Wedding Night: A Novel

18

FLISS

No. Nooo! What is this drivel?

Ben understands me at a profound level. He thinks it’s Destiny and I do too. We’ve made so many plans for our future. He wants to do all the same things that I do. We’ll probably end up living in France in a gîte.…

I click briskly through the next three texts with mounting dismay.

… amazing atmosphere with white curtains next to the sea, and, OK, it didn’t work out, but that’s not important …

… We weren’t touching but I could FEEL him, it’s like a psychic connection, you know what I mean.…

… happiest I’ve ever been …

They haven’t shagged, yet she’s the happiest she’s ever been. Well, if I was trying to drive them apart, I’ve squarely failed. I’ve driven them together instead. Good work, Fliss. Marvelous.

“Everything OK?” says Lorcan, observing my expression.

“Everything’s dandy,” I almost snarl back, and flip viciously through the leather-bound cocktail menu.

My spirits have not exactly been high since the touchdown in Sofia. Now they’re plummeting to rock bottom. Everything has backfired and I’m bone weary and my minibar was lacking tonic water and now I’m surrounded by Bulgarian prostitutes.

OK, they may not all be Bulgarian prostitutes, I allow, as I do another sweep of the hotel rooftop bar. Some may be Bulgarian glamour models. Some may even be business types. The light in here is dim, but it’s glinting off all the diamonds and teeth and Louis Vuitton buckles on show. Hardly the most understated place, the City Heights. Although, to their credit, they knew my name and I didn’t even need to ask for an upgrade. I’m in the most bling suite I’ve stayed in for a while, complete with two massive bedrooms, a sitting room with cinema screen, and a vast mirrored art-deco-style bathroom. I may be compelled to show it off to Lorcan later on.

I feel an anticipatory squeeze inside. Not quite sure where things are with Lorcan and me. Maybe after a few drinks I’ll find out.

This bar is fairly bling too, with glass floor-to-ceiling windows and a narrow wraparound swimming pool tiled in black, which all the beautiful people/glamour models/business types are regarding with disdain. Unlike Noah, who is hopping up and down, demanding to be allowed in.

“Your swimsuit is all packed away,” I say for the fifth time.

“Let him swim in his underpants,” says Lorcan. “Why not?”

“Yes!” crows Noah, enchanted by this idea. “Underpants! Underpants!” He’s jumping up and down, totally hyper after the flight. Maybe a swim is a good idea after all.

“OK.” I relent. “You can go in in your underpants. But quietly. Don’t splash anyone.”

Eagerly, Noah starts to strip off, discarding his clothes with abandon.

“Look after my wallet, please,” he says with grown-up precision, and hands me the airline wallet he was given on the flight. “I want some credit cards to go in it,” he adds.

“You’re not quite old enough for credit cards,” I say, folding up his trousers and putting them neatly on a velvet-upholstered banquette.

“Here’s one,” says Lorcan, and hands him a Starbucks card. “Expired,” he adds to me.

“Cool!” says Noah in delight, and carefully slots it into his wallet. “I want it to be full like Daddy’s.”

I’m about to make a barbed comment about Daddy’s bulging wallet—but rein myself back just in time. That would be bitter. And I’m not doing bitter. I’m doing sweetness and light.

“Daddy works hard for his money,” I say in sugary tones. “We should be proud of him, Noah.”

“Geronimo!” Noah is running up to the pool. A moment later he lands in a bomb with the most almighty splash. Water showers onto a nearby blonde in a minidress, who recoils in horror and brushes the drops off her legs.

“So sorry,” I call over cheerfully. “Occupational hazard of drinking next to a swimming pool!”

Noah has begun his extremely splashy version of the front crawl and is drawing looks of consternation from beautiful people and beautiful waitstaff alike.

“What’s the betting that Noah is the first person ever to swim in this pool?” says Lorcan in amusement.

As we’re watching, Richard enters the bar, along with a group of travelers I recognize from the plane. He looks wearier than he did earlier on, and I feel a twinge of sympathy for him.

“Hi,” he greets us, and sinks onto the banquette. “Heard from Lottie again?”

