He’s ushering us through the large glass doors into a massive domed lobby. It has a marble floor and a sunken pool in which are floating little candles. Low music is playing and there’s a wonderful musky scent in the air.
“Many congratulations. Please. Sit.” He gestures to a long linen sofa. “A glass of champagne for you both!”
A waiter has appeared from nowhere, bearing two glasses of champagne on a silver tray. I hesitate, then take one, glancing at Ben.
“That’s very kind,” Ben says, not moving toward the sofa. “But we’d like to get to our suite as quickly as possible.”
“Of course. Of course.” Nico twinkles understandingly. “Your luggage is being taken up. If you can simply fill in some details …” He offers a leather-bound book to Ben, along with a pen. “Please, sit. You will find it more comfortable.”
Reluctantly, Ben sinks into the sofa and starts scrawling at top speed. Meanwhile, Nico hands me a printed sheet headed Welcome Mr. and Mrs. Parr, followed by a list of facilities and experiences. I run my eyes over the list, which is pretty awesome. Guided snorkeling and champagne picnic … day trip on the hotel’s sixty-foot yacht … dinner cooked by a private chef on your terrace … starlight aromatherapy couples’ massage …
“We are delighted to present our Superlative Honeymoon Experience.” Nico beams at me. “You will be attended by a private twenty-four-hour butler. You will enjoy complimentary treatments within the private spa area in your suite. I, personally, will be at your service at all times. No request is too great or too small.”
“Thanks.” I can’t help smiling back, he’s so charming.
“Your honeymoon is a special, special time. I, Nico, will make it the experience of your lifetime.” He clasps his hands together. “Never to be forgotten.”
“OK, done.” Ben stamps a final full stop and hands the forms back. “Can we get into our room? Where is it?”
“I will escort you personally!” exclaims Nico. “Come this way, to your private penthouse lift.”
We have our own lift? I flash a look at Ben. I can tell that’s given him ideas. Me too.
As we stand in the lift, I’m trying to appear composed, but I can see Ben eyeing up my skirt. He’s not going to hang about. We’re going to take all of thirty seconds, and then we’ll have to do it again, and then maybe have dinner and then, really slowly, start all over again.…
“And here we are!” The lift doors ping open and Nico leads us cheerfully into a lobby, with marble floor and dark-wood paneled walls. “The Oyster Suite. It was recently voted top honeymoon suite by Condé Nast Traveler. After you.”
“Wow,” I breathe as he swings open the door. Fliss was right: this is incredible. The whole place is designed like a grotto, with Greek pillars and low daybeds and statues of Greek gods on pedestals. The only immediate downside is that the TV is blaring out Teletubbies. I’ve loathed Teletubbies, ever since I had to watch about twenty episodes while babysitting Noah. Who on earth put that on?
“Can we turn that off, please?” I say.
“Of course, madame. Let me first show you the amenities. As well as the lift entrance, there is a dedicated front door.” Nico strides briskly through the marble-floored rooms. “Here we have the bathroom, with a walk-in rain shower. Here is your private spa room, kitchen with staff entrance, small library, sitting room with cinema screen.…”
I’m trying to look interested as he demonstrates how to use the DVD player. But my head is fuzzy with desire. We’re here. We’re actually here. In our honeymoon suite. On our wedding night. And as soon as this guy finishes his spiel and leaves … in a matter of seconds, maybe … Ben will be ripping off my skirt and I’ll be ripping off his shirt, and … Oh God, I can’t wait a moment longer.…
“The minibar is situated within this cabinet and works by electronic sensor—”
“Uh-huh.” I manage a polite nod, but my whole body is pulsing with lust. I don’t care how the bloody minibar works. Just stop talking and leave us alone to have sex.
“And through here is the bedroom.” Nico swings open a door. I take an expectant step forward—then stop in dismay.
“Whaaat?” I hear Ben exclaim beside me.
The room is large and grand, with a domed glass ceiling. And under the dome are two single beds.
“I … wh—” I’m so wrong-footed I can barely get out a word. “Beds.” I turn to Ben and point. “The beds.”
“Yes, these are the beds, madame.” Nico gestures at the singles with a proud beam. “This is the bedroom.”
