Wedding Night

  “Gunter, you’re overreacting.” I smile pleasantly. “A four-star review is hardly … traducement.” Traduction? Traducedom? “I’m sorry that my reviewer found herself unable to allot you five stars—”

  “You hef not reviewed my hotel yourself.” He’s bristling with anger. “You hef sent an amateur. You hef treated me with disrrrrespect!”

  “No, I hef not!” I retort before I can stop myself. “I mean hev. Have.” My face is flaming. “Have not.”

  I didn’t mean to do that; I just have a terrible parrot habit. I mimic voices and accents without intending to. Now Gunter is glaring at me even more viciously.

  “Everything all right, Felicity?” Gavin, our publisher, comes bustling up. I can see his radar twitching and I know why. Last year, the Gruffalo shelled out for twenty-four double-page spreads. The Gruffalo is keeping us in business. But I can’t give his hotel a five-star review simply because he bought some ads. A five-star review in Pincher Travel Review is a very big deal.

  “I was just explaining to Gunter that I sent one of our top freelancers to review his hotel,” I say. “I’m sorry he wasn’t happy, but—”

  “You should hef gone yourrrself.” Gunter spits the words dismissively. “Wherrrre is your crrrredibility, Felicity? Wherrre is your rrrreputation?”

  As he stalks off, I secretly feel a bit shaken. As I lift my eyes to Gavin, my heart is pumping.

  “Well!” I try to sound lighthearted. “What an overreaction.”

  “Why didn’t you cover the Palm Stellar?” Gavin is frowning. “You review all major launches. That’s always been the deal.”

  “I decided to send Celia Davidson,” I say brightly, avoiding the question. “She’s a great writer.”

  “Why didn’t you cover the Palm Stellar?” he repeats, as though he hasn’t heard me.

  “I had some stuff going on with … with …” I clear my throat, unwilling to say the word. “Some personal stuff.”

  I watch as Gavin suddenly comprehends. “Your divorce?”

  I can’t bring myself to answer. I twist my watch round my wrist, as though suddenly interested in the mechanism.

  “Your divorce?” His voice sharpens ominously. “Again?”

  My cheeks are burning with embarrassment. I know my divorce has taken on epic, Lord of the Rings–style proportions. I know it’s taken up more of my working time than it should have. I know I keep promising Gavin that it’s all done and dusted.

  But it’s not like I have a choice. And it’s not like it’s fun.

  “I was talking to a specialist barrister based in Edinburgh,” I admit at last. “I had to fly up there; his schedule was really busy—”

  “Felicity.” Gavin beckons me to one side of the corridor, and at the sight of his tight-lipped smile, my stomach turns over. That’s the smile he wears to cut salaries and budgets and tell people their magazine is unfortunately being axed, could they please leave the building? “Felicity, no one could be more sympathetic to your plight than me. You know that.”

  He’s such a liar. What does he know about divorce? He has a wife and a mistress, and neither of them seems to mind about the other.

  “Thank you, Gavin,” I feel obliged to say.

  “But you cannot let your divorce get in the way of your job or the reputation of Pincher International,” he raps out. “Understand?”

  Suddenly, for the first time, I feel genuinely nervous. I know from experience that Gavin starts invoking the “reputation of Pincher International” when he’s thinking of firing someone. It’s a warning.

  I also know from experience, the only way to deal with him is to refuse to admit anything.

  “Gavin.” I draw myself up as tall as possible and affect a dignified air. “Let me make one thing quite clear.” I pause, as though I’m David Cameron at Prime Minister’s Questions. “Quite clear. If there’s one thing I never, ever do, it’s let my personal life compromise my job. In fact—”

  “Pow!” An earsplitting shriek interrupts me. “Laser attack!”

  My blood freezes. That can’t be—

  Oh no.

  A familiar rat-a-tat sound assaults my ears. Orange plastic bullets are shooting through the air, hitting people in the face and landing in glasses of champagne. Noah is running down the corridor toward the atrium, laughing uproariously and firing all around him with his automatic Nerf gun. Fuck. Why didn’t I check his backpack?

  “Stop!” I launch myself at Noah, grab him by the collar, and snatch the plastic gun out of his hands. “Stop that! Gavin, I’m so sorry,” I add breathlessly. “Daniel was supposed to look after Noah tonight, but he left me in the lurch, and— Shit! Argh!”