“Yes, and the good news is they still haven’t got it together!” I say, to cheer him up.

“Still?” Lorcan sets down his glass with an incredulous crash. “What is wrong with them?”

“Allergic mishap.” I shrug carelessly. “They used peanut oil or something on Lottie and she swelled up.”

“Peanut oil?” Richard looks up suddenly, concerned. “Well, is she OK? Did they call a doctor?”

“I think she’s fine. Really.”

“Because those reactions can be dangerous. Why did they use peanut oil, for God’s sake? Didn’t she warn them?”

“I … don’t know,” I say evasively. “What’s that?” I add, to change the subject, and nod at the piece of paper Richard is holding.

“It’s nothing,” says Richard protectively, as Noah bounds up, wrapped in a chic black towel. “Nothing much.”

“It must be something.”

“Well … OK.” Richard looks fiercely from Lorcan to me, as though daring us to laugh. “I’ve started a poem in French. For Lottie.”

“Good for you!” I say encouragingly. “Can I have a look?”

“It’s a work in progress.” Grudgingly, he hands over the paper and I shake it out, clearing my throat.

“Je t’aime, Lottie. Plus qu’un zloty.” I hesitate, not sure what to say. “Well, it’s a start.…”

“ ‘I love you, Lottie, More than a zloty’?” Lorcan translates incredulously. “Seriously?”

“Lottie’s a difficult rhyme!” Richard says defensively. “You try!”

“You could have used ‘potty,’ ” suggests Noah. “ ‘I love you, Lottie, Sitting on the potty.’ ”

“Thanks, Noah,” says Richard grouchily. “Appreciate it.”

“It’s very good,” I say hastily. “Anyway, it’s the thought that counts.”

Richard grabs the paper back from me and reaches for the bar menu. On the front it reads Delectable Bulgarian Specialties, and inside are lists of bar snacks and light meals.

“That’s a good idea. Have something to eat,” I say soothingly. “You’ll feel better.”

Richard gives the menu a cursory glance, then flags down a waitress, who approaches with a smile.

“Sir? Can I help?”

“I have some questions about your ‘delectable Bulgarian specialties,’ ” he says with an uncompromising stare. “The tricolore salad. Is that a Bulgarian specialty?”

“Sir.” The girl’s smile widens. “I will check.”

“And the chicken korma. Is that a Bulgarian specialty?”

“Sir, I will check.” The girl is scribbling on her notepad.

“Richard.” I kick him. “Stop it.”

“Club sandwich.” Richard presses on. “Is that a Bulgarian specialty?”

“Sir—”

“Curly fries. Which area of Bulgaria do they come from?”

The girl has stopped writing now and is gazing at him, perplexed.

“Stop!” I hiss at Richard, then smile up at the girl. “Thanks so much. We’ll need a couple more minutes.”

“I was just asking,” says Richard, as she walks away. “Clarifying. I’m allowed to clarify, aren’t I?”

“Just because you can’t write French love poetry, there’s no need to take it out on an innocent waitress,” I say sternly. “Anyway, look. Meze platter. That’s a Bulgarian specialty.”

“It’s Greek.”

“And Bulgarian.”

“Like you know all about it.” He looks at the menu broodingly, then closes it. “Actually, I think I’ll turn in.”

“Aren’t you going to eat?”

“I’ll get room service. See you in the morning.”

“Sleep well!” I call after him, and he gives me a gloomy nod over his shoulder.

“Poor guy,” says Lorcan, after Richard has disappeared from view. “He really loves her.”

“I think so.”

“No one writes a poem like that unless they’re so in love that their faculties have become temporarily defective.”

“More than a zloty,” I quote, suddenly getting the giggles. “Zloty?”

“ ‘Sitting on the potty’ was better.” Lorcan raises his eyebrows. “Noah, you may have a future as Poet Laureate.”

Noah bounds off to leap back into the swimming pool, and we both watch him splashing around for a moment.

“Nice kid,” says Lorcan. “Bright. Well balanced.”

“Thanks.” I can’t help smiling at the compliment. Noah is bright. Although “well balanced” I’m not so sure about. Do well-balanced kids boast about their fictitious heart transplants?

