t …?”

  “There hasn’t been the opportunity,” says Ben tightly.

  “Wow.” Sarah breathes out, looking incredulous. “That’s … unusual for a honeymoon.”

  “Our room was messed around,” I explain succinctly, “and Ben got drunk and we were stalked by butlers and I had an allergic reaction and basically—”

  “It’s been a nightmare.”

  “Nightmare.”

  We’re both slumped in gloom, our energy gone.

  “Well,” says Sarah with a twinkle. “We’ve got empty rooms upstairs. Beds. Condoms, even.”

  “Seriously?” Ben lifts his head. “There’s a bed upstairs? A private double bed that we could use? You have no idea how we’ve wanted to hear that.”

  “Loads of them. We’re half empty.”

  “This is great! Great!” Ben’s spirits have zoomed up. “We can do it right here at the guest house! Where we first met! Come on, Mrs. Parr, let me ravish you.”

  “I won’t listen,” jokes Sarah.

  “You can join in if you like!” says Ben, then adds to me quickly, “Joke. Joke.”

  He holds out his hands to me, his smile as endearing as it’s ever been. But the magic isn’t working. The sparkle has gone.

  There’s silence for what seems like forever. My mind is a maelstrom. What do I want? What do I want?

  “I don’t know,” I say after a long pause, and hear Ben inhale sharply.

  “You don’t know?” He sounds as though he’s at the end of his tether. “You don’t fucking know?”

  “I … I have to take a walk.” Abruptly, I push back my chair and stride away before he can say anything else.

  I head round the back of the guest house and up the scrubby hill behind. I can see the new hostel—a concrete-and-glass building plonked in the space where the guys used to play football. I stride straight past it and keep walking down the hillside till I can’t see it anymore. I’m in a little dip in the land, surrounded by olive trees, with a derelict hut that I dimly remember from the old days. There’s rubbish here too—old cans and crisp packets and the remains of some pita bread. I stare at it, feeling a swell of hatred for whoever left it here. On impulse, I go round the small clearing, picking up all the trash, working with a burst of energy. There isn’t a rubbish bin, but I gather it together and put it next to a large rock. My life might be a mess, but I can clear a patch of land, at least.

  When I’m done, I sit on the rock and stare ahead, not wanting to visit my thoughts. They’re too confusing and scary. The sun is beating on my head and I can hear the distant bleating of goats. It makes me smile reminiscently. Some things haven’t changed.

  After a while, the sound of puffing makes me turn my head. A blond woman in a pink sundress is climbing up the hill. She sees me on the rock, smiles, and heads toward it gratefully.

  “Hi,” she says. “Can I—”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Hot.” She wipes her forehead.

  “Very.”

  “Are you here to look at the ruins? The ancient ruins?”

  “No,” I say apologetically. “I’m just hanging out. I’m on my honeymoon,” I add, as an excuse.

  I vaguely remember people talking about the ruins in my gap year. We all intended to go and look at them, but in the end none of us ever bothered.

  “We’re on honeymoon too.” She brightens. “We’re at the Apollina, but my husband dragged me here to look at these ruins. I told him I needed a sit-down and I’d join him in a minute.” She gets out a bottle of water and takes a swig. “He’s like that. We went to Thailand last year; it nearly killed me. I went on strike in the end. I said, ‘Not another bloody temple. I want to lie on the beach.’ I mean, what’s wrong with lying on the beach?”

  “I agree.” I nod. “We went to Italy and it was endless churches.”

  “Churches!” She rolls her eyes. “Tell me about it. That was us in Venice. I said to him, ‘Do you ever go to churches in England? Why the sudden interest just because we’re on holiday?’ ”

  “That’s exactly what I said to Richard!” I say eagerly.

  “My husband’s called Richard too!” the woman exclaims. “Isn’t that funny? Richard what?”

  She smiles at me, but I stare back, stricken. What have I been saying? Why did my thoughts instantly go to Richard, not Ben? What is wrong with
me?

  “Actually …” I rub my face, trying to calm my thoughts. “Actually, my husband’s not called Richard.”

  “Oh.” She looks taken aback. “Sorry. I thought you said …” She peers closer in dismay. “Are you all right?”

  Oh God. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Tears are streaming out of my eyes. Lots of tears. I wipe them away and try to smile.

  “I’m sorry.” I swallow hard. “I’ve recently split up from my boyfriend. I haven’t really got over it.”