  In my agitation, I’ve pressed some button on the Nerf gun, and it’s spraying more bullets out, like something out of Reservoir Dogs, hitting Gavin in the chest. I’m massacring my boss with an automatic weapon flashes through my mind. This won’t look good in my appraisal. The stream of bullets rises to his face and he splutters in horror.

  “Sorry!” I drop the gun on the floor. “I didn’t mean to shoot.…”

  With a shudder, I notice Gunter, ten feet away. There are three orange Nerf bullets lodged in his tufty white hair and one in his drink.

  “Gavin.” I swallow. “Gavin. I don’t know what to say—”

  “It was my fault,” Elise interrupts me hastily. “I was looking after Noah.”

  “But he shouldn’t have been at the office,” I point out. “So it’s my fault.”

  We turn to Gavin as though waiting for his verdict. He’s just staring at the scene, shaking his head.

  “Personal life. Job.” He meshes his hands together. “Fliss, you need to sort yourself out.”

  My face is hot with mortification as I frog-march a protesting Noah to my office.

  “But I was winning!” he keeps complaining.

  “I’m sorry.” Elise is clutching her head. “He said it was his favorite game.”

  “No problem.” I shoot her a smile. “Noah, we don’t play with Nerf guns at Mummy’s office. Ever.”

  “I’ll go and find him something to eat,” says Elise. “Fliss, you need to get back to the party, quick. Go. Now. It’ll be fine. C’mon, Noah.”

  She hustles Noah out of the room and I feel every cell of my body sag.

  She’s right. I need to hurry back, sweep in, gather up the Nerf bullets, apologize, charm, and turn this evening back into the slick professional affair it always is.

  But I’m so tired. I feel like I could go to sleep right now. The carpet under my desk looks like the perfect place for me to curl up.

  I sink down on my chair, just as the phone rings. I’ll take this one call. Maybe it will be some uplifting piece of news.

  “Hello?”

  “Felicity? Barnaby here.”

  “Oh, Barnaby.” I sit up, feeling freshly galvanized. “Thanks for ringing back. You won’t believe what Daniel just did. He’d agreed to have Noah tonight, but then he left me in the lurch. And now he says he wants to revisit the settlement! We might end up back in court!”

  “Fliss, calm down. Chill out.” Barnaby’s unhurried Mancunian tones greet me. I do often wish Barnaby spoke a bit more quickly. Especially as I’m paying him by the hour. “We’ll sort it. Don’t worry.”

  “He’s so frustrating.”

  “I hear you. But you mustn’t stress. Try to forget about it.”

  Is he kidding?

  “I’ve written the incident up. I can email it to you.” I finger my memory stick on its chain. “Shall I do that now?”

  “Fliss, I’ve told you, you don’t need to keep a dossier of every single incident.”

  “But I want to! I mean, talk about ‘unreasonable behavior.’ If we put all this into the case, if the judge knew what he was like—”

  “The judge does know what he’s like.”

  “But—”

  “Fliss, you’re having the Divorce Fantasy,” says Barnaby tranquilly. “What have I told you about the Divorce
Fantasy?”

  There’s silence. I hate the way Barnaby can read my mind. I’ve known him since college, and although he costs a bomb even on mates’ rates, I never considered going to anyone else. Now he’s waiting for me to answer, like a teacher in class.

  “The Divorce Fantasy will never happen,” I mumble finally, staring at my fingernails.

  “The Divorce Fantasy will never happen,” he repeats with emphasis. “The judge will never read a two-hundred-page dossier on Daniel’s shortcomings aloud in court, while a crowd jeers at your ex-husband. He will never start his summing up, ‘Ms. Graveney, you are a saint to have put up with such an evil scumbag and I thus award you everything you want.’ ”

  I can’t help coloring. That is pretty much my Divorce Fantasy. Except in my version, the crowd throws bottles at Daniel too.

  “Daniel will never admit to being wrong,” Barnaby presses on relentlessly. “He’ll never stand in front of the judge, weeping and saying, ‘Fliss, please forgive me.’ The papers will never report your divorce with the headline: TOTAL SHIT ADMITS FULL SHITTINESS IN COURT.”