“He seems very happy.” Lorcan takes a handful of peanuts. “Was custody amicable?”

At the word “custody,” my internal radar springs into action and I feel my heart automatically start to pound, ready for battle. My body is flooding with adrenaline. I’m fingering my memory stick nervously. I have speeches lined up in my head. Long, erudite, scathing speeches. Also: I want to punch someone.

“Only, some of my friends have had fairly torrid times with custody battles,” Lorcan adds.

“Right.” I’m trying to achieve composure. “Right. I bet.”

Torrid? I want to exclaim. You want to hear about torrid?

But at the same time Barnaby’s voice is ringing in my ears like the chime of a warning bell. You said whatever you did, you wouldn’t end up bitter.

“But you haven’t suffered?” says Lorcan.

“Not at all.” From nowhere, I’ve mustered the most relaxed, serene smile. “Actually, it’s all been very easy and straightforward. And quick,” I add for good measure. “Very quick.”

“You’re lucky.”

“Very lucky.” I nod. “So, so lucky!”

“And you and your ex get on?”

“We’re like this.” I cross my fingers.

“You’re incredible!” says Lorcan in marveling tones. “Are you sure you want to be divorced from him?”

“I’m just super-glad he’s found happiness with another woman.” I smile yet more sweetly. My ability to lie is unnerving even to myself. Essentially, I’m saying the diametric opposite of the truth. It’s almost a game.

“And do you get on with his new partner?”

“Love her!”

“And does Noah?”

“It’s like one big happy family!”

“Would you like another drink?”

“No, I’d hate one!” Abruptly I remember that Lorcan doesn’t know we’re playing the game. “I mean, love one,” I amend.

As Lorcan summons a waiter, I eat a couple of nuts and try to come up with more divorce-related lies. But even as I’m composing them—We all play table tennis together! Daniel’s naming his new baby after me!—my head is buzzing. My fingers are fiddling at the memory stick with more and more agitation. I don’t like this game anymore. My inner good fairy is losing her glow. The bad fairy is barging in and wants to have a say.

“So, your husband must be a great guy,” says Lorcan, after he’s given our order. “For you two to have such a special relationship.”

“He’s a star!” I nod, my teeth gritted.

“Must be.”

“He’s just so thoughtful and kind!” I’m clenching my fists by my sides. “He’s such a charismatic, charming, unselfish, caring—” I break off. I’m panting. There are actual stars in front of my eyes. Complimenting Daniel is bad for my health; I can’t do it anymore. “He’s a … a … a …” It’s like a sneeze. It has to come out. “Bastard.”

There’s a slight pause. I can see some men at a nearby table looking over with interest.

“A bastard in a good way?” hazards Lorcan. “Or … oh.” He sees my face.

“I lied. Daniel is the biggest nightmare that any divorced wife has had to put up with, and I’m bitter, OK? I’m bitter!” Just saying it is a relief. “My bones are bitter, my heart’s bitter, my blood is bitter.…” Something occurs to me. “Wait. You’ve had sex with me. You know I’m bitter.”

There’s no way he couldn’t have picked that up from our night together. I was fairly tense. I think I swore a lot.

“I wondered.” Lorcan tilts his head affirmatively.

“Was it when I shouted, ‘Screw you, Daniel!’ just as I came?” I can’t help cracking, then lift a hand. “Sorry. Bad-taste joke.”

“No apology needed.” Lorcan doesn’t even blink. “The only way to survive a divorce is to tell bad-taste jokes. What do you do if you miss your ex-wife? Take better aim next time.”

“Why is divorce so expensive?” I automatically counter. “Because it’s worth it.”

“Why do divorced men get married again? Bad memory.”

He waits for me to laugh, but I’m lost in thought. My adrenaline tidal wave has ebbed away, leaving behind the detritus of old familiar thoughts.

“The thing is …” I rub my nose hard. “The thing is, I haven’t survived my divorce. Wouldn’t ‘survival’ imply I’m the same person I was before?”

“So who are you now?” says Lorcan.

“I don’t know,” I say after a long pause. “I feel scalded inside. Like, third-degree burns. But no one can see them.”

