Do Not Disturb (45 page)

“Ow,” she giggled, rubbing her head as she finally, reluctantly squirmed out from underneath him.

“Sorry,” said Marti. Leaning down, he tenderly kissed the bump on her forehead.

Lola smiled. Watching him putting his pants back on, pulling up his zipper and trying to straighten out his disheveled hair, she felt bizarrely affectionate toward him. She didn’t make a habit of one-night stands, never mind dragging guys she bumped into
outside the ladies’ room into dark corners and ravishing them. But the combination of the Jack Daniel’s, being blindsided by Honor, and Marti’s deadly attractiveness seemed to have brought on a bout of temporary insanity. “You probably think I’m a real slut now, right?” she said, straightening her own dress and scrabbling around in the semidarkness for her shoes.

“What do you mean ‘think’?” said Marti. “I know you are. I have firsthand evidence.”

Lola gasped. He wasn’t serious, was he? But she relaxed as she felt his arm snake around her waist. The next thing she knew he was kissing her passionately on the mouth.

“It’s a compliment,” he whispered, coming up for air. “I’m a big fan of sluts. The biggest. You have no idea.”

Lola laughed, a deep, full-bodied cackle. Life was so freaky. Only an hour ago she’d been sobbing into her drink, swearing off men for-evermore. And now here she was, half-naked in a broom closet with a total stranger, so happy she felt like she was walking on air.

Stavros’s ushers had finally abandoned her at the bar at eleven. Even pretty girls got boring when they wouldn’t quit crying. Meanwhile, her parents seemed to have forgotten she was even here—neither of them had come over to say hello. Sian was off mingling and having a good time, and fucking Honor Palmer was so deeply embedded with the bride’s family, Lola couldn’t have gotten near her, even if she’d been sober enough to try it. Which she wasn’t. If she hadn’t been so desperate for a pee, she’d probably be slumped over the bar where the ushers had left her. But Cupid, fate, and a weak bladder had conspired to bring her and Marti together. And now he’d rescued her from her misery, just like the real Superman.

“Listen,” he said, opening the closet door a crack to check that the coast was clear. They could hear the Hora, the traditional Jewish wedding dance, in full swing next door. “I don’t know about you, but I’m kind of weddinged out. I don’t suppose you want to sneak back to my place?”

“Definitely not,” said Lola teasingly. “My mom told me never to go with strangers. You could be an ax murderer, for all I know.”

“Me? No way,” said Marti, squeezing her hand. “I’m a terrible coward. Faint at the first sight of blood. I’m more of the poisoning, smother-you-with-a-pillow type.”

Lola giggled.

“So’re you coming or not?”

“Yes, please,” she said, kissing him again.

He wasn’t as good-looking as Lucas, or even Igor. But he was fifty times funnier, and nicer. Suddenly she longed to be waking up with him tomorrow, eating bagels in bed like an old married couple. Sian would be OK to find her own way back to the hotel.

Marti took her hand and was just about to slip out into the lobby when raised voices made them both slink back. Lola felt her heart jump into her mouth and squeezed his hand even tighter. She recognized the voices. It was her father and Honor Palmer.

“Because I miss you,” Devon was saying. “That’s why. Hell, Honor, can’t we even talk to each other anymore?”

“No.” Honor sounded furious. “We can’t. You have some fucking nerve, Devon Carter. Just leave me the fuck alone, OK?”

Grabbing her by the hand, Devon dragged her down the side corridor directly toward the closet where Lola was hiding.

“Get back!” Lola hissed at Marti. He did as he was told, pulling the door almost completely closed, but leaving a crack so Lola could still see what was happening.

Honor, jacketless now, looked so tiny in her aqua shirt and pants she could almost have been a child. She’d always been skinny, but Lola could see now that she’d lost even more weight. Her collarbones visibly jutted out, like a human rack of lamb.

“I know you’re angry.” Devon’s voice was smooth and conciliatory. “You have every right to be.”

“Don’t tell me about my rights,” Honor snapped, freeing herself from his grip and backing away. “Or my feelings. You threw me to the fucking wolves!”

“That’s not fair,” said Devon. “I couldn’t control what the press were writing. You think it didn’t hurt me too, seeing them lay into you like that?”

“I’m sure you were devastated,” said Honor, witheringly.

“I was, sweetheart. Truly I was.”

Lola winced at the endearment.
Sweetheart?
But painful as it was to listen to, wild horses couldn’t have torn her away from that door.

“So devastated you forgot my number?” Clearly Honor was in no mood to let him off the hook. “Not one call from you, Devon, in all this time. Not one shred of concern. You let those bastards paint me as the marriage wrecker, while you sailed off into the sunset with Karis on your little boat of so-called regret. You make me sick.”

“I hardly sailed off into the sunset.” Devon laughed bitterly. “Life at home has been hell, complete hell. Karis has me under surveillance night and day. I’m trapped. But I don’t love her, Honor. I love you.” Lola gripped Marti’s hand so tightly her nails were in danger of drawing blood. He could feel her breathing stop dead.

“After the overdose, I couldn’t risk pushing her any further. For me to defend you in the press, contact you, even mention your name—don’t you see? It might have pushed her over the edge. She had me by the balls, sweetheart.”

“What balls?” said Honor.

“Damn right,” Lola whispered indignantly from the closet. Up until now it had been easy to believe what she read in the papers and blame Honor for everything. But suddenly, for the first time, she wondered if maybe her father wasn’t the true villain of the piece. A few hours ago, he’d been holding her mom’s hand in the chapel, playing the contrite husband. But now here he was, telling his mistress it was her he really loved. He was so two-faced it made Lola’s blood curdle.

“Darling, listen to me.” Stepping forward, Devon laid a hand on Honor’s shoulder. “I think we’re over the worst. Tonight, when Karis realized you were here, she was OK about it.”

