Wedding Night

  “You were wrong on one thing, though,” Lorcan adds with sudden energy. “Completely wrong. I’m glad I didn’t bring my swimming trunks.”

  With that, he peels off his jacket and tosses it toward the shore. It lands on the waves, and Noah dives for it joyously.

  “Here!” He holds it aloft. “I got it!” He goggles in delight as Lorcan takes off one shoe, then the other, tossing them toward the shore too. “They’ve sunk! Your shoes have sunk!”

  “Noah, can you dive down for Lorcan’s shoes,” I say, giggling, “and put them on the beach? I think he’s going to swim in his underpants.”

  “Underpants!” yells Noah. “Underpants!”

  “Underpants.” Lorcan grins at him. “It’s the only way.”

  28

  LOTTIE

  I can see the tiny figures of swimmers bobbing around in the sea as I gaze back to shore. The late-afternoon sun is casting long shadows on the beach. Children are screaming and couples are embracing and families are playing together. And I suddenly wish with all my heart I was one of them. People on simple holidays, without complicated lives, without flaky, self-centered husbands, without disastrous decisions they have to unpick.

  I hated the yacht the minute we got on board. Yachts are awful. Everything is clad in white leather and I’m terrified of making a mark, and Yuri Zhernakov just ran a glance over me as though to say, No, you won’t make the cut as my fifth wife. I was instantly banished to the company of two Russian women with plumped-up lips and boobs. They’re so puffed up with silicone they make me think of balloon animals, and they have made no conversation except “Which limited-edition designer compact are you examining your reflection in?”

  Mine’s Body Shop, so that didn’t go very far.

  I sip my mojito and wait for my worries to drown in it. But instead of sputtering and fading, they’re circling my brain, bigger and bigger. Everything’s a catastrophe. Everything’s terrible. I want to cry, I realize. But I can’t cry. I’m on a super-yacht. I’ve got to be sparkling and bright and somehow increase my cleavage.

  I lean over the rail of the deck I’m standing on and wonder how far it is down to the sea. Could I jump?

  No. I might hurt myself.

  God knows where Ben is. He’s been unbearable ever since we arrived here, showing off and preening and telling Yuri Zhernakov about fifteen times how he’s planning to buy a yacht himself.

  My hand steals into my pocket. There’s a thought that’s been sitting in my brain like a very patient person who isn’t going to give up. The same, simple thought. It’s been there for hours now. I could call Richard. I could call Richard. I’ve been ignoring it and ignoring it, but now I can’t remember all the reasons why it’s a bad idea. It seems like an exciting idea. A joyful idea. I could just call him. Now.

  I know Fliss would tell me not to, but it’s not her life, is it?

  I don’t exactly know what I want to say to him. In fact, I think I don’t want to say anything. I only want to make a connection. Like when you reach for someone’s hand and squeeze it. That’s it: I want to squeeze his hand over the ether. And if he pulls his hand away, well, then I’ll know.

  I can see the two Russian women coming on deck, and I hurry round the corner so they won’t see me. I pull out my phone, stare at it for an instant, then plunge my finger down onto the keypad. As his number rings, my heart starts to thud, and I feel sick.

  “Hello, it’s Richard Finch here.”

  It’s gone to voicemail. My stomach corkscrews in panic and I press stop. I can’t leave a voicemail. A voicemail isn’t a squeezed hand. It’s an envelope pressed into the palm. And I don’t know what I want to put in the envelope. Not exactly.

  I try to visualize what he might be doing right now. I have no concept of his life in San Francisco. Getting up, maybe? Having a shower? I don’t even know what his apartment looks like. He’s drifted right away from me. Tears sting my eyes and I look miserably at my phone. Could I try again? Would that count as stalking?

  “Lottie! There you are!” It’s Ben, along with Yuri. I shove my phone back in my pocket and turn to face them. Ben is pink-faced from booze, and my heart sinks. He looks manic, like a small child who’s stayed up too late. “We’re going to seal the deal over some champagne,” he says excitedly. “Yuri’s got some vintage Krug. Care to join us?”

  29

  ARTHUR

  Young people! With their hurrying and their worrying and their wanting all the answers now. They wear me out, the poor, harried things.