Lorcan winces but doesn’t reply. He’s one of those rare people who can wait it out and listen.

“I started to wonder if I was going mad,” I say, staring into my glass. “Could Daniel really see the world that way? Could he really be saying those awful things and could people be believing him? And the worst thing is, no one else is in it with you. A divorce is like a controlled explosion. Everyone on the outside is OK.”

“Everyone on the outside.” Lorcan nods vigorously. “Don’t you hate those people? Telling you not to think about it.”

“Yes!” I nod in recognition. “And saying, ‘Be positive! At least you haven’t been horribly disfigured in an industrial accident!’ ”

Lorcan bursts into laughter. “You know the same people I know.”

“I just wish beyond anything that he was out of my life.” I exhale, resting my forehead briefly in my hands. “I wish they could do … I don’t know. Keyhole surgery for ex-husband removal.” Lorcan gives an appreciative smile and I gulp my wine. “What about you?”

“It was fairly grim.” He nods. “There was some nastiness about money, but we didn’t have kids, so that made it simpler.”

“You’re lucky you didn’t have kids.”

“Not really,” he replies tonelessly.

“No, really, you are,” I persist. “I mean, when you get into custody, it’s a whole other—”

“No, really, I’m not.” There’s an acerbic edge to his voice I haven’t heard before, and I suddenly remember I know very little of his private life. “We couldn’t,” he adds shortly. “I couldn’t. And I would say that that fact contributed about eighty percent to our breakup. Make that a hundred percent.” He takes a deep gulp of whiskey.

I’m so shocked I don’t know what to say. In those few words, he’s conveyed a background story of such sadness that I feel instantly guilty for having complained about my own plight. Because at least I have Noah.

“I’m sorry,” I falter at last.

“Yes. Me too.” He gives me a wry, kind smile, and I realize that he can tell I’m feeling guilty. “Although, as you say, it would have complicated things more.”

“I didn’t mean—” I begin. “I didn’t realize—”

“It’s fine.” He lifts a hand. “It’s fine.”

I recognize his tone; I use it myself. It isn’t fine: it just is.

“I really am sorry.” I repeat myself feebly.

“I know.” He nods. “Thanks.”

For a while we’re silent. Thoughts are spinning around my head, but I don’t quite dare to share any of them with him. I don’t know him well enough. They might inadvertently hurt him.

At last I retreat to the safe, once-removed territory of Lottie and Ben.

“The thing is …” I exhale. “I just want to save my sister from the same kind of hurt that we’ve both experienced. That’s all. That’s why I’m here.”

“Can I make a small point?” says Lorcan. His mouth twitches with humor, and I can tell he wants to lighten the mood. “You haven’t even met Ben.”

“I don’t need to,” I retort. “What you don’t realize is there’s a history to this. Every time Lottie breaks up with someone, she makes some stupid, rash, insane gesture that she then has to undo. I call them her Unfortunate Choices.”

“ ‘Unfortunate Choices.’ I like it.” Lorcan raises an eyebrow. “So you think Ben is her Unfortunate Choice.”

“Well, don’t you? I mean, really. Getting hitched after five minutes, planning to live in a gîte—”

“A gîte?” Lorcan looks surprised. “Who said that?”

“Lottie! She’s full of it. They’re going to have goats and chickens and we all have to visit them and eat baguettes.”

“This doesn’t sound like Ben at all,” says Lorcan. “Chickens? Are you sure?”

“Precisely! It sounds like some ridiculous pipe dream. And it’ll crumble to bits and she’ll end up divorced and bitter and just like me—” Too late, I realize I’m almost shouting. The men at the next table are looking at me again. “Just like me,” I repeat more quietly. “And that would be a disaster.”

“You do yourself a disservice,” says Lorcan. I think he’s trying to be nice. But I’m really not in the mood for flattery.

“You know what I mean.” I lean forward. “Would you wish the sheer hell of divorce on someone you cared about? Or would you try to prevent it?”

“So you’re going to arrive out of the blue, tell her to get an annulment and marry Richard. You think she’ll listen?”