Honor’s eyebrows shot up. “
What?
”

“I mean, she wasn’t thrilled, obviously,” Devon conceded. “But, you know, she didn’t insist we go home. She didn’t try and confront you.”

“She didn’t have to,” Honor shivered. “Lola did that for her. Not that I blame her, poor kid. After everything we’ve put her through…”

“You’re not listening.” Devon grabbed her hands.

Despite herself, Honor let him. She hated the fact that the warmth of his palms wrapped around her own still felt so comforting.

“A few months ago Karis would have been in pieces,” he said. “But today, she didn’t even cry. I think this whole mental instability of hers—this depression or whatever it is—I think it’s gonna pass. And when it does…”

“When it does, what?” said Honor.

Bending down, Devon kissed her softly on the neck. “Well,” he whispered, “we can carry on where we left off.”

For a second, Honor stood there, stock-still, while he nuzzled into her. Then, like someone snapping out of hypnosis, her head whiplashed up and she pushed him away.

“Karis isn’t mentally unstable,” she said, ignoring his frantic hand signals and making no effort to keep her voice down. “I am. Or at least I was. For ever trusting you in the first place.
My marriage is a sham. We haven’t slept together in years.
Jesus. How could I have fallen for that old cliché?”

She was a brilliant mimic and had his hectoring tone down to a T. It gave Lola goose pimples to hear her. Was that really what her dad had told her to get her into bed? Suddenly, Lola could believe it. Had all his protestations of love and regret to her mother been a crock of shit too?

“It might be a cliché,” said Devon, doing his best to sound wounded. “But it happens to be true. Karis and I haven’t shared a bed in years.”

“Bullshit!” said Honor and Lola simultaneously. Luckily, Honor’s roar of rage drowned out Lola’s furiously hissed whisper.

“Lola told Lucas she had to put earplugs in at home to block out the sound of you guys making love through her bedroom wall,” said Honor. “Lucas told me all about it.”

“And you believe Lucas Ruiz over me?” said Devon, indignantly.

“I didn’t at the time,” said Honor. “I loved you, God help me. But now? Now I’d believe Osama bin Laden over you, Devon.”

“But Lucas was the one who exposed us! If it weren’t for that little shit, we’d still be together.”

“Well, in that case, he did me a favor,” said Honor. “I’ll have to write and thank him.”

And turning on her heel, she stormed off.

Only once Devon had gone too and he was sure they were alone again did Marti speak.

“You OK?” he asked Lola, pushing open the closet door and stepping out into the light. But one look at her tear-streaked face told him the answer.

“Not really.” She shook her head miserably. “Let’s just get out of here.”

Honor was already downstairs, scanning the deserted streets in vain for a cab. Above her, the night sky, its natural blackness stained by the dim orange glow of the city’s light pollution, rumbled ominously. At first the rain fell in slow, heavy drips that burst like water balloons on the sidewalk. But it wasn’t long before the ponderous early splashes had turned into a full-scale torrent that left her soaked to the bone.

The rain was so cold it made her gasp. But at the same time, it was exactly the physical shock she needed. Soon she was laughing out loud as she skipped about in the puddles. Maybe she really
was losing it. She’d expected to feel pain after her conversation with Devon. Or shock, or disillusionment, or regret. Something bad, anyway.

But in fact, the overwhelming sensation was relief. It was as if some terrible, heavy weight had been lifted from her shoulders. But when it was set down in front of her, she could see that it wasn’t a boulder at all. It had been nothing but a tiny, insignificant pebble all along.

Falling in love was incredible. But falling
out
of love, she now realized, could be even better.

At last the scales had fallen from her eyes completely. She had her self back. And for the first time in years—probably since before her mother died—she felt truly, deeply content.

A
YEAR TO
the day after the Burnstein wedding, Lucas stood in the newly finished lobby of his new hotel, Luxe Ibiza, feeling like Lazarus risen from the ashes. All the new-building smells still lingered: varnish mingled with sawdust and drying paint, overlaid by the scent of freshly laid turf, which wafted in through the open French windows. Lucas inhaled joyously.

In a few weeks, all these smells would be gone, replaced by the ubiquitous aroma of calming lavender. Lucas had already received the first shipment of scented Dyptique candles from Paris—expensive but worth it—and the midnight-blue gas lamps that would burn essential oils of lavender and cedarwood in each suite should arrive in the morning. A local artisan glass-blower had made the lamps for next to nothing, with his brother throwing in the hand-pressed oils at an even more outrageously knocked-down price. They should have asked for more. Lucas would happily have paid them. Local, natural products were at the core of the Luxe ethos, and he was quite prepared to pay a premium to get the ambience of his new hotel pitch-perfect.

Connor Armstrong, his Irish partner and financial backer, was a pompous, preening prick of a man and a pain in Lucas’s ass on many levels. But at least he knew better than to try to tinker with Lucas’s artistic vision. The twelve bedroom suites
and two guest studios were all furnished with low, unfussy teak beds, decked out in old-fashioned starched white linen. Lucas was allergic to those stupid little decorative cushions so beloved of other luxury hotels, and to beds piled high with enough pillows to give people neck ache. At Luxe, nothing was extraneous. Flower arrangements were simple and fresh, with lots of greenery. Artwork was minimal and calming, mostly local landscapes, mixed up with the odd interesting antique map or illustrated page from an old book. Every room had an open fire, the pine logs carefully chosen for their scent and crackle, and was well stocked with books to suit every taste and inclination. There were no televisions, no ghastly piped Muzak, nothing to remind his guests that only a few miles below them, at the bottom of a hill scattered with olive trees, was the neon, drug-fueled buzz of Europe’s most infamous party island.