  Don’t come back, I always tell them. Don’t come back.

  Youth is still where you left it, and that’s where it should stay. Anything that was worth taking on life’s journey, you’ll already have taken with you.

  Twenty years I’ve been saying this, but do they listen? Do they, hell. Here comes another of them now. Panting and puffing as he reaches the top of the cliff. Late thirties, I’d guess. Attractive enough, against the blue sky. Looks a bit like a politician. Do I mean that? Maybe a movie star.

  I don’t remember his face from the old days. Not that that means anything. These days I barely even recall my own face when I glimpse it in the mirror. I can see this chap’s gaze raking the surroundings, taking in me sitting in my chair under my favorite olive tree.

  “Are you Arthur?” he says abruptly.

  “Guilty.”

  I scan him adroitly. Looks well off. Wearing one of those expensive-logo polo shirts. Probably good for a few double Scotches.

  “You must want a drink,” I say pleasantly. Always useful to steer the conversation in the direction of the bar early on.

  “I don’t want a drink,” he says. “I want to know what happened.”

  I can’t help stifling a yawn. So predictable. He wants to know what happened. Another merchant banker having a midlife crisis, returning to the scene of his youth. The scene of the crime. Leave it where it was, I want to answer. Turn round. Return to your adult, problematic life, because you won’t solve it here.

  But he wouldn’t believe me. They never do.

  “Dear boy,” I say gently. “You grew up. That’s what happened.”

  “No,” he says impatiently, and rubs his sweaty brow. “You don’t understand. I’m here for a reason. Listen to me.” He comes forward a few paces, an impressive height and figure against the sun, intentness of purpose on his handsome face. “I’m here for a reason,” he repeats. “I wasn’t going to get involved—but I can’t help it. I have to do this. I want to know what exactly happened the night of the fire?”

  30

  LOTTIE

  When I give my Making Your Job Work for You! seminar to staff members at Blay Pharmaceuticals, one of my themes is: You can learn from everything. I take a sample workplace situation and we brainstorm and then list as bullet points What You Learned from This.

  After two hours on Yuri Zhernakov’s yacht, my bullet points would go as follows:

  • I am never having my lips done.

  • Actually, I wouldn’t mind a yacht.

  • Krug is ambrosia from heaven.

  • Yuri Zhernakov is so rich, it makes my eyes water.

  • Ben’s tongue was practically hanging out. And what about all those embarrassing sycophantic jokes?

  • Whatever Ben may think, Yuri is not interested in “joint projects.” The only thing he wanted to talk about was the house.

  • If you ask me, Yuri will get rid of the paper company altogether. Ben doesn’t seem to realize this.

  • I think Ben may be quite thick.

  • We should never, ever have come back via the beach.

  This was our big mistake. We should have got the boat to drop us a mile up the coast. Because, the moment we landed, we were seized by Nico.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Parr! Just in time for the gala ceremony!”

  “What?” Ben stared at him quite rudely. “What are you talking about?”

  “You know.” I nudged him. “Happy Couple of the Week.”
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  There was nothing we could do to escape. Now we’re milling around with about twenty other guests from the hotel, drinking cocktails and listening to a band play “Some Enchanted Evening.” Everyone is gossiping about Yuri Zhernakov’s yacht being moored in the bay. I’ve heard Ben tell at least five sets of people that we were there earlier on, drinking Krug. Every time, it makes me flinch. And any minute we’re going to have to go up onto the platform and receive the Happy Couple of the Week trophy. Which is insane.

  “Do you think we could get out of it?” I murmur to Ben as conversation lulls. “Let’s face it, we’re hardly Happy Couple of the Week.”

  Ben looks at me blankly. “Why not?”

  Why not? Is he for real? “Because we’re already discussing divorce!” I hiss.

  “But we’re still happy.” He shrugs.

  Happy? How can he possibly be happy? I glare at him, suddenly wanting to hit him. He was never into this marriage. Never. It was just a diversion. A craze. Like the time I got into Scandinavian knitwear and bought a knitting machine.

  But a marriage isn’t a knitting machine! I almost want to yell this at him. This whole thing is a joke. I want to leave.

