Wedding Night: A Novel

22

LOTTIE

My mind is a whirl. I don’t know what to focus on. I don’t know where to start.

First of all, there’s the guest house. How can it be so different from the way I remember? Everything is smaller and shabbier and kind of less iconic. We’re sitting on the veranda, which is far less impressive than I remember and has been painted in a quite revolting beige color that’s peeling away in strips. The olive grove is just a scrubby patch of ground with a few sparse trees. The view is good, but no different from any other Greek island view.

And Arthur. How could I have been impressed by him? How could I have sat at his feet, lapping up his pearls of wisdom? He’s not wise. He’s not a sage. He’s a seventy-something alcoholic lech.

He’s tried to grope me twice already.

“Don’t come back,” he’s saying, waving his roll-up in the air. “I tell all you young people. Don’t revisit. Youth is still where you left it, and that’s where it should stay. What are you returning for? Anything that was worth taking on life’s journey, you’ll already have taken with you.”

“Dad.” Sarah rolls her eyes. “Enough already. They did come back. And I’m glad they did.” She twinkles at Ben. “You were just in time. We’ve sold up. We’re leaving next month. More coffee?”

As she leans over to pour the coffee, I can’t help staring. Up close, she isn’t any less extraordinarily shaped. Everything about her is sheeny and silky, and her breasts are straining against her tank top as though they’re in breast-yoga class and are showing off in front of everybody.

And this is the other reason that my mind is in a whirl. Several reasons, in fact. Number one: she’s gorgeous. Number two: it’s quite clear that she and Ben had some whole history here at the guest house before I even arrived. They keep alluding to it and laughing and changing the subject. Number three: there’s a spark between them still. If I can see it, surely they can see it? Surely they can feel it? What does it mean?

What does any of it mean?

I take my coffee from Sarah with trembling hands. I thought coming back here to the guest house would be the glorious finale to our honeymoon, where all the threads would come together in a big satisfying knot. Instead, it feels as though all sorts of bright new threads have appeared and nothing is tied up at all. Especially Ben. He feels like he’s unraveling away from me. He won’t meet my eye, and when I put my arm around him, he shrugged it off. I know Sarah saw, because she tactfully turned away.

“We get old.” Arthur is still on his rant. “Life gets in the way of dreams. Dreams get in the way of life. That’s the way it’s always been. Anyone want a Scotch?” He brightens suddenly. “Sun’s over the yardarm, Greek time.”

“I’ll have a Scotch,” replies Ben, to my dismay. What’s he doing? It’s eleven in the morning. I don’t want him to start sinking into glasses of Scotch. I shoot him a Is that really a good idea, darling? look, and he sends me back a glare, which I have a horrible feeling means, Butt out and stop trying to run my life.

And again Sarah is tactfully looking away from us.

Oh God, this is torture. Other women tactfully looking away while you exchange acrimonious glares with your husband is the most mortifying experience going. Tied with your tie-dye shorts splitting while you try to do a cartwheel.

“Good man! Come and choose a single malt.” Arthur ushers Ben into the recesses of the guest house, and I’m left with Sarah on the veranda. The air feels prickly between us, and I don’t know where to start. I desperately want to know … what, exactly?

“Delicious coffee.” I retreat into politeness.

“Thanks.” She smiles back, then sighs. “Lottie. I just want to say …” She spreads her hands. “I don’t know if you’re aware that Ben and I …”

“I wasn’t,” I say after a pause. “But I am now.”

“It was the briefest of flings. I was out here seeing Dad, and we just clicked. It lasted a couple of weeks, if that. Please don’t think …” Again she pauses. “I wouldn’t want you to—”

“I wasn’t thinking anything!” I cut her off brightly. “Nothing!”

“Good.” She smiles again, showing perfect teeth. “It’s lovely you’ve come back. Lots of good memories, I hope?”

“Yes, loads.”

“It was an awesome summer.” She sips her coffee. “That was the year Big Bill was out here. Did you know him?”

“Yes, I knew Big Bill.” I unbend a little. “And Pinky.”

