Wedding Night: A Novel

9

FLISS

Educational. It’s an educational trip. Yes.

I haven’t asked permission. I haven’t given warning. I haven’t sat in the headmistress’s study and been lectured. I feel that in this instance the element of surprise is crucial.

“Mrs. Phipps?” Mrs. Hocking puts her head round the door of the classroom. “You wanted to see me?”

“Ah, hello.” I smile as confidently as I can. “Yes. Just a small matter. I’m going to have to take Noah out of school for a few days. To a Greek island. It will be very educational.”

“Ah.” She frowns off-puttingly. “I’m afraid you’ll have to ask permission from the headmistress—”

“I understand.” I nod. “Unfortunately, I don’t have time to ask the headmistress, as I understand she’s away today.”

“Really? When were you planning to go?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Mrs. Hocking looks aghast. “But we only started term two days ago!”

“Ah yes.” I act surprised, as though this hadn’t occurred to me. “Well, I’m afraid it’s an emergency.”

“What sort of emergency?”

A honeymoon-connected, sex-related emergency. You know the kind.

“A … family crisis,” I improvise. “But, as I say, it’ll be a very educational trip. Incredibly educational.” I spread my arms, as though to indicate just how educational this trip will be. “Highly, highly educational.”

“Hmm.” Mrs. Hocking clearly doesn’t want to give way. “Is this the fourth time Noah’s been taken out of school this year?”

“Is it?” I act dumb. “I’m not sure.”

“I know things have been”—she clears her throat—“difficult for you. What with your job and … everything.”

“Yes.”

We’re both staring at the ceiling, as though to expunge the memory of that time Daniel had just brought in his new set of big-gun lawyers and I burst into tears at pickup time and practically sobbed on her shoulder.

“Well.” She sighs. “Very well. I’ll tell the head.”

“Thank you,” I say humbly.

“Noah’s having his extra lesson at the moment, but if you come in, I’ll give you his bag.”

I follow her into the empty classroom, which smells of wood and paint and Play-Doh. The assistant teacher, Ellen, is tidying away some plastic counters and she beams up at me. Ellen has a high-salaried husband in banking and is a great fan of five-star hotels. She reads the magazine every month and is always questioning me about the latest spa treatments and whether Dubai is over.

“Mrs. Phipps is taking Noah on an educational trip to a Greek island,” says Mrs. Hocking, in deadpan tones that clearly mean, This irresponsible parent is going on a drugs-and-booze mini-break and is dragging her poor son along to get high on the fumes; what can I do?

“Lovely!” Ellen says. “But what about your new puppy?”

“My what?” I stare at her blankly.

“Noah was telling us about your new puppy. The cocker spaniel?”

“Cocker spaniel?” I laugh. “I don’t know where he’s got that idea from. We don’t have a puppy, nor are we getting a puppy—” I break off. Mrs. Hocking and Ellen are exchanging looks. “What is it?”

There’s silence—then Mrs. Hocking sighs. “We did wonder. Tell me, has Noah’s grandfather died recently?”

“No.” I stare at her.

“And he didn’t have an operation on his hand during the holidays?” chimes in Ellen. “At Great Ormond Street?”

“No!” I look from face to face. “Is that what he’s been saying?”

“Please don’t worry,” says Mrs. Hocking hurriedly. “We noticed last term that Noah seemed to have … quite an imagination. He’s been coming out with all sorts of stories, some of which are obviously untrue.”

I stare at her in dismay. “What other stories?”

“It’s perfectly normal for children to live in a fantasyland at his age.” She’s deflecting me. “And, of course, he has had an unsettling time at home. He’ll grow out of it, I’m sure.”

“What other stories?” I persist.

“Well.” Again Mrs. Hocking exchanges looks with Ellen. “He said he’d had a heart transplant. Obviously we knew that wasn’t the case. He mentioned a surrogate baby sister, which again we thought probably wasn’t true.…”

A heart transplant? A surrogate baby sister? How does Noah even know about things like that?

