Wedding Night (18 page)

I don’t think she gets my tone. I think the bridal happy haze is acting as a protective atmosphere. Sarcasm gets burned up before it even reaches her ears.

“Actually, I met his friend Lorcan last night,” I add. “He’s already filled me in a little.”

“Really?” She sounds excited. “You’ve met Lorcan? Wow! What did he say about Ben?”

What did he say about Ben? Let’s think, now.
Ben is in no place to be getting married right now.… He’s having a bit of an early midlife crisis … your sister will be the casualty.…

“Just the basics,” I prevaricate. “Anyway, I can’t wait to meet Ben. Let’s do it very soon. Tonight?”

“Yes! Let’s all have drinks or something. Fliss, you’ll love him. He’s so funny. He used to be a comedian!”

“A
comedian
.” I adopt an amazed and delighted tone. “Wow. I can’t wait. So … uh … anyway. Guess where I am right now? In Lorcan’s flat.”

“Huh?”

“We … we hooked up. We ran into each other near the registry office and we had a few drinks and one thing led to another.”

She’s going to hear about it anyway, and I’d rather be the one who told her.

“No
way
!” Lottie’s voice fizzes over. “Oh, that’s perfect! We can have a double wedding!”

Only Lottie. Only she would say this.

“Snap!” I say. “That’s just what I was thinking, too. Can we ride up the aisle on matching ponies?”

This time the sarcasm does reach her ears.

“Don’t be like that!” she says reprovingly. “You never know. Keep an open mind. I met up with Ben on spec and look! Here we are.”

Yes! Here we are. A girl on the rebound and a guy having a midlife crisis, hurtling into ill-considered matrimony. I’m sure there’s a Disney song about that. It rhymes “kiss” with “bitter legal battle.”

“It was a shag,” I say patiently. “That’s it. End of.”

“It might lead to more,” retorts Lottie. “He might turn out to be the love of your life. Did you have a good time? Did you like him? Is he hot?”

“Yes, yes, and yes.”

“Well, then! Don’t rule it out. Hey, I’m looking at this wedding website. Shall we have a profiterole cake? Or what about a pyramid of cupcakes?”

I shut my eyes. She’s like a steamroller.

“That’s what they had at Aunt Diana’s wedding, remember,” Lottie’s saying. “How big was that?”

“Small.”

“Are you sure? I remember it as quite a big occasion.”

She was five at the time. Of course she remembers it as big.

“Seriously, tiny. The whole night was such an ordeal. I had to pretend I was having a good time, and all along …” I pull a revolted face. I still remember the too-tight bridesmaid’s
dress they made me wear. And dancing with Aunt Diana’s beery grown-up friends.

“Really?” She sounds puzzled. “But the ceremony was nice, wasn’t it?”

“No. Terrible. And afterward wasn’t much better.”

“Ooh! You can get profiteroles with sparkly icing.” She’s not even listening. “Shall I send you the link?”

“I feel ill at the very thought,” I say firmly. “In fact, I might throw up. And then Lorcan will
never
love me, and we’ll
never
get married in a double wedding on matching ponies—”

A sound makes me turn. The blood rushes to my head. Shit.
Shit
.

He’s there. Lorcan’s standing there, about ten foot high in the doorway. How long has he been there? What did he hear me say?

“Gotta go, Lotts.” I quickly turn off my phone. “Just talking to my sister,” I add, as casually as I can. “Just … joking. Joking about things. Like you do.”

Suddenly I remember I’m wearing his fencing helmet. My stomach clenches with fresh embarrassment. Let’s see this through his eyes: I’m standing in his house in his dressing gown, wearing his helmet, and talking about a double wedding. Hastily, I grab the helmet and lift it off my head.

“This is … nice,” I say inanely.

“I didn’t know if you wanted it black or not,” he says after what seems like an eternity.

“Oh. The coffee.”

There’s some other vibe going on here. What? My own voice runs through my head:
I had to pretend I was having a good time.…

He didn’t hear that, surely? He didn’t think I was talking about—

Seriously, tiny. The whole night was such an ordeal
.

He couldn’t have thought I meant—

My stomach drops in horror and I clap a hand over my mouth, quelling a shocked laugh. No.
No
.

Should I say— Should I apologize—

NO.

But shouldn’t I at least explain—

I raise my eyes warily to his. His face is blank. He might not have heard anything. Or he might have.