  I can’t help half-snorting with laughter. “I do know that.”

  “Do you, Fliss?” Barnaby sounds skeptical. “Are you sure about that? Or are you still expecting him to wake up one day and realize all the bad things he’s done? Because you have to understand, Daniel will never realize anything. He’ll never confess to being a terrible human being. I could spend a thousand hours on this case, it would still never happen.”

  “But it’s so unfair.” I can feel a ball of frustration. “He is a terrible human being.”

  “I know. He’s a shit. So don’t dwell on him. Flush him out of your life. Gone.”

  “It’s not as easy as that,” I mutter after a pause. “He is the father of my child.”

  “I know,” says Barnaby more gently. “I didn’t say it was easy.”

  There’s silence for a while. I stare at my office clock, watching the crappy plastic hand tick round. At last I slump right down, resting my head in the crook of my elbow.

  “God, divorce.”

  “Divorce, eh,” says Barnaby. “Man’s greatest invention.”

  “I wish I could just … I dunno.” I sigh heavily. “Wave a magic wand and our marriage never happened. Except Noah. I’d keep Noah and the rest would all be a bad dream.”

  “You want an annulment, that’s what you want,” says Barnaby cheerfully.

  “An annulment?” I stare at the phone suspiciously. “Is that a real thing?”

  “Real enough. It means the contract is null and void. The marriage never existed. You’d be amazed how many clients ask for one.”

  “Could I get one?”

  I’m seized by this idea. Maybe there’s some cheap, easy way round this I haven’t seen before. “Annulment.” Null and void. I like the sound of that a lot. Why didn’t Barnaby mention this before?

  “Not unless Daniel was a bigamist,” says Barnaby. “Or forced you into marriage. Or you never consummated it. Or one of you was mentally unfit at the time.”

  “Me!” I say at once. “I was crazy to even think of marrying him.”

  “That’s what they all say.” He laughs. “Won’t wash, I’m afraid.”

  My spark of hope slowly dies away. Damn. I wish Daniel had been a bigamist now. I wish some original wife in a Mormon bonnet would pop up and say, I got there first! and save me all this trouble.

  “I guess we’ll have to stick with the divorce,” I say at last. “Thanks, Barnaby. I’d better go before you charge me another thirty thousand pounds just for saying hi.”

  “Quite right.” Barnaby never sounds remotely offended, whatever I say. “But before you do, you’re still going to France, right?”

  “Yes, tomorrow.”

  Noah and I are heading off for two weeks to the Côte d’Azur. As far as he’s concerned, it’s our Easter holiday. As far as I’m concerned, I’m reviewing three hotels, six restaurants, and a theme park. I’ll be working on my laptop every night till late, but I can’t complain.

  “I contacted my old mate Nathan Forrester. The one I told you about? Based in Antibes? You two should meet up while you’re there, have a drink.”

  “Oh.” I feel my spirits lift. “OK. That sounds fun.”

  “I’ll email you the details. He’s a nice guy. Plays too much poker, but don’t hold that against him.”

  A poker-playing resident of the South of France. Sounds intriguing. “I won’t. Thanks, Barnaby.”

  “My pleasure. Bye, Fliss.”

  I put the phone down and it immediately rings again. Barnaby must have forgotten some point or other.

  “Hi, Barnaby?”

  There’s silence, except for some rather fast, rather heavy breathing. Hmm. Has Barnaby inadvertently pressed redial while snogging his secretary? But even as I’m thinking this, I know who it is really. I recognize that breathing. And I can hear Macy Gray’s “I Try” faintly in the background: a classic Lottie breakup soundtrack.

  “Hello?” I try again. “Lottie? Is that you?”

  There’s more heavy breathing, this time raspy.

  “Lottie? Lotts?”

  “Oh, Fliss …” She erupts into a massive sob. “I really, really thought he was going to propooooooose.…”

  “Oh God. Oh, Lottie.” I cradle the phone, wishing it was her. “Lottie, sweetheart—”

  “I spent three whole years with him and I thought he loved me and wanted babeeeeees.… But he didn’t! He didn’t!” She’s crying as bitterly as Noah does when he scrapes his knee. “And what am I going to do now? I’m thirty-threeeee.…” Now she’s hiccuping.