“Right,” I say at last. “Well, I’ll have a word with him.”

“Tread lightly.” Mrs. Hocking smiles. “As I say, it’s a perfectly normal phase. He may be attention-seeking or he may not even realize he’s doing it. Either way, I’m sure he’ll grow out of it.”

“He even said you once threw all your husband’s clothes onto the street and invited the neighbors to help themselves!” says Ellen with a bright laugh. “He’s got such an imagination!”

My face flames. Damn. I thought he was asleep when I did that.

“What an imagination!” I try to sound natural. “Who on earth would do a thing like that?”

My face is still hot as I arrive at the special-educational-needs department. Noah has special after-school lessons every Wednesday, because his handwriting is terrible. (The official reason has “spatial coordination” in the title, and costs sixty pounds per session.)

There’s a waiting area outside the door, and I sit down on the miniature sofa. Opposite me is a shelf full of pencils with special grips and odd-shaped scissors and beanbags. There’s a rack of books with titles like How Do I Feel Today? On the wall, a TV is softly burbling away with some special kids’ program.

They could do with a department like this at the office, I find myself thinking. I wouldn’t mind escaping for half an hour a week to play with beanbags and point to the flash card reading Today I’m Sad Because My Boss Is a Git.

“… I had an operation at Great Ormond Street.” A voice from the TV attracts my attention. “My hand was sore afterward and I couldn’t write anymore.” I look up to see a small Asian-looking girl talking to the camera. “But Marie helped me learn to write again.” Music starts playing, and there’s a scene of the little girl struggling with a pencil while a woman guides her. The final shot is of the girl beaming proudly while holding up a picture she’s drawn. The image fades and I blink at the TV, puzzled.

Great Ormond Street. Is that coincidence?

“My mummy is having a surrogate baby.” A freckled boy appears on-screen as the music changes. “At first I felt left out. But now I’m really excited.”

What?

I grab the remote and turn up the volume as Charlie introduces his surrogate baby sister. The piece ends with them all sitting in the garden together. Next up is Romy, who has had a cochlear implant, and then Sara, whose mummy has had plastic surgery and looks different now (but that’s OK), and then David with his new heart.

The DVD doesn’t have a point to it, I swiftly appreciate. It’s a promotional freebie for other DVDs. And it’s just running on a loop. One inspirational, heart-churning story after another.

I’m almost blinking with tears as each kid tells his or her poignant tale. But I’m seething with frustration too. Did no one think to watch this DVD? Has no one linked Noah’s stories to what he’s been watching?

“Now I can run and play,” David is saying joyfully to the camera. “I can play with Lucy, my new puppy.”

Lucy is a cocker spaniel. Of course.

The door suddenly opens, and Noah is ushered out by the SEN teacher, Mrs. Gregory.

“Ah, Mrs. Phipps,” she says as she does every week. “Noah’s making very good progress.”

“Great.” I smile pleasantly back. “Noah, sweetheart, put on your coat.” As he heads to the pegs, I turn back to Mrs. Gregory and lower my voice. “Mrs. Gregory, I was just watching your interesting DVD. Noah has quite an imagination, and I think he may be identifying with the kids shown in it a little too much. Could you possibly turn it off when he’s sitting there?”

“Identifying?” She looks puzzled. “In what way?”

“He told Mrs. Hocking he’d had a heart transplant,” I say bluntly. “And an operation on his hand in Great Ormond Street. It all came from that DVD.” I gesture at the TV.

“Ah.” Her face falls. “Oh goodness.”

“No harm done, but maybe you could put on a different DVD? Or just turn it off?” I smile sweetly. “Thank you so much.”

Some children think they’re Harry Potter. Trust mine to think he’s the star of a self-help DVD. As I walk out with Noah, I squeeze his hand.

“So, darling, I was watching your teacher’s DVD. It’s fun to watch stories, isn’t it? Stories about other people,” I add for emphasis.