There is simply no way to bring up this subject that will not backfire horrendously and make us both want to die. What I need to do is go. Move my feet. Now. Go.

“So … Thanks for the … um.” I replace the helmet on the hook. Exit, Fliss. Now.

All morning, I feel aftershocks of embarrassment.

At least I managed to streak from the taxi to my front door with no neighbors seeing me. I ripped off the purple dress, had the quickest shower known to mankind, then called Noah on speakerphone while I was trying to do speedy makeup. (There is no point in rushing mascara application. I know this. So
why
do I always fall into the same trap and end up wiping blobs of it off my cheeks and forehead and mirror?) Evidently Noah’s sleepover was a 100 percent rip-roaring, triumphant success. Wish I could say the same about mine.

I couldn’t bring myself to call Lottie back, and anyway I didn’t have time. Instead, I texted her, suggesting drinks at seven P.M.

Now I’m back at the office, speed-reading a review of a new luxury safari lodge in Kenya, which has just come in,
about two thousand words over the limit. Clearly this journalist thinks he’s writing the next
Out of Africa
. He hasn’t mentioned the pool or the room service or the spa, only the hazy gathering light over the savannah, and the noble bearing of the zebras drinking at dawn, and the shimmering grasslands whose ancient stories beat on in the sound of the Masai drum.

I scribble
Room Service???
in the margin and make a note to email him. Then I look at my phone. It’s surprising that Lottie hasn’t confirmed. I would have thought she’d be dying to tell me how many bridal magazines she’s consumed today.

I glance at my watch. I’ve got some time now. I can make a little sisterly call. I lean back in my chair and speed-dial her, making a “Cup of coffee?” request to Elise through my office window. Elise and I have a pretty good sign-language system going on. I can communicate, “Cup of coffee?” “Tell them I’m out!!” and “Go home, it’s late!” She can communicate, “Cup of coffee?” “I think this one’s important,” and “I’m off for a sandwich.”

“Fliss?”

“Hi, Lottie.” I kick off my shoes and take a swig from my Evian bottle. “So, are you on for drinks later? Do I get to meet Ben?”

There’s silence at the other end. Why is there silence? Lottie doesn’t do silence.

“Lottie? Are you there?”

“Guess what!” Her voice throbs importantly. “Guess what!”

She sounds so pleased with herself, I can tell she’s pulled off something special.

“You’re getting married in the school chapel and the choir is singing ‘I Vow to Thee, My Country’ while bells peal throughout the land?”

“No!” She laughs.

“You’ve found a wedding cake made of profiteroles
and
cupcakes, all covered in sparkly icing?”

“No, silly! We’re married!”

“What?” I stare at the phone blankly.

“Yes! We’ve done it! Ben and I are married! Just now! Chelsea Register Office!”

I clench the Evian bottle so hard, a stream of water soars into the air and lands in splotches all over my desk.

“Aren’t you going to say ‘congratulations’?” she adds, a bit petulantly.

I can’t say “congratulations,” because I can’t say anything. My mouth has seized up. I’m hot. No, I’m cold. I’m panicking. How did this happen?

“Wow,” I manage at last, trying to keep calm. “That’s … How come? You were going to delay. I thought you were going to delay. That’s what we agreed. That you would delay.”

You were meant to DELAY
.

As Elise comes in with a cup of coffee, she looks at me in alarm and makes the “Is everything OK?” sign. But I don’t have a sign for “My bloody sister has gone and wrecked her life,” so I just nod with a rictus smile and take the cup of coffee.

“We couldn’t wait,” Lottie’s saying happily. “
Ben
couldn’t wait.”

“But I thought you persuaded him?” I close my eyes and massage my brow, trying to get my head round this. “What
happened to
Brides
? What happened to a little country church?”

What happened to Bridezilla? I want to moan faintly,
Bring back Bridezilla
.

“Ben was totally on for the church and everything,” says Lottie. “He’s actually got this sweet, traditional side to him—”

“So what happened?” I try to control my impatience. “Why did he change his mind?”

“It was Lorcan.”

“What?”
My eyes open sharply. “What do you mean, it was Lorcan?”