I shake my head. “It’s not like that. I happen to think Richard’s great and perfect for Lottie, but I’m not going out there under the banner of Team Richard. Richard will have to be his own team. I’m on Team Don’t Mess Your Life Up.”

“Providential for you that they’ve had such a nightmare of a honeymoon,” says Lorcan, raising an eyebrow.

There’s a brief, charged pause in which I wonder whether to tell him about my secret operation—then decide against it.

“Yes,” I say as nonchalantly as I can. “Lucky.”

Noah comes pattering up again, his feet leaving wet marks in the deep-gray carpet. He snuggles onto my knee and at once I feel myself lighten. Noah carries hope round with him like an aura, and whenever I touch him a little bit of it filters into me.

“Here!” Suddenly he’s waving at someone. “This table!”

“Here we are.” A waitress appears, bearing a silver tray on which is an ice-cream sundae. “For the brave little soldier. You must be so proud,” she adds to me.

Oh God. Not again. I smile back, my expression carefully vague, trying to hide my embarrassment. I have no idea where we’re heading with this. It could be heart transplant. It could be bone marrow. It could be new puppy.

“Training for three hours a day!” She squeezes Noah’s shoulder. “I admire your dedication! Your son was telling me about his gymnastics,” she adds to me. “Thinking of the Olympics 2024, are you?”

My smile freezes. His gymnastics? OK, I can’t put this off any longer. I’m having the Talk, right here, right now.

“Thank you,” I manage. “Wonderful. Thank you so much.” As soon as the waitress has disappeared, I turn to Noah. “Darling. Listen to me. This is important. You know the difference between truth and lies, don’t you?”

“Yes.” Noah nods confidently.

“And you know that we mustn’t tell lies.”

“Except to be polite,” chimes in Noah. “Like, ‘I do like your dress!’ ”

This comes from another Big Talk we had, about two months ago, after Noah was disastrously honest about his godmother’s cooking.

“Yes. But generally speaking—”

“And ‘What delicious apple pie!’ ” Noah warms to his theme. “And ‘I’d love some more, but I’m just too full!’ ”

“Yes! OK. But the point is, most of the time we have to be truthful. And not—for example—say that we’ve had a heart transplant when we haven’t.” I’m watching Noah closely for a reaction, but he seems unmoved. “Darling, you haven’t had a heart transplant, have you?” I say gently.

“No,” he agrees.

“But you told the airline staff that you’d had one. Why?”

Noah thinks for a bit. “Because it’s interesting.”

“Right. Well. Let’s be interesting and truthful, OK? From now on, I want you to tell the truth.”

“OK.” Noah shrugs as though it’s neither here nor there. “Can I start my sundae now?” He picks up his spoon and digs in, sending chocolate flakes everywhere.

“Nicely done,” says Lorcan quietly.

“I don’t know.” I sigh. “I just don’t get it. Why does he say this stuff?”

“Big imagination.” Lorcan shrugs. “I wouldn’t worry. You’re a good mother,” he adds, so matter-of-factly that I wonder if I misheard.

“Oh.” I don’t quite know how to react. “Thanks.”

“And you’re like a mother to Lottie too, I’m guessing?” He’s pretty perceptive, this Lorcan.

I nod. “Our own mother didn’t do a great job. I’ve always had to watch out for her.”

“Makes sense.”

“Do you get it?” I look up, suddenly wanting to hear his true opinion. “Do you understand what I’m doing?”

“Which bit?”

“All of it.” I spread my arms wide. “This. Trying to save my sister from the biggest mistake of her life. Am I right, or am I insane?”

Lorcan is silent for a while. “I think you’re very loyal and very protective and I respect you for that. And, yes, you’re insane.”

“Shut up.” I shove him.

“You asked.” He shoves me back and I feel a tiny electric dart, coupled with a flashback to our night together. It’s so graphic that I gasp. Looking at the way Lorcan’s mouth is tightening, I think he’s remembering exactly the same bit.

My skin has started to prickle in a mixture of memory and anticipation. Here we are: the two of us, in a hotel. No-brainer. The thing about great sex is, it’s a gift from God which should be enjoyed to the max. That’s my theory, anyway.