Noah considers this for a long, thoughtful moment.

“If your mummy has plastic surgery,” he says at last, “it doesn’t matter. Even if she looks different. Because she’s probably happier now.”

My smile freezes. Please don’t say he’s told the teachers I’ve had plastic surgery and am happier now.

“Absolutely.” I try to sound relaxed. “Um, Noah. You do know that Mummy hasn’t had plastic surgery, don’t you?”

Noah’s avoiding my gaze. Oh God. What’s he said?

I’m about to reiterate to him my complete lack of plastic surgery (one Botox session doesn’t count) when my phone bleeps. It’s a text from Lottie. Oh God. Please don’t say they’ve somehow managed it.

We’re boarding. What do u think of the Mile-High Club? Could call baby Miles Or Miley xxx

Swiftly I text back:

Don’t be gross! Have a good one xxx

I stare at my phone for a few seconds after I’ve pressed send. They won’t try to do it on the plane. Surely not. Anyway, the airport staff will have put in a discreet call to the cabin crew, warning them about the frisky couple in business. They’ll be on the case; I can relax.

Still, my heart’s thudding. I glance at my watch and feel a renewed frustration at the totally crap travel options. One direct flight to Ikonos a day? It’s insane. I want to be there now.

But since I can’t, I’m going to do a bit of research.

I find it exactly where I expected to: in the box under her bed, stacked with all the others. Lottie started keeping a diary when she was fifteen, and it was a pretty big deal. She used to read bits out to me and talk about getting them published one day. She would say portentously, “As I wrote in my diary yesterday …” as though somehow that made her thoughts far more significant than mine (unrecorded, lost to the mists of time. History will weep, obviously).

I’ve never read Lottie’s diaries before. I’m a moral person. Also: I can’t be bothered. But I have to know a little about this Ben guy, and this is the only source I can think of. No one will ever know what I did.

Noah’s safely watching Ben 10 in the kitchen. I sit down on her bed, and Lottie-scent wafts up from the duvet cover: floral, sweet, and clean. When she was eighteen she wore Eternity, and I can catch a whiff of that too, coming from the pages of the diary.

Right. Let’s dive in, quick. I feel very tense and guilty sitting here, even though I’m Lottie’s key holder and have a perfect right to be in her flat and she’s on a plane, miles away, and, anyway, if someone did walk in I would thrust the diary very quickly under a pillow and say, Just here for security reasons.

I open the diary at random.

Fliss is such a bitch.

What?

“Fuck off!” I automatically respond.

OK, that was needless and immature. I shouldn’t jump to conclusions. There’ll be some explanation. I look more closely at the entry. Apparently I wouldn’t lend her my denim jacket to take on her gap-year trip.

Oh, really? I’m a bitch because I wouldn’t just hand over my jacket which I paid for? I’m so outraged I feel like phoning her up right now and having this out. And, by the way, where has she written about how I did give her about six pairs of flip-flops and never saw them back and my Chanel sunglasses because she begged and begged?

I stare at the diary, seething gently, then force myself to turn over a few pages. I can’t wallow in some fifteen-year-old argument. I need to skip ahead. I need to get to Ben. As I turn the pages, skimming the text, I almost feel like I’m on her gap-year journey with her: first to Paris and then to the South of France, then Italy, all in bite-size snippets. It’s kind of addictive.

… think I might move to Paris when I’m older … ate too many croissants, urgh, God, I’m fat, I’m hideous … this guy called Ted who’s at university and REALLY COOL … he’s really into existentialism … I should get into that, he said I was a natural …

… AMAZING sunset … drank too many rum-and-Cokes … really REALLY sunburned … slept with this guy called Pete, shouldn’t have … made this plan to move to the South of France when we’re all like thirty …

… I WISH I spoke Italian better. This is where I want to live, forever. It’s AMAZING … ate too many gelati, urgh, my legs are hideous … leaving for Greece tomorrow …

… this place is INCREDIBLE … amazing party atmosphere, like we all just GET each other … I could LIVE on feta … diving in these underwater caves … this guy called Ben … picnic with some of the guys and Ben … slept with Ben … AMAZING …

“Lottie?” A male voice interrupts my concentration, and I start so violently the diary flies up into the air. I make an instinctive grab for it, then realize that’s incriminating, so I draw my hand away sharply and it falls on the floor, where I kick it away, then finally lift my head.