“Lorcan came to see him first thing this morning. He told Ben he mustn’t marry me and it was all a huge mistake. Well, Ben went nuts! He came storming round to my office and said he wanted to be married to me
now
and everyone else could fuck off, including Lorcan.” Lottie sighs blissfully. “It was really romantic. Everyone in the office was staring. And then he picked me up and carried me out, just like
An Officer and a Gentleman
, and everyone cheered. It was amazing, Fliss.”

I’m breathing hard, trying to keep control of myself. That idiot. That stupid, arrogant, fucking … 
idiot
. I’d solved the problem. It was all sorted. I’d played the diplomatic card to perfection. And now what’s Lorcan done? Blundered in. Stirred up this Ben into the most ludicrous, overblown gesture. No wonder Lottie fell for it.

“Luckily there was a cancelation at the registry office, so they could squeeze us in. And we can have a church blessing down the line,” she’s saying blithely. “So I get the best of both worlds!”

I want to throw my cup of coffee across the room. Or maybe I want to tip it over my own head. There’s a nasty
heaving feeling in my stomach. This is my fault too. I could have stopped this. If I’d told her everything Lorcan said.

He’s having a bit of an early midlife crisis.… Your sister will be the casualty.…

“Where are you now?”

“Packing! We’re off to Ikonos! It’s
so
exciting.”

“I’ll bet it is,” I say feebly.

What do I do? There’s nothing I can do. They’re married. It’s done.

“Maybe we’ll have a honeymoon baby,” she adds coyly. “How do you feel about being an aunt?”

“What?”
I sit bolt upright. “Lottie—”

“Fliss, I’ve got to go, the taxi’s here, love you lots.…”

She rings off. Frantically, I speed-dial her again, but it goes to voicemail.

Baby?
Baby?

I want to whimper. Is she insane? Does she have any idea what strain a baby will bring to the party?

My love life has been such a clusterfuck. I can’t bear it if Lottie’s is too. I wanted her to crack it the way I didn’t. I wanted her fantasy to come true. Happy ever after. Picket fence. Strong, lasting happiness. Not a honeymoon baby with some flake-head who’s on a brief domesticity craze before taking up motorbikes. Not sitting in Barnaby Rees’s office with red eyes and hair that needs washing and a toddler trying to eat all the law books.

On impulse, I Google the Amba Hotel. At once, a series of holiday-porn images greets my eyes. Blue skies and sunsets. The famous grotto swimming pool, with its thirty-foot tumbling waterfall. Beautiful couples strolling by the sea. Massive beds, scattered with rose petals. Let’s face it, they’ll have made a honeymoon baby before the wedding night is over.
Lottie’s ovaries will twang into action and she’ll be vomiting all the way home.

Then if he
does
turn out to be a flake … if he
does
let her down … I close my eyes and bury my face in my hands. I can’t bear it. I need to talk to Lottie. Face-to-face. Properly. With her brain engaged, not in fantasyland. At least make sure she’s thought through all the consequences of what she’s doing.

I’m sitting utterly still, my mind skittering back and forth like a mouse trapped in a maze. I’m trying to find a solution, I’m trying to find a way out, I keep coming up against dead ends.…

Until suddenly I lift my head and take a deep breath. I’ve come to a decision. It’s huge and extreme, but I have no choice. I’m going to gate-crash her honeymoon.

I don’t care if it’s a heinous thing to do. I don’t care if she never forgives me: I’ll never forgive myself if I
don’t
. Marriage was one thing. Unprotected sex is another. I need to get out there. I need to save my sister from herself.

Abruptly, I pick up the phone and dial
Travel
.

“Hi,” I say as Clarissa, our travel booker, answers. “Bit of an emergency, Clarissa. I need to get out to Ikonos asap. The Greek island. First available flight. And I need to stay in the Amba. They know me there.”

“Right.” I can hear her tapping at the computer. “There’s only one flight direct to Ikonos a day, you know. Otherwise it’s a change at Athens, which ends up taking forever.”

“I know. Get me on the next direct flight you can. Thanks, Clarissa.”

“Haven’t you just reviewed the Amba?” She sounds surprised. “A few months ago?”

“I’m doing a follow-up,” I lie smoothly. “Sudden decision. It’s a new feature idea we’ve had,” I add, to cement my story. “Spot checks on hotels.”

This is the plus of being editor. No one questions me. Also: that
is
a good idea. I open my BlackBerry and type in:
Spot checks??

“OK! Well, I’ll let you know. Hopefully we can get you on the flight tomorrow.”

“Thanks.”