“And the two Neds? They got arrested one night when I was here,” she says, grinning. “They were thrown into jail, and Dad had to bail them out.”

“I heard about that.” I sit up, suddenly enjoying this conversation. “Did you hear about the fishing boat sinking?”

“God, yeah.” She nods. “Dad told me about it. What with the fire, it was, like, the year of disasters. Even poor Ben got the flu. He was really ill.”

What did she say? The flu?

“The flu?” I echo, in a strangled voice. “Ben?”

“It was awful.” She draws her brown feet up onto her chair. “I got quite worried about him. He was delirious. I had to nurse him through the night. I sang him Joni Mitchell songs.” She laughs.

My brain is whirring in a panic. It was Sarah who nursed him through the flu. Sarah who sang to him.

And he thinks it was me.

And that was the moment he “knew he loved me.” He told a whole audience so.

“Right!” I say, trying to sound relaxed. “Wow. Well done, you.” I swallow. “But no point dwelling on the past, eh? So, er … how many guests do you have at the moment?”

I want to get off this topic fast, before Ben comes back. But Sarah ignores me.

“He said the funniest things while he was delirious,” she reminisces. “He wanted to go flying. I was like, ‘Ben, you’re ill! Lie down!’ Then he said I was his guardian angel. He kept saying it, over and over. I was his guardian angel.”

“Who’s your guardian angel?” Ben’s voice greets us. He appears on the veranda, holding a glass. “Your dad’s taken a call, by the way. Who’s your guardian angel?” he repeats.

My stomach is churning. I have to stop this conversation right now.

“Look at that olive tree!” I say shrilly, but both Ben and Sarah ignore me.

“Don’t you remember, Ben?” Sarah laughs easily, throwing back her head. “When you had the flu and I nursed you through the night? You said I was your guardian angel. Nurse Sarah.” She pokes him teasingly with her foot. “Remember Nurse Sarah? Remember the Joni Mitchell songs?”

Ben seems almost frozen. He glances sharply at me, then back at Sarah, then at me again. His brow is riven with confusion.

“But … but … you nursed me, Lottie.”

My cheeks have flamed red. I don’t know what to say. Why did I take the credit for nursing him, why?

“Lottie?” Sarah says in surprise. “But she wasn’t even there! It was me, and I’m getting the Brownie points, thank you! I’m the one who sat up and mopped your brow till dawn. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten that,” she adds, mock reproachfully.

“I haven’t forgotten,” says Ben, his voice suddenly intense. “Jesus! Of course I haven’t forgotten! I’ve remembered that night all my life. But I remembered wrong. I thought it was …” He looks accusingly at me.

I’m prickling all over. I have to speak. Everyone’s waiting.

“Maybe I got confused.” I swallow hard. “With … another time.”

“What other time?” demands Ben. “I only had the flu once. And now it turns out you didn’t nurse me, Sarah did. Which I find confusing.” His voice is hard and unforgiving.

“I’m sorry.” Sarah looks from face to face, as though she’s picked up on the tense vibe between us. “It’s not a big deal.”

“It is!” Ben puts his fist to his head. “Don’t you realize? You saved me. You were my guardian angel, Sarah. This changes—” He stops himself.

I stare at him in indignation. This changes what? I was his guardian angel till three minutes ago. You can’t just switch guardian angels because you feel like it.

“Not that again!” Sarah shakes her head, smiling. “I told you,” she adds to me, as though trying to lighten the atmosphere. “He said all kinds of crazy stuff about angels and all sorts. Anyway.” She clearly wants to get off the subject herself. “So. What do you guys do for a living?”

Ben glares at me, then takes a slug of whiskey. “I make paper,” he begins.

As he’s explaining about his paper company, I sip my tepid coffee, trembling a little. I can’t believe my stupid white lie came out. But neither can I believe how seriously Ben is taking it. For God’s sake. Who cares who nursed whom? I’m so distracted, I tune right out of the conversation, then wake up when I hear the words “move abroad” from Ben. Is he talking about France?

“Me too! I’ll probably sail around the Caribbean for a while,” Sarah is saying. “Do a bit of teaching to make money. See how it goes.”

