Wedding Night

Wedding Night Page 79

“Did you say it was your honeymoon?” A blond girl heralds us across the bar. She’s wearing an orange caftan with bobbles on the sleeves and has jeweled sandals with very high heels. “Of course it is! Everyone here is on honeymoon. When were you married?”

“Yesterday. We just arrived last night.”

“We were Saturday! Holy Trinity Church in Manchester. My dress was Phillipa Lepley. We had a hundred and twenty to the reception. It was a buffet. Then in the evening we had dancing to a band, and fifty additional guests attended.” She looks at us expectantly.

“Ours was … smaller,” I say after a pause. “Quite a lot smaller. But lovely.”

Lovelier than yours, I add silently. I turn to Ben to back me up, but he’s swiveled away and is talking to the bartender instead.

This is the first time I’ve noticed a trait that Ben has in common with Richard—i.e., being totally antisocial and narrow-minded about new people. The number of times I’ve struck up a conversation with some really interesting, fun person, and Richard just wouldn’t join in. Like that fascinating woman we met at Greenwich once, who he point-blank refused to be introduced to. And, OK, it turned out she was a bit of a weirdo and tried to get me to invest £10,000 in a houseboat, but he wasn’t to know that, was he?

“Ring?” The girl shoves her hand forward. Her nails are orange to match her caftan, I notice. Does that mean all her caftans are orange or that she repaints her nails every night? “I’m Melissa, by the way.”

“Lovely!” I thrust my left hand forward to match, and my platinum wedding band glints in the sunshine. It’s studded with diamonds and is really quite fancy.

“Very nice!” Melissa raises her eyebrows, impressed. “It’s an amazing feeling, isn’t it, wearing a wedding ring?” She leans forward conspiratorially. “I catch my reflection and see the ring on my hand and I think, Bloody hell! I’m married!”

“Me too!” I suddenly realize I’ve missed this: girly chat about getting married. That’s the downside of rushing off with no family or bridesmaids at your side. “And being called ‘Mrs.’ is weird too!” I add. “Mrs. Parr.”

“I’m Mrs. Falkner.” She beams. “I just love it. Falkner.”

“I like Parr.” I smile back.

“You know this place is the honeymoon resort? They’ve had celebs here and everything. Our suite is to die for. And we’re renewing our vows tomorrow night, on the Love Island. That’s what they call it, the Love Island.”

She gestures down toward the sea, at a wooden jetty extending into the distance. At the end it broadens into a large platform which has been set up with a gauzy white canopy.

“We’re having cocktails afterward,” she adds. “You should come along! Maybe you could renew your vows too!”

“Already?”

I don’t want to sound rude, but that’s the weirdest thing I’ve ever heard. I got married yesterday. Why would I renew my vows?

“We’ve decided to renew ours every year,” says Melissa complacently. “Next year we’re going to do them in Mauritius, and I’ve already seen exactly the dress I want to wear. Last month’s Brides. The Vera Wang on page fifty-four. Did you see it?” Melissa’s phone trills before I can answer, and she frowns. “Excuse me a moment.… Matt? Matt, what on earth are you doing? I’m at the bar! As we arranged. The bar … No, not the spa, the bar!”

She exhales impatiently, then puts her phone away and beams at me again. “So, you two must go in for the Couples’ Quiz this afternoon.”

“Couples’ Quiz?” I echo blankly.

“You know. Like the TV show. You answer questions about your partner and the winners are the couple who know each other best.” She gestures at a nearby poster, which reads:

TODAY at 4 PM:

COUPLES’ QUIZ on the BEACH.

BIG PRIZES!! FREE ENTRY!!

“Everyone’s entered,” she adds, sipping at her drink through a straw. “They put on loads of activities for honeymooners here. It’s all marketing nonsense, of course.” She casually brushes back her hair. “I mean, honestly, as if marriage were a competition.”

I almost snort with laughter. Nice try. She wants to win so badly, it’s practically etched on her skin.

“So, are you in?” She peers at me over her Gucci shades. “Go on! It’s only a laugh!”

I suppose she’s right. I mean, let’s face it, what else are we doing with our time?

“OK. Sign us up.”