“I know those are beds!” I’m gulping for air. “But why are they singles?”
“On the website, it shows a super-king bed,” Ben takes over. “I saw a picture of it. Where’s that gone?”
Nico looks baffled at the question. “We offer many different sleeping options for the suite. The previous occupants of the suite must have ordered two beds, such as you see. They are two very fine beds.” He slaps one. “Finest quality. Is this not satisfactory?”
“No, it’s not bloody satisfactory!” snaps Ben. “We need a double bed. One bed. Super-king. Best you’ve got.”
“Ah.” Nico pulls a regretful face. “A thousand apologies, sir. I am desolated. Since this was not ordered in advance—”
“We shouldn’t have to order it in advance! It’s our honeymoon! This is the honeymoon suite!” Ben’s breathing hard. “What kind of honeymoon suite has two single beds in it?”
“Please, sir. Do not alarm yourself,” says Nico soothingly. “I understand. I will order a double bed immediately.” He takes out his phone and launches into a stream of Greek. At last he switches off and beams again. “The matter is in hand. Again, my apologies. While we are sorting out this problem, may I offer you a complimentary cocktail downstairs at the bar?”
I quell a snappy reply. I don’t want a cocktail at the bar. I want my wedding night. Now.
“Well, how long is it going to take?” Ben scowls. “This is ridiculous.”
“Sir, we will complete the substitution as quickly as possible. The removers will be with us as soon as— Ah!” There’s a knocking sound at the door, and Nico brightens. “Here we are!”
Six guys in white overalls troop into the room, and Nico addresses them in Greek. One guy lifts up the end of a bed and looks at it doubtfully. He says something in Greek to another guy, who shrugs and shakes his head.
“What?” says Ben in agitated tones, looking from one to the other. “What’s the problem?”
“No problem,” says Nico reassuringly. “Perhaps I could recommend that you take a seat in your sitting room while we address this small matter?”
He ushers us out and we find ourselves in the sitting room. The TV is still playing Teletubbies at full volume. I jab at it with the remote, but it doesn’t switch off. Nor does the volume control work. Is the remote out of juice?
“Please,” I say shortly. “I can’t stand this. Could you turn it off?”
“And it’s cold in here,” adds Ben. “How do we adjust the air-conditioning?”
It is pretty freezing in here. I’d already noticed.
“I will summon your butler,” says Nico with a beam. “He will attend to you.”
He disappears out the door and I look at Ben in disbelief. We should have been having sex by now. We should have been having the hottest time of our life. Not sitting on a sofa with “Time for Tubby Bye-Bye” blaring at us, in a subzero room with six workmen next door.
“Come on,” says Ben suddenly. “The library. That’s got a sofa.”
He hustles me in there and shuts the door. There are shelves of fake-looking books and a desk with hotel writing paper and a chaise longue upholstered in heavy brown linen. Ben shuts the door and faces me.
“Oh my God,” he exhales incredulously.
“Oh my God.” I echo. “Insane.” We both draw breath. And then it’s as if the starting pistol has been fired for the Most Erogenous Zones in a Minute contest. He’s all over me. I’m
all over him. His hands are everywhere. My bra is unhooked, my top is ripped off, and I’m unbuttoning his shirt.… His skin is so warm, so delicious, I want to savor him for a bit, but Ben’s already looking purposefully around the room.
“Sofa?” he pants. “Or desk?”
“Don’t care,” I manage.
“I can’t wait any longer.”
“What if they hear?”
“They won’t hear.” He’s unhooking my skirt. I’m almost popping. At last, at last, at last … yes … yes …
“Sir? Madame?” There’s a rapping at the door. “Sir, madame? Mr. Parr?”
What?
“Noooo,” I whimper. “Noooooo …”
“What the fuck—” Ben looks livid. “Hello?” he raises his voice. “We’re busy. Come back in ten.”
“I have a gift from the management,” comes a voice through the door. “Fresh cookies. Where would you like me to put it?”
“Anywhere,” Ben calls back impatiently. “Don’t care.”
“Please, sir, could you kindly sign for the gift?”
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.