  “Ah, Mrs. Parr.” It’s Nico again, swooping down as though suspecting I was about to escape. “We are nearly ready for the trophy presentation.”

  “Great.” My sarcasm is so pointed that he winces.

  “Madame, may I apologize yet again for the inconvenience you have suffered on this holiday. As I said, I am pleased to offer you, in recompense, a deluxe weekend for two in one of our premium suites, to include all meals and one snorkeling experience.”

  “I hardly think that’s appropriate.” I glare at him. “You’ve ruined our honeymoon. Ruined our marriage.”

  Nico drops his eyes to the sand. “Madame, I am desolate. But I must tell you, this was not my own idea, this was not my own will. It was a huge mistake on my part and one that I will always regret, but the original idea, it came from—”

  “I know.” I cut him off. “My sister.”

  Nico nods his head. He looks so abject that I feel a pang of sympathy for him. I know what Fliss is like. When she gets into crusading mood, no one can refuse her.

  “Look, Nico,” I say at last. “It’s OK. I don’t blame you. I know what my sister’s like. I know she’s been sitting there in London like a puppet mistress pulling the strings.”

  “She was very determined.” He bows his head again.

  “I forgive you.” I hold out my hand. “I don’t forgive her,” I add quickly. “But I forgive you.”

  “Madame, I am not worthy.” Nico takes my hand to his lips. “I wish you a thousand happinesses.”

  As he walks away, I wonder what Fliss is doing now. She said in her voicemail she was coming to the hotel. Maybe she’ll arrive tomorrow. Well, maybe I’ll refuse to see her.

  I take a few more sips of cocktail and have a conversation with a woman in blue about which spa treatment is the best value, while trying to avoid Melissa. She keeps trying to quiz me on what exactly Ben and I do for a living, and isn’t it a bit dangerous, keeping a gun in my handbag? And then, all of a sudden the band comes to a halt and Nico has mounted the stage. He taps the microphone a few times and beams down on the gathered throng.

  “Welcome!” he says. “We are delighted to see you all at our cocktail and presentation event. Just as Aphrodite is the goddess of love, so the Amba is the home of love. And tonight we celebrate a very special couple. They are here on their honeymoon and have won our Happy Couple of the Week award: Ben and Lottie Parr!”

  Applause breaks out around us, and Ben gives me a nudge. “Go on.”

  “I’m going!” I say bad-temperedly. I make my way over the sand to the platform and step up, squinting a little as a spotlight hits my eyes.

  “Congratulations, dear lady!” exclaims Nico, as he hands me a large silver trophy in the shape of a heart. “Let me give you both your crowns.…”

  Crowns?

  Before I can protest, Nico places silvered plastic crowns on our heads. He deftly fastens a satin sash over my shoulder, then steps back. “The winning couple!”

  The audience claps again and I give a rictus smile into the lights. This is hideous. A trophy, a crown, and a sash? I feel like a beauty queen without the beauty.

  “And now a few words from our happy couple!” Nico passes the microphone to Ben, who promptly passes it to me.

  “Hello, everybody.” My voice booms out, and I wince at the sound. “Thank you so much for this … honor. Well, obviously we’re a very happy couple. We’re so, so happy.”

  “Very happy,” adds Ben into the microphone.

  “Blissful.”

  “It’s been the ideal honeymoon.”

  “When Ben first proposed, I had no idea that I would end up so … so happy. So very happy.”

  Suddenly, with no warning, a tear snakes down my face. I can’t help it. When I look back to myself in that restaurant, elatedly agreeing to marry Ben, it’s like looking at a different person. A mad, deluded, crazy person. What was I thinking of? Marrying Ben was like drinking four double shots of vodka. For a bit, it masked the pain and I felt fabulous. But this is the hangover, and it’s not pretty.

  I smile harder and lean into the microphone. “We’re just so happy,” I repeat for emphasis. “Everything’s gone so smoothly and brilliantly, and there hasn’t been a tense moment between us. Has there, darling?”

  Two more tears are rolling down my face. I’m hoping they’ll play as tears of joy.