  “Your boyfriend?” The woman stares at me, disconcerted. “I thought you said you were on your honeymoon?”

  “I am,” I sob. “I am on my honeymoon!” And now I’m really crying: huge, racking, childlike sobs.

  “So which one is Richard?”

  “Not my husband!” My voice rises to an anguished wail. “Richard’s not my husband! He never asked me! He never asked meeeee!”

  “I’ll give you some privacy,” says the woman awkwardly, and clambers down off the rock. As she disappears hastily from view, I give way to the noisiest, most abandoned crying I’ve ever indulged in.

  I feel homesick. Homesick for Richard. I miss him so much. I feel as though when we split up he wrenched a bit of my heart out. For a while the adrenaline of the situation kept me going—but now I’m realizing just how wounded I am. My whole body’s throbbing with the pain, and it’s nowhere near healing.

  I miss him, I miss him, I miss him.

  I miss his humor and his sense. I miss the feel of him in bed. I miss catching his eye at a party and knowing we’re thinking the same thing. I miss the smell of him. He smells the way a man should. I miss his voice and his kisses and even his feet. I miss everything.

  And I’m married to someone else.

  I give a fresh, desperate sob. Why did I get married? What was I thinking? I know Ben is hot and fun and charming, but suddenly that all seems meaningless. It feels hollow.

  So what do I do now? I bury my head in my hands, feeling my breathing gradually slow down. I’m twisting my wedding ring round and round on my finger. I’ve never felt so terrified in my life. I’ve made mistakes before, but never on this scale. Never with these repercussions.

  I can’t do anything about it, my brain is telling me. I’m stuck. Trapped. It’s my own fault.

  The sun is beating strongly on my head. I should really get down off the rock and move into the shade. But I can’t bring myself to. I can’t move a muscle. Not till I’ve sorted myself out. Not till I’ve made a few decisions.

  It’s nearly an hour before I move. I jump down from the rock, dust myself off, and head swiftly toward the guest house. Ben didn’t bother trying to find me to see if I was all right, I note. But I don’t even care anymore.

  I see them before they see me. Ben is sitting close to Sarah on the veranda, his hand curled around her shoulders and playing lightly with her strap. It’s so obvious what has been going on, I feel like screaming. But, instead, I creep toward the guest house, staying silent as a cat.

  Kiss, I’m willing them. Kiss. Confirm what I secretly believe.

  I stand there, hardly breathing, my eyes fixed on them. It’s like watching Ben and me when we met up in the restaurant however many days ago. They’re revisiting their teenage fling. They can’t help it. The hormones emanating from them are so strong, they’re almost visible. Sarah is laughing at something Ben is saying, and he’s playing with her hair now, and they’ve got that intense couple-y look going on and …

  Houston, we have touchdown.

  Their lips have fixed together. His hand is exploring inside her tank top. Before this can go any further, I march toward the veranda, feeling like a soap opera actress who’s slightly late for her cue.

  “How could you?” As I yell the words, I realize there’s a genuine torment behind them. How could he bring me here, to the scene of his other teenage fling, the one which predates me and which he never mentioned? He should have known Sarah would be here. He should have known the teenage hormones would flare up again. Did he do it all on purpose? Is it a game?

  At least I’ve rattled them. They leap apart, and Ben bangs his ankle on the bench and curses.

  “Ben, we need to talk,” I say shortly.

  “Yes.” He glowers at me as though this is my fault, and I bridle. Sarah tactfully disappears into the guest house, and I join Ben on the veranda.

  “So. This isn’t working.” I stare away from him, out toward the sea, my whole body tensed miserably. “And now I see you prefer someone else, anyway.”

  “For fuck’s sake,” he says irritably. “One kiss—”

  “It’s our honeymoon!”

  “Exactly!” he says furiously. “You just turned me down! What’s a guy supposed to do?”

  “I didn’t turn you down,” I retort, immediately realizing that, yes, I did turn him down. “OK.” I backtrack. “Well, I’m sorry. I just …”

  I just didn’t want to do it with you. I wanted to do it with Richard. Because he’s the man I love. Richard, my beloved Richard. But I’ll never see him again. And now I’m going to cry again.…

  “It’s difficult to say this,” I manage at last, and blink back fresh tears. “But I think our marriage was too quick. I think we rushed. I think …” I exhale a shuddery breath. “I think it was … wrong. And I blame myself. I’d only recently come out of a relationship. It was too soon.” I spread my hands. “My bad. Sorry.”