“Richard?”

He’s standing in the doorway in a raincoat, his hair disheveled and a suitcase in his hand. His face is agitated, and he’s definitely looking more young Gordon Brown than young Pierce Brosnan.

“Where’s Lottie?” he demands.

“I’m here for security,” I mumble hurriedly, my face blazing with shame and my eyes darting to the diary. “Security.”

Richard looks at me as though I’m making no sense at all. Which, to be fair, I’m not.

“Where’s Lottie?” he demands again, more forcefully. “What’s wrong? I go to her work, no one will tell me where she is. I come here, you’re sitting on her bed. Just tell me.” He drops his suitcase. “Is she ill?”

“Ill?” I almost want to laugh hysterically. “No, not ill. Richard, what are you doing here?”

His case has an airline tag on it. He must have come straight from the airport in a dashing, romantic manner. I feel quite sad that Lottie isn’t here to see it.

“I made a mistake. A bad mistake.” He strides to the window and stares out a moment, then darts me a look. “I don’t know how much she tells you.”

“A fair amount,” I say diplomatically.

I don’t think he’ll want to hear that she’s told me absolutely everything, including his penchant for doing it blindfolded and her penchant for sexy toys, which she’s terrified the cleaner will find.

“Well, we split up,” he says heavily. “A few weeks ago.”

No kidding.

“Yes, I heard that.” I nod. “She was very upset.”

“Well, so was I!” He wheels round, breathing hard. “It came out of nowhere! I thought we were happy together. I thought she was happy.”

“She was happy! But she couldn’t see where things were heading.”

“You mean …” He hesitates for a long time. “Marriage.”

I feel a flick of irritation. I’m not such a huge fan of marriage myself, but he doesn’t need to look quite so unenthusiastic.

“It’s not such an outlandish idea,” I point out. “It is what people do when they love each other.”

“Well, I know, but …” He makes a face, as though we’re talking about some freaky hobby pursued by people on freaky reality shows. Now I’m starting to feel furious. If he’d just manned up and bloody well proposed in the first place, none of this would have happened.

“What do you want, Richard?” I ask abruptly.

“I want Lottie. I want to talk to her. I want to get things back on track. She wouldn’t return my calls or my emails. So I told my new boss I had to come back to England.” There’s a throb of pride in his voice. He clearly reckons he’s made the supreme gesture.

“And what are you going to say to her?”

“That we belong together,” he says steadily. “That I love her. That we can work things out. That maybe marriage is a possibility, down the line.”

Maybe marriage is a possibility down the line. Wow. He really knows how to woo a girl.

“Well, I’m afraid you’re too late.” I feel a sweet, sadistic pleasure at saying the words. “She’s married.”

“What?” Richard frowns blankly, clearly unable to process my words.

“She’s married.”

“What do you mean, she’s married?” He still looks baffled.

For God’s sake, what does he bloody think I mean?

“She’s married! She’s taken! In fact, she’s just flown off on her honeymoon to Ikonos.” I check my watch. “She’s in the air right now.”

“What?” A thunderous scowl buries itself in his forehead. Definitely Gordon. He’ll throw his laptop at me in a minute. “How can she be married? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“She split up with you, practically had a nervous breakdown, met up with an old flame, who proposed on the spot, and said yes because she was in shock and desperately miserable and fancies him rotten. That’s what I’m talking about.” I glare at him. “Get it?”

“But … but who is he?”

“Her gap-year boyfriend. She hadn’t seen him for fifteen years. First love, all that.”