“So, do you have a big suite?” Lorcan asks, as though reading my mind.

“Two bedrooms,” I reply carelessly. “One for me, one for Noah.”

“Ah.”

“Lots of space.”

“Ah.” His eyes are locked onto mine with a promise of more, and I feel an involuntary shiver. Not that we can run upstairs and rip our clothes off straightaway. There is the small matter of my seven-year-old son sitting next to me.

“Shall we … eat?” I suggest.

“Yes!” Noah, finishing his ice-cream sundae, tunes in to the conversation with precision accuracy. “I want a burger and chips!”

An hour later, between the three of us, we’ve eaten one club sandwich, one burger, one bowl of normal fries, one bowl of sweet-potato fries, one platter of shrimp tempura, three chocolate brownies, and a basketful of bread. Beside me, Noah is half asleep on the banquette seat. He’s had a riotous time, darting around the bar, making friends with all the Bulgarian prostitutes, scoring Cokes and packets of crisps and even some Bulgarian money, which, to his dismay, I made him give straight back.

Now a six-piece band is playing and everyone is listening, and the lights are even dimmer than before, and I’m feeling fairly blissful. I’ve mellowed after my three glasses of wine. Lorcan’s hand keeps brushing against mine. We have an entire empty, delicious night ahead of us. I reach over to take the last sweet-potato chip from the bowl and glimpse Noah’s precious airline wallet on the seat next to him. It’s stuffed with what look like credit cards. Where on earth did he get those?

“Noah?” I nudge him awake. “Sweetheart, what have you got in your wallet?”

“Credit cards,” he says sleepily. “I found them.”

“You found credit cards?” My blood freezes. Oh God. Has he stolen someone’s credit cards? I grab the wallet and pull out the cards in consternation. But they’re not credit cards after all. They’re—

“Room keys!” says Lorcan, as I pull out about seven at once. The entire wallet is stuffed with electronic room keys. He must have about twenty of them.

“Noah!” I shake him awake again. “Darling, where did you get these from?”

“I told you, I found them,” he says resentfully. “People put them down on tables and things. I wanted some credit cards for my wallet.…” His eyes are already closing again.

I look up at Lorcan, my hands full of room keys splayed out like playing cards.

“What do I do? I’ll have to give them back.”

“They all look the same,” observes Lorcan, and gives a snort of laughter. “Good luck with that.”

“Don’t laugh! It’s not funny! There’ll be a riot when everyone finds out they’re locked out of their rooms.…” I look again at the electronic cards and suddenly snuffle with laughter myself.

“Just put them back,” says Lorcan decisively.

“But where?” I look around the tables of smartly dressed beautiful people, all enjoying the band, oblivious to my agitation. “I don’t know whose key is whose, and I can’t find out without going to the front desk.”

“Here’s the plan,” says Lorcan decisively. “We’ll scatter them around the room like Easter eggs. Everyone’s watching the band. No one’ll notice.”

“But how will we know whose key is whose? They’re identical!”

“We’ll guess. We’ll use our psychic powers. I’ll take half,” he adds, and starts grabbing key cards out of the wallet.

Slowly, cautiously, we get to our feet. The lights are dim and the band is playing a Coldplay song, and no one turns a hair. Lorcan walks authoritatively toward the bar, leans slightly to his left, and deposits a key card on a bar table.

“Sorry,” I hear him say charmingly. “Lost my balance.”

Following his lead, I approach another group, pretend to look at a light fitting, and drop three cards down onto the mirrored surface of the table. The sound of them landing is covered by the band, and no one even notices.

Lorcan is planting cards on the main long bar, moving along quickly, deftly reaching between bar stools and behind backs.

“You dropped this, I think?” he says, as a girl turns a questioning face to him.

“Oh, thank you!” She takes the card from him, and my insides curdle. I am half appalled and half delighted at what feels like the most massive prank. There’s no way that’s the key to her room. There are going to be some very angry guests later on.…

Now Lorcan is up near the stage, leaning right over a blond lady and blatantly flipping a key card onto her table. He meets my eye and winks at me, and I want to laugh. I get rid of my remaining cards as quickly as I can and hurry back to Noah, who is now fully asleep. I summon a waiter and quickly scribble a signature on our bill, then hoist Noah into my arms and wait for Lorcan to join us.

