Wedding Night

Wedding Night Page 136

“Best of luck.” I hug him. “If I’m ever in San Francisco I’ll look you up.”

“Not a word to Lottie that I did this,” he says with a sudden fierceness. “She must never know any of it.”

“Not even I love you, Lottie, More than a zloty?” I say, trying to keep a straight face.

“Shut up.” He kicks my case.

“Don’t worry.” I touch his arm. “Not a word.”

“Good luck.” Lorcan shakes Richard’s hand. “Nice to know you.”

Richard heads toward the taxi rank, and I quell a sigh. If only Lottie knew. But there’s nothing I can do about it. My only priority right now is to make the hugest apology in the world. I’ve got my groveling kneepads on, all ready.

“Right, let’s go,” says Lorcan. He consults his phone. “Ben isn’t replying to my texts. Do you know where they are?”

“No idea. They were about to have sex when I interrupted.” I wince at my own conduct. Gradually, my haze of lunacy is lifting. I can see quite how badly I’ve been behaving. So what if they have sex? So what if they conceive a honeymoon baby? It’s their life.

“D’you think she’ll ever forgive me?” I say as we get into the taxi. I’m hoping that Lorcan will make some reassuring reply like, Of course she will; the bond of sisterhood is too strong to break with a mere bagatelle like this. Instead, he wrinkles his nose and shrugs deeply.

“Is she the forgiving type?”

“No.”

“Well.” He shrugs again. “Unlikely.”

My heart drops. I’m the most misguided big sister there ever was. Lottie will never speak to me again. And it’s my own fault.

I dial her number and go straight to voicemail.

“Lottie,” I say for the zillionth time. “I’m so, so, so sorry. I have to explain. I have to see you. I’m coming to the hotel. I’ll call you when I’m there, OK?” I put my phone away and drum my fingers impatiently. We’ve joined the main road but we’re going at a modest speed, by Greek standards. I lean forward to the driver. “Can we go faster? I need to see my sister, pronto. Can we go any faster?”

I’d forgotten how far the Amba Hotel is from the airport. It seems like several hours before we’re arriving, climbing out of the taxi, slamming the doors, and running up the marble steps.

“Let’s give our luggage to a bellman,” I say breathlessly. “We can get it later.”

“Fine.” Lorcan summons a bellman with a trolley and swings our cases up onto it. “Let’s go.”

He’s almost more impatient than I am. He gradually became more and more urgent and tetchy in the car, consulting his watch and trying to contact Ben.

“It’s nearly close of play,” he keeps saying. “I need these signatures scanned in and sent over.”

Now, as we arrive in the familiar marble lobby, he turns to me expectantly. “Where will they be?”

“I don’t know!” I riposte. “How should I know? In their suite?”

Through the glass doors at the back of the lobby, I can see the shimmering, inviting blue of the sea, and Noah has spotted it too.

“The sea! The sea!” He wrenches at my hand. “Come on! The sea!”

“I know, darling!” I rein him back. “In a minute.”

“Can we have a smoothie?” he adds, spotting a waiter carrying a tray of several pink smoothie-type drinks.

“Later,” I promise. “We’ll have smoothies and we’ll go to the buffet and you can swim in the sea. But first we need to find Aunt Lottie. Keep your eyes open.”

“Ben,” Lorcan is saying curtly into his phone. “I’m here. Where are you?” He rings off and turns to me. “Where’s their suite?”

“Upstairs. I think I remember …” I’m leading him swiftly across the expanse of marble, dodging a group of tanned men in pale suits, when a voice assails my ears.

“Fliss? Felicity?”

I wheel round to see a familiar plump figure hurrying through the lobby on patent shoes. Shit.

“Nico!” I say, trying to keep my chin up. “Hi, there. And thanks for everything.”

“ ‘Thanks for everything’?” He seems almost apoplectic. “Do you realize the damage I have done in trying to carry out your wishes? Never have I known such farce. Never have I known such shenanigans.”

“Right.” I gulp. “Er … sorry. I appreciate it.”

“Your sister, she is beside herself with rage.”

“I know.” I wince. “Nico, I’m so sorry. But I’ll be expressing my gratitude with a very big feature about you in the magazine. Very big. Very flattering. A double-page spread.” I’ll write it myself, I vow. Not one critical word. “There’s just one more tiny thing you could help us with—”