Wedding Night

Wedding Night Page 70

I think Ben might explode. For a moment neither of us speaks.

“Sir?” The rapping comes again. “Can you hear me? I have here fresh cookies, courtesy of the management.”

“Just sign quickly,” I mutter. “Then we’ll come back in here.”

“Jesus Christ—”

“I know.”

We’re both trying to tidy ourselves up a bit. Ben buttons up his shirt and takes a few deep breaths.

“Think about tax returns,” I suggest helpfully. “OK, let’s get these bloody cookies.”

Ben swings open the library door to reveal an elderly man in a smart gray braided jacket, holding a silver salver with a dome on it.

“Welcome to the Amba Hotel, Mr. and Mrs. Parr,” he says with grave dignity. “I am your personal butler, Georgios, at your service any time of day. I present some fresh cookies, courtesy of the management.”

“Thank you,” says Ben curtly. “Put them anywhere.” He scribbles on the pad that the butler is holding out.

“Thank you, sir.” Georgios places the silver salver on a coffee table. “My colleague will be here presently with the juice.”

“Juice?” Ben stares at him. “What juice?”

“Fresh juice, courtesy of the management,” Georgios says. “To accompany the cookies. My assistant butler, Hermes, will bring it directly. If you need more ice, you call for me.” He hands Ben a card. “Here is my number. At your service.”

Ben is breathing hard. “Listen,” he says. “We don’t want any juice. Cancel the juice. We want a little privacy. OK?”

“I understand,” says Georgios at once. “Privacy. Of course.” He nods solemnly. “This is your honeymoon and you wish for privacy. This is a special time for a man and a woman.”

“Precisely—”

Ben’s voice is cut off as an almighty banging noise starts.

“What the hell …” We both hurry into the sitting room. A guy in white overalls is standing at the door to the bedroom, having an altercation with someone in the room. Nico comes hurrying over, wringing his hands anxiously.

“Mr. and Mrs. Parr, my apologies for this dreadful noise.”

“What’s going on?” Ben’s eyes are wild and starey. “What’s that hammering sound?”

“There is a small problem with the removal of the beds,” Nico replies placatingly. “Very, very small.”

Another man in white overalls appears round the side of the door, a massive hammer in his hand. He shakes his head ominously at Nico.

“What’s that?” demands Ben. “What’s he shaking his head for? Have you switched the beds yet?”

“And can you please do something about that TV?” I chime in with a wince. “It’s unbearable.” Every time there’s a pause in the banging, the Teletubbies blare out. Is it my imagination, or are they even louder than before?

“Sir, madame, my humblest of apologies. We are working on the bed with all haste. And as for the TV …” Nico is holding a remote, which he jabs at the wall. Immediately the volume doubles.

“No!” I clap my hands to my ears. “Too loud! Wrong way!”

“Apologies!” shouts Nico over the racket. “I try again!”

He zaps the remote several times, but nothing happens. He bangs it against his head and shakes it. “It has jammed!” he says in tones of astonishment. “I call an engineer.”

“Excuse me.” Another man in a braided jacket has appeared out of nowhere. “The door was open. I have here some fresh juice courtesy of the management. Madame, where would you like me to place the juice?”

“I … I …” I’m almost gibbering. I want to scream. I want to erupt. This is supposed to be our wedding night. Our wedding night. And we’re standing in a hotel suite, surrounded by hammering workmen, butlers with salvers, and the noise of Teletubbies drilling into my brain.

“Madame,” says Nico gently. “I am mortified that we are inconveniencing you. Please may I offer you again a complimentary cocktail in the bar?”

11

FLISS

I almost can’t look at the texts. It’s like spying. It’s like rubbernecking a car crash. But I have to, even though they make me want to clap my hands over my eyes.

Lottie and Ben are having the worst wedding night known to man. No other way to put it. It’s horrendous. It’s ghastly. And it’s all my fault. My stomach is one big guilty, acidy twinge. With every bulletin I feel worse. But it’s all in a good cause, I tell myself sternly, already clicking on the new text.