He’s gazing at me suspiciously. I can see the cogs of his brain working, the realization dawning: this isn’t a windup. I’m telling the truth. She’s married.

“Fucking … fuck.” He bangs both fists to his forehead.

“Yup. That’s how I feel about it too.”

There’s a dejected silence. A light flurry of rain patters against the window, and I wrap my arms around myself. Now that the exhilaration of punishing Richard has ebbed away, all I can feel is sore and miserable. What a mess.

“Well.” He exhales. “I guess that’s it.”

“I guess so.” I shrug. I’m not going to share my plans with him. The last thing I need is him interfering or offering stupid suggestions. My priority is to get Lottie off the hook with Ben, for her own sake. If Richard wants to make some fresh salvo afterward, that’s up to him.

“So … what do you know about this guy?” Richard suddenly emerges from his trance. “What’s he called?”

“Ben.”

“Ben.” He repeats the word suspiciously. “I’ve never heard her talk about a Ben.”

“Well.” I shrug again.

“I mean, I know about her other old boyfriends. Jamie. And Seamus. And what’s-his-name. The accountant.”

“Julian,” I can’t help supplying.

“Exactly. But she’s never even mentioned a Ben.” Richard’s eyes rake the room, as though he’s trying to find clues, then they fall on her diary, which is lying half open on the ground. He lifts his gaze to me incredulously.

“Were you reading her diary?”

Damn. I should have known Richard would pick up on that. He always notices more than you think he will. Lottie used to say he’s like a lion half asleep under a tree, but I think he’s more like a bull: one minute peacefully grazing; the next charging, head down.

“I wasn’t exactly reading it.” I try to stay poised. “I was just doing a little research about this Ben.”

Richard’s eyes focus on me alertly. “What did you find out?”

“Nothing much. I’ve only just got to the bit where they met on Ikonos—” He makes a sudden grab for the diary. With a lightning reaction, I reach for it too and seize a corner. We’re both gripping it, trying to pull it out of the other’s grasp. He’s far stronger than I am, but I’m not letting him have her diary. There are limits.

“I can’t believe you’d read your sister’s diary,” says Richard, trying to wrench it out of my fingers.

“I can’t believe you’d read your girlfriend’s diary,” I retort breathlessly. “Give. Give.”

At last I manage to yank it away from him and cradle it protectively in my arms.

“I deserve to know.” Richard is glowering at me. “If Lottie’s chosen this guy over me, I deserve to know who he is.”

“OK,” I snap. “I’ll read you out a bit. Be patient.”

I flip through the pages again, fast-forwarding through France and Italy to Ikonos. OK. Here we are. Pages and pages full of the word “Ben.” Ben this. Ben that. Ben, Ben, Ben.

“She met him at this guest house they were all staying in.”

“The guest house on Ikonos?” Richard’s face jerks in recognition. “But she’s told me about that place a million times. The place with the steps? Where they had the fire and she saved everyone? I mean, that place changed her life. She always says it’s the place where she became the person she is today. She has a photo of it somewhere.…” He looks around the room, then jabs a finger. “Here.”

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.”

“How can you be pretty sure?” He scowls as though he hates me for even raising his hopes.

“I just have a feeling,” I say mysteriously. “Call it sisterly intuition.”

“Well, whatever.” He shrugs. “That’ll be a way down the line.” He heads back into the bedroom and picks up his suitcase.

“No, it won’t!” I hurry after him and grab his shoulder to make him stop. “I mean … it might be sooner than you think. Much sooner. The point is, if I were you, I wouldn’t give up. I’d hang fire and see.”

Richard is silent a few moments, clearly fighting his own hopes. “When exactly did they get married?” he asks suddenly.

“This morning.” I wince inwardly as I realize how crap his timing was. If only he’d arrived one day earlier …

“So tonight’s their—” He breaks off as though he can’t bear to say it.

“Wedding night. Yes. Yes, I suppose it is.” I pause and examine my nails, my face carefully blank, my demeanor innocent. “Well. Who knows how that will go?”