  “What a delightful, heavenly time we’ve had,” I add, wiping my face. “What a wonderful, idyllic time. It’s been perfect in every way, and we couldn’t be happier—” I break off mid-flow as my eye is caught by a trio of silhouetted figures making their way up the beach from the sea. They’re all wrapped in towels, but even so …

  Is that …

  No. It can’t be.

  Beside me, Ben is looking the same way, his mouth falling open in astonishment.

  “Lorcan?” He grabs the microphone from me and calls into it loudly. “Lorcan! What the fuck? How long have you been here?”

  “Aunt Lottie!” cries the smallest toweled figure, suddenly spotting me. “Aunt Lottie, you’ve got a crown on!”

  But it’s the third figure that I’m staring at, my jaw sagging.

  “Fliss?”

  31

  FLISS

  I’m frozen. All I can do is stare mutely back. This was not how I was planning to let Lottie know that I’d arrived on Ikonos.

  “Fliss?” she says again, and now there’s a sharp edge to her voice which makes me flinch. What do I say? What can I say? Where do I even begin?

  “Fliss!” Nico speaks before I can marshal my thoughts, and snatches the microphone from Ben. “And here we have the sister of the happy couple!” He addresses the audience. “May I introduce Felicity Graveney, editor of Pincher Travel Review. She is here to give the hotel a special five-star review!” He beams delightedly. “As you can see, she has been sampling the delights of the Aegean Sea.”

  The audience gives a polite laugh. I have to hand it to Nico. No marketing opportunity left unexploited.

  “Now let us have the whole family onstage!” He’s bustling Lorcan, Noah, and me onto the platform. “A family shot for your special honeymoon album. Stand together!”

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Lottie’s eyes are dark with anger as she turns to face me.

  “I’m sorry,” I say feebly. “I’m so, so sorry. I thought— I wanted—”

  My mouth feels dry. Words have deserted me. It’s as though they can sense my guilt and have scampered away to the other side.

  “Hello, Aunt Lottie!” Noah is greeting her enthusiastically. “We came to see you on your holiday!”

  “You enlisted Noah too, I see,” Lottie spits out. “Nice.”

  “Smile, everybody!” calls out the photographer. “Face this way!”

  I have to get mysel
f together. I have to apologize. Somehow.

  “OK, listen,” I begin rapidly as the flash almost blinds me. “I’m so, so, so, so sorry. Lottie, I didn’t mean to ruin your honeymoon. I only wanted to … I don’t know. Look after you. But I realize I’ve got to stop. You’re an adult and you have your own life and I made a huge, huge mistake, and I just hope you can forgive me. And you make a brilliant couple.” I turn to Ben. “Hello, Ben, nice to meet you. I’m Fliss, your sister-in-law.” I lift a hand awkwardly. “I expect we’ll be meeting at lots of family Christmases or whatever.…”

  “This way!” shouts the photographer, and we all obediently swing back.

  “So you were behind everything? Does that include the lounge at Heathrow?” Lottie turns her head to see my guilty look. “How could you? And the peanut oil! I was in agony!”

  “I know, I know,” I gulp, almost crying. “I don’t know what got into me. I’m so sorry. I just wanted to protect you.”

  “You always try to protect me! You’re not my mother!”

  “I know I’m not.” There’s a sudden shake to my voice. “I know that.”

  I meet eyes with Lottie, and suddenly it’s as though a silent, sisters-only set of memories is transmitting between us. Our mother. Our life. Why we are who we are. Then something shuts down in Lottie’s eyes and it’s over. Her face is closed up and unforgiving again.

  “And big smiles, everyone.” The photographer waves his arms. “Look this way!”

  “Lotts, will you ever forgive me?” I wait breathlessly for her answer. “Please?”

  There’s a long, agonizing silence. I don’t know which way this will swing. Lottie’s eyes are unfocused, and I know better than to rush her.

  “Smile! Nice wide smiles, everyone!” the photographer keeps exhorting us. But I can’t smile and neither can she. I’m clenching my fingers, I realize. And my toes.

  At long last Lottie turns her head to face me. Her expression is disdainful, but the hatred has lessened a tad. My towel is slipping and I take the opportunity to wrap it around me again. “So,” she says, her eyes flicking over me. “Did you actually go swimming in your underwear?”