Wedding Night

Wedding Night Page 66

We both survey the framed picture of Lottie in a swing seat, dressed in a tiny frilly white skirt and a bikini top, with a flower behind her ear. She looks thin and young and radiant.

“She’s never said anything about a guy called Ben,” says Richard slowly. “Not once.”

“Ah.” I bite my lip. “Well, perhaps she was being selective.”

“I see.” He falls into her desk chair, his face moody. “Go on, then.”

I survey Lottie’s handwriting again. “Basically, they checked each other out on the beach … then there was a party and they got it together—”

“Read it,” he interrupts. “Don’t summarize.”

“Are you sure?” I raise my eyebrows at Richard. “You’re sure you want to hear this?”

“Read it.”

“OK. Here goes.” I draw a breath and choose a paragraph at random.

Watched Ben waterskiing this morning. God, he’s cool. He plays the harmonica and he’s so brown. Had sex all afternoon on the boat, no tan lines, ha-ha. Bought more scented candles and massage oil for tonight. All I want is to be with Ben and have sex with Ben forever. I will never love anyone else like this. NEVER.

I fall into silence, feeling uncomfortable. “She’d kill me if she knew I’d read you that.”

Richard doesn’t reply. He looks stricken.

“It was fifteen years ago,” I say awkwardly. “She was eighteen. That’s what you write in your diary when you’re eighteen.”

“D’you think …” He pauses. “D’you think she’s ever written anything like that about me?”

Alarm bells start clanging in my head. Uh-oh. No way. Not going there.

“I have no idea!” I clap the book shut briskly. “It’s different. Everything’s different when you grow up. Sex is different, love is different, cellulite is very different.” I’m trying to lighten the atmosphere, but Richard doesn’t even seem to hear. He’s staring at the photo of Lottie, his brow furrowed so deeply I think it might cave in. The sudden sound of the doorbell makes us both start, and as we meet eyes I can tell we’ve both had the same crazy thought: Lottie?

Richard strides into the narrow hall, and I follow, my heart pounding. He throws open the door and I peer in disappointment at a thin, elderly man.

“Ah, Mr. Finch,” he says in querulous tones. “Is Charlotte at home? Because, despite her promises, she has done no work on the roof terrace at all. It’s still an absolute mess.”

The roof terrace. Even I know about the roof terrace. Lottie rang me up to tell me she was totally getting into gardening and had ordered loads of cute gardening accessories, and she was going to design an urban potager.

“Now, I’m a reasonable man,” the man is saying, “but a promise is a promise, and we have all contributed to the plant fund, and I really feel this is—”

“She’ll do it, OK?” Richard pushes forward, his voice thundering so loudly that the light fittings practically tremble. “She’s planning a great project. She’s creative. These things take time. So back off!”

The elderly man recoils in alarm, and I raise my eyebrows at Richard. Wow. I wouldn’t mind someone fighting in my corner like that once in a while.

Also: I was right. He’s definitely a bull, not a lion. If he were a lion, he would even now be stalking Ben with stealthy patience through the undergrowth. Richard’s too straightforward to do that. He’d rather charge furiously at the nearest target, even if it means a thousand teacups broken in the process. So to speak.

The door closes and we look at each other uncertainly, as though the interruption has changed the air.

“I should go,” says Richard abruptly, and buttons up his raincoat.

“You’re going back to San Francisco?” I say in dismay. “Just like that?”

“Of course.”

“But what about Lottie?”

“What about her? She’s married and I wish her every happiness.”

“Richard …” I wince, not knowing what to say.

“They were Romeo and Juliet and now they’ve found each other again. Makes total sense. Good luck to them.”

He’s upset, I realize. Really upset. His jaw is taut and his gaze is distant. Oh God, I feel terrible now. I shouldn’t have read her diary out. I simply wanted to shock him out of his complacency.

“They aren’t Romeo and Juliet,” I say firmly. “Look, Richard, if you really want to know, they’re both having complete fuckwit meltdowns. Lottie hasn’t been thinking straight since you and she split up, and apparently this Ben is having his own midlife crisis.… Richard, listen. Please.” I put a hand on his arm and wait till he gives me his attention. “The marriage won’t last. I’m pretty sure of that.”