  “Thirty-three is nothing,” I say quickly. “Nothing! And you’re beautiful and you’re lovely—”

  “I even bought him a riiiiiing.”

  She bought him a ring? I stare at the phone. Did I hear that right? She bought him a ring?

  “What kind of ring?” I can’t help asking. I imagine her presenting Richard with some sparkly sapphire in a box.

  Please don’t say she presented him with a sparkly sapphire in a box.

  “Just, you know.” She sniffs defensively. “A ring. A manly engagement ring.”

  A manly engagement ring? No. Uh-uh. Doesn’t exist.

  “Lotts,” I begin tactfully. “Are you sure Richard is the engagement-ring type? I mean, could that have put him off?”

  “It was nothing to do with the ring!” She erupts into sobs again. “He never even saw the ring! I wish I’d never bought the bloody thing! But I thought it would be fair! Because I thought he’d bought one for meeeeeeee!”

  “OK!” I say hastily. “Sorry!”

  “It’s fine.” She calms down a little. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to have a meltdown.…”

  “Don’t be silly. What else am I here for?”

  It’s awful to hear her so upset. Of course it is. Ghastly. But secretly I can’t help feeling a bit relieved too. The façade is down. Her denial has cracked. This is good. This is progress.

  “Anyway, I’ve decided what to do, and I feel so much better. It’s all fallen into place, Fliss.” She blows her nose noisily. “I feel like I have a purpose. A plan. A goal.”

  My ears twitch. Uh-oh. A “goal.” That’s one of my post-breakup alarm-bell terms. Along with “project,” “change of direction,” and “amazing new friend.”

  “Right,” I say cautiously. “Great! So … um … what’s your goal?”

  My mind is already scurrying around the possibilities. Please not another piercing. Or another crazy property purchase. I’ve talked her out of quitting her job so many times, it can’t be that again, surely?

  Please not move to Australia.

  Please not “lose a stone.” Because 1) she’s skinny already, and 2) last time she went on a diet, she made me be her “buddy” and instructed me to phone up every half hour and say, “Keep to the plan, you fat bitch,” then complained when I refused.

  “So, what is it?” I press her a
s lightly as I can, my entire body screwed up with dread.

  “I’m going to fly to San Francisco on the first flight I can get and surprise Richard and propose!”

  “What?” I nearly drop the phone. “No! Bad idea!”

  What’s she planning to do, burst into his office? Wait on his doorstep? Kneel down and present him with the so-called “manly” engagement ring? I can’t let this happen. She’ll be utterly humiliated and devastated and I’ll have to pick up the pieces afterward.

  “But I love him!” She sounds totally hyper. “I love him so much! And if he can’t see that we’re meant to be together, then surely I have to show him! Surely it has to be me who makes the move! I’m on the Virgin Atlantic website right now. Should I get premium economy? Can you get me a discount?”

  “No! Do not book a flight to San Francisco,” I say in the firmest, most authoritative tones I can muster. “Close down your computer. Step away from the internet.”

  “But—”

  “Lottie, face it,” I say more gently. “Richard had his chance. If he’d wanted to get married, it would be happening.”

  I know what I’m saying sounds harsh. But it’s true. Men who want to get married propose. You don’t need to read the signs. They propose and that’s the sign.

  “But he just doesn’t realize he wants to get married!” she says eagerly. “He just needs persuading. If I just gave him a little nudge …”

  Little nudge? Bloody great elbow in the ribs, more like.

  I have a sudden vision of Lottie dragging Richard up the aisle by his hair, and I wince. I know exactly where that story ends up. It ends up in the office of Barnaby Rees, Family Lawyer, at five hundred quid for the first consultation.

  “Lottie, listen,” I say severely. “And listen hard. You don’t want to go into a marriage anything less than two hundred percent sure it’s going to work out. No, make that six hundred percent.” I eye Daniel’s latest divorce demands morosely. “Believe me. It’s not worth it. I’ve been there and it’s … Well, it’s hideous.”

  There’s silence at the other end of the phone. I know Lottie so well. I can practically see her hearts-and-flowers image of proposing to Richard on the Golden Gate Bridge melting away.