Another round of margaritas. This fellow can certainly hold his drink. N
Nico’s been keeping me updated all evening with every development. His latest four texts have been reports on all the complimentary cocktails that Lottie and Ben have consumed. It’s an eye-watering amount. They started drinking at ten, local time. It’s midnight there now. Lottie has to be blotto.
But what about Ben? I pause a moment, tapping my phone thoughtfully against my palm. Something Lorcan said about Ben is coming back to me: He’s a natural gambler but he lacks judgment.
A natural gambler. Hmm. I fire a text back to Nico:
He likes to gamble.…
I’ll leave it at that. Nico will know what to do with the information.
I press send, then briskly shut my suitcase, trying to calm my unsettled mind. But conflicting thoughts are shooting back and forth like arrows, each landing with a piercing little stab:
I’m sabotaging my sister’s honeymoon. I’m a horrible person.
But it’s only because I care about her happiness.
Exactly.
Exactly!
I mean, what if I decided not to interfere and she got pregnant and they split up and she regretted the whole thing? What then? Wouldn’t I regret NOT doing something? Would I be like the people who kept their heads down and pretended not to see when the Nazis invaded?
Not that Ben is a Nazi. As far as I know.
I feel bad about the whole Teletubbies thing. That was cruel. Lottie’s almost phobic about that program.
I wheel my suitcase out to the hall and put it next to Noah’s. He’s asleep in his room, clasping Monkey and breathing peacefully, and I pop in for a moment to watch him. He took the news of our trip with utter calmness and went straightaway to pack his little case, asking only how many pairs of pants he needed. He’s going to run the world one day, Noah.
I head into the bathroom and run a bath, sloshing in one of the many duty-free bath fragrances cluttering my bathroom. I shop almost exclusively at airports, I’ve realized. I try on clothes before boarding and pick them up on my return. I pick up Clarins sets on the plane. I have enough cured Spanish sausage and hunks of Parmesan to last me a year. And Toblerones.
I hesitate. I have Toblerone on my mind now. A Toblerone in the bath, with a glass of wine …
After only a millisecond’s internal debate, I head to the treats cupboard in the kitchen. Six outsize Toblero
nes are nestling next to a ridiculously large duty-free box of Ferrero Rocher chocolates, which I give to Noah three at a time, every Saturday. He thinks they come in threes. It has never occurred to him that they might be available in quantities larger than three.
I’m just cracking off a chunk of Toblerone when my phone rings and I pick it up, wondering if it might be Nico. But the display reads: Lottie.
Lottie? I’m so shocked, I drop the Toblerone on the floor. I’m staring at the phone, my heart suddenly thumping, my thumb hesitating over the answer button. I don’t want to answer. Anyway, I’ve left it too late: it’s gone to voicemail. I put my phone down on the counter in relief, but almost at once it starts ringing again. Lottie.
I swallow hard. I’m going to have to do this. Otherwise I’ll only have to call her back, which might be worse. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and press answer.
“Lottie! You’re supposed to be on honeymoon!” I aim for a bright, innocent tone. “What are you doing, ringing me?”
“Fliiissss?”
I perform an instant analysis on her voice. She’s drunk. Well, I knew that. But she’s tearful too. Most important, she has no idea I am involved in anything untoward, or it wouldn’t be “Fliiissss?” with a question mark.
“What’s up?” I say lightly.
“Fliss, I don’t know what to do!” she wails. “Ben’s totally drunk. Like, almost passed out. How do I sober him up? What do I do? Haven’t you got some magic cure?”
I do in fact have a tried and tested formula, involving black coffee, ice cubes, and deodorant squirted in the nostrils. But I’m not sharing that with her right now.
“Gosh,” I say sympathetically. “Poor you. I … I don’t know what to suggest. Maybe some coffee?”
“He can’t even sit up! He drank all these stupid cocktails, and I had to help him up to our room, and then he just crashed out on the bed and it’s supposed to be our wedding night.”
“Oh no!” I try to sound shocked. “So haven’t you even—”
“No! We haven’t!”
I can’t help exhaling with relief. I was worried they might have slipped in a quick one without anyone knowing.