Wedding Night

Wedding Night Page 72

“Goodness. I can’t believe it!” I’m sounding more and more stagy, but Lottie is on such a roll, she doesn’t notice.

“So then they give us all this free booze to apologize, and this concierge guy bets Ben that he can’t drink some special Greek cocktail. Next thing, he’s downed the whole thing and everyone in the bar is cheering and he’s practically comatose! I mean, what was in it? Absinthe?”

I dread to think what was in it.

“We were snogging in the lift on the way back up to the room,” Lottie carries on agitatedly. “And I thought, here we go, at last—and suddenly there was this dead weight on my shoulder and Ben had fallen asleep! Mid-snog! I had to manhandle him into the room and he weighs a ton and now he’s snoring!” She sounds close to tears.

“Look, Lottie.” I run a hand through my hair, trying desperately to think of the best way to play this. “It’s not such a big deal. Just get a good night’s sleep and … er … enjoy the hotel facilities.”

“I’m suing this place.” She doesn’t even seem to be listening. “I don’t know how it won an award for Best Honeymoon Suite. It’s the worst!”

“Have you eaten? Why don’t you have something from room service? They do really good sushi, or there’s an Italian pizza place.…”

“OK. Maybe I’ll do that.” Her fury seems to subside and she gives a gusty sigh. “Sorry to lay all this on you, Fliss. I mean, it’s not your fault.”

I can’t bring myself to answer.

I’m doing the right thing, I remind myself furiously. What’s better, frustrated and upset for one night or married, pregnant, and regretting it your whole life?

“Fliss? Are you still there?”

“Oh, hi.” I swallow. “Yes. Look, try to get some sleep. I expect tomorrow will be better.”

“Night, Fliss.”

“Night, Lottie.”

I switch off and stare ahead for a moment, trying to calm my guilt.

I expect tomorrow will be better.

Total lie. I’ve already talked to Nico. Tomorrow won’t be better.

12

LOTTIE

I don’t want to be negative. But if I could describe how I expected the morning after my wedding night to be, it would not be this.

It would not be this.

I always imagined my new husband and me nestled in a huge white cottony bed, like in a soap-powder ad. Birds singing outside. Sunlight gently passing over our faces as we turn to each other and kiss, remembering our fabulous time last night, and murmuring sweet nothings to each other before moving seamlessly into spectacular morning sex.

Not waking up on a single bed, with a cricked neck, un-brushed teeth, the smell of last night’s room-service pizza, and the sound of Ben groaning on the opposite bed.

“Are you OK?” I try to sound sympathetic, even though I want to kick him.

“I think so.” He lifts his head with what appears to be a huge effort. He looks pretty green and he’s still wearing his suit. “What happened?”

“You won a bet,” I say shortly. “Well done, you.”

Ben’s gaze is distant and his eyes are moving back and forth. He’s clearly trying to piece it all together.

“I fucked up, didn’t I?” he says at last.

“Just a bit.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. Whatever.”

“No, I’m sorry.”

“Got it.”

“No, I’m really, really sorry.” He swings his legs round and gets to his feet, swaying theatrically for a moment. “Mrs. Parr, my greatest, humblest apologies. How will I make this up to you?” He bows low, nearly falling over, and I stifle a smile. I can’t stay cross. Ben always was a charmer.

“I can’t think.” I pout at him.

“Any room in that bed?”

“Might be …”

I shuffle up, pulling open the duvet invitingly for him to snuggle in. It’s luxury goose down. We also have the choice of a pillow menu, with twenty different varieties. I read them all last night, over my pizza. But right now I couldn’t care less whether the pillow is buckwheat, hypoallergenic, or silk-covered. My husband is in bed with me. Awake. This is what matters.

“Mmmm.” He buries his face in my neck. “You’re all cozy. Yum.”

“You’re all hangover-y.” I wrinkle my nose. “Get your suit off.”

“With pleasure.” He pulls his jacket and shirt off together in one movement, over his head, then straddles me, bare-chested, and grins down. “Hello, wife.”

“Hello, idiot.”