“If I’m found out, my name will be mud,” I murmur.

“In Bulgaria,” points out Lorcan. “Population 7.5 million. That’s like your name being mud in Bogotá.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want my name to be mud in Bogotá either.”

“Why not? Maybe it is already. Have you been to Bogotá?”

“Yes, as it happens,” I inform him. “And I can tell you, my name is not mud there.”

“Maybe they were being polite.”

This conversation is so ridiculous, I can’t help smiling.

“Come on, then. Let’s escape before we get attacked by angry key holders.”

As we walk out of the bar, Lorcan holds out his arms.

“I’ll carry Noah if you like. He looks heavy.”

“Don’t worry.” I smile automatically. “I’m used to it.”

“Doesn’t mean he’s not heavy.”

“Well … OK.”

It feels odd, handing over Noah to Lorcan. But the truth is, I do have a dodgy shoulder and it is a bit of a relief. We reach our suite and Lorcan carries Noah straight to his bed. He’s so sound asleep, he doesn’t stir. I remove his shoes but nothing else. He can clean his teeth and put his pajamas on tomorrow night, if he wants to.

I turn off Noah’s light and head to the door, and for a moment Lorcan and I stand there together, for all the world like two parents.

“So,” says Lorcan at last, and a luscious anticipation starts to grow within me again. I can feel an internal limbering-up, that little dance of muscles yearning to be used. I’m doing better than Lottie on the shag front flashes through my mind, giving me a pinch of guilt—but only a small one. It’s all for the best. She can have another honeymoon, another time.

“Drink?” I say, not because I really want one but to prolong the moment. This suite is the perfect setting for a shag-fest, what with all the smoky, sexy mirrors and soft, sensual rugs and the (fake) open fire flickering in the grate. There are also several conveniently placed pieces of furniture, which I’ve already eyed up.

When I’ve poured Lorcan a whiskey, I sit down with my own glass of wine on an amazing creation of a chair. It’s made of deep-purple velvet, with wide rolltop arms and a deep seat and an erotic swoop to its back. I’m hoping that I strike quite a figure as I lean provocatively on one of the arms and allow my dress to ruck up. There’s a delectable, urgent pulsing deep inside me. But, still, I’m not going to hurry anything. We can talk first. (Or just stare at each other with desperate want. Also good.)

“I wonder what Ben and Lottie are up to.” Lorcan breaks the silence. “Presumably not …” He shrugs significantly.

“No.”

“Poor guys. Whatever you think, it’s the worst luck for them.”

“I guess,” I say noncommittally, and sip my wine.

“I mean, no sex on your honeymoon.”

“Terrible.” I nod. “Poor them.”

“And they’d waited, hadn’t they?” His face crinkles in remembrance. “Jesus. You’d think they’d shag in the loos and just have done with it.”

“They tried, but they got caught.”

“No way.” He looks at me, startled. “You serious?”

“At Heathrow. In the business-class lounge.”

Lorcan throws back his head and roars with laughter. “I’m going to rib Ben about that. So your sister fills you in on everything, does she? Even her sex life?”

“We’re pretty close.”

“Poor girl. Foiled even in the Heathrow loos. It’s the worst luck.”

I don’t answer at once. The wine I’m drinking is stronger than the stuff I drank downstairs and it’s going to my head. It’s tipping me over the edge. My head is a bit of a maelstrom. Lorcan keeps talking about “bad luck,” but he’s wrong. Luck has nothing to do with it. Ben and Lottie have not consummated their marriage because of me. Because of my power. And suddenly I feel the urge to share this with him.

“Not so much luck …” I let the word trail in the air and, sure enough, Lorcan picks up on it at once.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s not chance that Ben and Lottie haven’t done it yet. It’s design. My design. I’ve been in charge of the whole thing.” I lean back proudly, feeling like the queen of remote-control honeymoon-fixing, all-powerful in my empress’s chair.

“What?” Lorcan looks so taken aback, I feel another twinge of pride.