  “No,” says Ben at once. “My bad.”

  There’s silence as I take his words in. So we both think it was a mistake. A massive sense of failure is heaving in my chest. Combined with relief. Fliss was right shoots through my brain, and I flinch. That thought is too painful to deal with right now.

  “I don’t want to move to France,” says Ben abruptly. “I hate fucking France. I shouldn’t have let you think I was serious.”

  “Well, I shouldn’t have pressed you on it,” I say, wanting to be fair. “And I shouldn’t have made you go in for Couples’ Quiz.”

  “I shouldn’t have got drunk the first night.”

  “I should have had sex with you in the guest house,” I say remorsefully. “That was rude. Sorry.”

  “No worries.” Ben shrugs. “Those beds squeak, anyway.”

  “So … we’re done?” I can barely say the words. “Call it quits, no hard feelings?”

  “We could go for quickest divorce,” says Ben, deadpan. “We might get a world record.”

  “Shall we tell Georgios to cancel the honeymoon album, then?” I give a snort of almost painful laughter.

  “What about the honeymooners’ karaoke evening? Shall we still do that?”

  “We won Couples’ Quiz,” I remind him. “Maybe we could announce our divorce at the gala prize-giving.” I catch his eye, and suddenly the pair of us are in fits of uncontrollable, hysterical laughter.

  You have to laugh. Because what’s the alternative?

  When we’ve both calmed down a bit, I hug my knees and look at him properly. “Was this marriage ever real to you?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” He winces as though I’ve touched a sore spot. “Nothing’s felt real to me these last few years. My dad dying, the company, giving up on comedy … I think I need to sort this out.” He bangs his head with his fist.

  “It wasn’t real for me either,” I say honestly. “It was like a fantasy. I was in such a bad place, and you pitched up and you looked so hot.…”

  He still looks hot. He’s lithe and tanned and taut. But to my eye he’s lost something. He has a synthetic quality, like orange soda instead of freshly squeezed juice. It’s orangey and bubbly and it quenches your thirst, but it leaves a bitter aftertaste. And it’s not good for you.

  “What shall we do?” All my laughter has abated, and all my anger too. I feel strangely detached. This is surreal. My marriage is over before it’s begun.

  And we haven’t even had sex. I mean, how laughable is that? What kind of cruel, twisted games has fate been playing with us? O
ur honeymoon has been such an unbelievable disaster, it’s like someone Up There didn’t want us to stay together.

  “I dunno. See out the holiday? Take it from there?” Ben looks at his phone. “I have this meeting with Yuri Zhernakov. You know he’s sailed here especially to see me?”

  “Wow!” I stare at him, impressed.

  “I know.” He puffs himself out a bit. “I want to sell. It makes sense. Lorcan thinks I shouldn’t,” he adds, “which makes it an even better reason to do it.”

  His face has twisted into a familiar disgruntled expression. I’ve already heard several rants about how Lorcan’s a control freak and how Lorcan’s a cynical user and once, randomly, how Lorcan’s a bad Ping-Pong player. I’m not wild to hear another one, so I hastily move the conversation on.

  “So you’ll give up work completely?” This seems like a bad idea to me—although who cares what I think? I’m only the soon-to-be ex-wife.

  “Of course I won’t give up,” says Ben, looking a little stung. “Yuri says he’ll keep me on as special adviser. We’ll start some new projects together. Play around with some ideas. Yuri’s a great guy. Want to see his yacht?”

  “Of course I do.” I might as well milk the benefits of being his wife while I can. “And after that? What about you and lover-girl?” I nod sharply toward the guest house, and a look of contrition comes over Ben’s face.

  “I don’t know what happened. I’m sorry.” He shakes his head ruefully. “It was like Sarah and I were suddenly eighteen again; all the memories came flooding back.…”

  “It’s OK,” I say, relenting. “I know. It was the same for us, remember?”

  I can’t believe how much damage has been done, just from teenage loves meeting again. People should never come into contact with their first loves, I decide. There should be some official form of quarantine. The rule should be: you break up with your teenage lover and that’s it. One of you has to emigrate.

  “I don’t mind what you do with her,” I say. “Knock yourself out. Have your fun.”

  He stares at me. “Seriously? But … we’re married.”

  If there’s one thing I’m not, it’s a hypocrite.