Wedding Night

Wedding Night Page 63

“Now I can run and play,” David is saying joyfully to the camera. “I can play with Lucy, my new puppy.”

Lucy is a cocker spaniel. Of course.

The door suddenly opens, and Noah is ushered out by the SEN teacher, Mrs. Gregory.

“Ah, Mrs. Phipps,” she says as she does every week. “Noah’s making very good progress.”

“Great.” I smile pleasantly back. “Noah, sweetheart, put on your coat.” As he heads to the pegs, I turn back to Mrs. Gregory and lower my voice. “Mrs. Gregory, I was just watching your interesting DVD. Noah has quite an imagination, and I think he may be identifying with the kids shown in it a little too much. Could you possibly turn it off when he’s sitting there?”

“Identifying?” She looks puzzled. “In what way?”

“He told Mrs. Hocking he’d had a heart transplant,” I say bluntly. “And an operation on his hand in Great Ormond Street. It all came from that DVD.” I gesture at the TV.

“Ah.” Her face falls. “Oh goodness.”

“No harm done, but maybe you could put on a different DVD? Or just turn it off?” I smile sweetly. “Thank you so much.”

Some children think they’re Harry Potter. Trust mine to think he’s the star of a self-help DVD. As I walk out with Noah, I squeeze his hand.

“So, darling, I was watching your teacher’s DVD. It’s fun to watch stories, isn’t it? Stories about other people,” I add for emphasis.

Noah considers this for a long, thoughtful moment.

“If your mummy has plastic surgery,” he says at last, “it doesn’t matter. Even if she looks different. Because she’s probably happier now.”

My smile freezes. Please don’t say he’s told the teachers I’ve had plastic surgery and am happier now.

“Absolutely.” I try to sound relaxed. “Um, Noah. You do know that Mummy hasn’t had plastic surgery, don’t you?”

Noah’s avoiding my gaze. Oh God. What’s he said?

I’m about to reiterate to him my complete lack of plastic surgery (one Botox session doesn’t count) when my phone bleeps. It’s a text from Lottie. Oh God. Please don’t say they’ve somehow managed it.

We’re boarding. What do u think of the Mile-High Club? Could call baby Miles Or Miley xxx

Swiftly I text back:

Don’t be gross! Have a good one xxx

I stare at my phone for a few seconds after I’ve pressed send. They won’t try to do it on the plane. Surely not. Anyway, the airport staff will have put in a discreet call to the cabin crew, warning them about the frisky couple in business. They’ll be on the case; I can relax.

Still, my heart’s thudding. I glance at my watch and feel a renewed frustration at the totally crap travel options. One direct flight to Ikonos a day? It’s insane. I want to be there now.

But since I can’t, I’m going to do a bit of research.

I find it exactly where I expected to: in the box under her bed, stacked with all the others. Lottie started keeping a diary when she was fifteen, and it was a pretty big deal. She used to read bits out to me and talk about getting them published one day. She would say portentously, “As I wrote in my diary yesterday …” as though somehow that made her thoughts far more significant than mine (unrecorded, lost to the mists of time. History will weep, obviously).

I’ve never read Lottie’s diaries before. I’m a moral person. Also: I can’t be bothered. But I have to know a little about this Ben guy, and this is the only source I can think of. No one will ever know what I did.

Noah’s safely watching Ben 10 in the kitchen. I sit down on her bed, and Lottie-scent wafts up from the duvet cover: floral, sweet, and clean. When she was eighteen she wore Eternity, and I can catch a whiff of that too, coming from the pages of the diary.

Right. Let’s dive in, quick. I feel very tense and guilty sitting here, even though I’m Lottie’s key holder and have a perfect right to be in her flat and she’s on a plane, miles away, and, anyway, if someone did walk in I would thrust the diary very quickly under a pillow and say, Just here for security reasons.

I open the diary at random.

Fliss is such a bitch.

What?

“Fuck off!” I automatically respond.

OK, that was needless and immature. I shouldn’t jump to conclusions. There’ll be some explanation. I look more closely at the entry. Apparently I wouldn’t lend her my denim jacket to take on her gap-year trip.

Oh, really? I’m a bitch because I wouldn’t just hand over my jacket which I paid for? I’m so outraged I feel like phoning her up right now and having this out. And, by the way, where has she written about how I did give her about six pairs of flip-flops and never saw them back and my Chanel sunglasses because she begged and begged?