“I have an agent helping me on the ground,” I clarify. “I issue commands, he carries them out.”

“What the hell are you talking about? Agent?”

“A member of staff at the hotel. He’s been making sure that Ben and Lottie don’t get it together till I get there. We’ve been acting as a team. And it’s worked! They haven’t.”

“But how— What—” He rubs his head, baffled. “I mean, how do you stop a couple from having sex?”

God, he’s slow.

“Easy. Mess with their beds, spike their drinks, stalk them everywhere they go … Then there was the peanut-oil massage—”

“That was you?” He looks thunderstruck.

“It was all me! I orchestrated everything!” I produce my phone and wave it at him. “It’s all in here. All the texts. All the instructions. I managed it all.”

There’s a long silence. I’m waiting for him to say how brilliant I am, but he looks stunned.

“You sabotaged your own sister’s honeymoon?” There’s something about his expression which makes me feel a little uneasy. Also the word “sabotaged.”

“It was the only way! What else was I supposed to do?” Something about this conversation is going wrong. I don’t like his expression, or mine. I know I appear defensive, which is not a good look. “You do understand I had to put a stop to it? Once they’ve consummated it, it’ll be too late for an annulment. So I had to do something. And this was the only way—”

“Are you nuts, woman? Are you out of your mind?” Lorcan’s tone is so forceful, I recoil in shock. “Of course it wasn’t the only way!”

“Well, it was the best way.” I jut my chin out.

“It was not the best way. By no stretch of the imagination was it the best way. What if she finds out?”

“She won’t.”

“She might.”

“Well …” I swallow. “So what? I had her interests at heart—”

“By having her massaged with peanut oil? What if she’d had an extreme reaction and died?”

“Shut up,” I say uncomfortably. “She didn’t.”

“But you’re happy for her to spend a night in pain.”

“She’s not in pain!”

“How do you know? Jesus.” He rests his head in his hands a moment, then looks up. “Again, what if she finds out? You’re prepared to lose your relationship with her? Because that’s what’ll happen.”

There’s silence in the hotel suite, although words still seem to be bouncing off the smoky mirrors, sharp, accusing words. The erotic atmosphere has disintegrated. I can’t find the phrases to rebut Lorcan. They’re in my brain somewhere, but I’m feeling slow and a little dazed. I thought he would be impressed. I thought he’d understand. I thought—

“You talk about Unfortunate Choices?” says Lorcan suddenly. “Well, what the hell is this?”

“What do you mean?” I glower at him. He’s not allowed to talk about Unfortunate Choices. They’re my thing.

“You suffer a painful divorce, so you rush out and decide to save your sister from the same fate by derailing her honeymoon. Sounds like a pretty fucking Unfortunate Choice to me.”

I’m almost winded with shock. What? What?

“Shut up!” I manage in fury. “You don’t know anything about it. I shouldn’t have told you.”

“It’s her life.” He stares back implacably. “Hers. And you’re making a big mistake interfering with it. One you may live to regret.”

“Amen,” I say sarcastically. “Finished the sermon?”

Lorcan just shakes his head. He finishes his whiskey in a couple of gulps, and I know that’s the end. He’s going. He walks over to the door, then pauses. His back is tensed, I can tell. I think he feels as awkward as I do.

Uncomfortable thoughts are needling me. There’s a painful dragging at the pit of my stomach. It feels a bit like guilt—not that I’d ever admit this to him. But there is something I must say. Something I must make clear.

“Just in case you were wondering.” I wait till he turns his head. “I care about Lottie a great deal. A great deal.” My voice gives a treacherous wobble. “She’s not only my little sister, she’s my friend. And I’ve done all this for her.”

Lorcan stares at me for a moment, his expression unreadable. “I know you think you’re acting for the right reasons,” he says at last. “I know you’ve had a lot of pain in your life that you want to protect Lottie from. But this is wrong. Deeply wrong. And you know it, Fliss. You do, really.”

His eyes have softened. He feels sorry for me, I suddenly realize. Sorry for me. I can’t stand it.

“Well, good night,” I say shortly.

“Good night.” He matches my tone and leaves the room without a further word.