“That’s what I want to do too.” Ben is nodding vigorously. “Sailing’s my passion. If there’s one thing I want to do in the next two years, it’s spend more time on my boat.”

“Have you ever sailed the Atlantic?”

“I want to.” Ben’s eyes light up. “I want to get a crew together. You in?”

“Definitely! And then a season sailing in the Caribbean?”

“It’s a plan!”

“Settled.” They high-five each other, laughing. “Do you sail?” adds Sarah politely to me.

“Not really.” I’m staring at Ben, seething. He’s never mentioned sailing the Atlantic to me. And how’s that going to fit in with buying a French farmhouse? And what’s all that matey high-fiving about? I want to address all of this straightaway, but I can’t in front of Sarah.

I suddenly wish we’d never come back here. Arthur was right. Don’t revisit.

“So you’re selling up?” I say to Sarah.

“Yeah.” Sarah nods. “It’s a shame, but the party’s over. The hostel took away our business. They’re buying the land. They’ll build more units.”

“Bastards!” says Ben angrily.

“I guess.” She shrugs, sanguine. “To be honest, business was never that great after the fire. I don’t know how Dad has limped on for so long.”

“The fire was terrible,” I chime in, glad to move on to a subject I can talk about. I’m hoping someone will mention the way I brilliantly took command and saved lots of lives, but all Sarah says is, “Yeah, what a drama.”

“It was a faulty cooker or something, wasn’t it?” says Ben.

“Oh no.” Sarah shakes her head, and her earrings make little chinking noises. “That’s what they thought at first. But then they worked out it was someone’s candles. You know, in a bedroom. Scented candles.” She glances at her watch. “I must get my casserole out. Excuse me.”

As she disappears, Ben takes a sip of Scotch, then he glances at me and his expression changes.

“What’s wrong?” He frowns. “Lottie? Are you OK?”

No, I’m not OK. The truth is so hideous, I can hardly contemplate it.

“It was me,” I whisper at last, feeling sick.

“What do you mean, it was you?” He looks blank.

“I always had scented candles in my bedroom!” I whisper savagely. “Remember? All my candles? I must have left them alight. No one else had scented candles. The fire was my fault!”

I’m so shocked and distraught, tears are starting to my eyes. My great moment of triumph … It’s all turned to dust. I wasn’t the heroine of the hour. I was the thoughtless, stupid villain.

I’m waiting for Ben to throw his arms around me, or exclaim, or ask me more questions, or something. Instead, he looks uninterested.

“Well, it was a long time ago,” he says at last. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“What do you mean, it doesn’t matter?” I stare at him in disbelief. “Of course it matters! I ruined everyone’s summer! I ruined this business! It’s awful!”

I feel ill with guilt. And more than that—I feel as if I’ve been wrong, stupidly wrong, this whole time. All these years. I’ve been cherishing the wrong memory. Yes, I made a difference that night—but it was a disastrous difference. I could have killed someone. I could have killed lots of people. I’m not the woman I thought I was. I’m not the woman I thought I was.

I give a sudden little sob. It feels as though everything’s fallen apart.

“Should I tell them? Should I confess everything?”

“For God’s sake, Lottie,” says Ben impatiently. “Of course you shouldn’t. Get over it. It was fifteen years ago. No one was hurt. No one cares.”

“I care!” I say in shock.

“Well, you should stop. You go on and on about that bloody fire—”

“No, I don’t!”

“Yes, you do.”

Something inside me snaps.

“Well, you go on and on about sailing!” I shout, stung. “Where did all that come from?”

We glare at each other in a kind of shocked uncertainty. It’s as though we’re sizing each other up for a game but aren’t sure of the rules. At last, Ben launches in with a fresh salvo.

“Basically, how can I trust anything you say anymore?” he says.

“What?” I recoil in utter shock.

“You didn’t nurse me through the flu, but you let me think you did.” His gaze is unrelenting. “Why would anyone do that?”

“I was … confused.” I gulp. “I’m sorry, OK?”

Ben’s expression doesn’t alter. Sanctimonious bastard.

“Well, OK.” I launch a counterattack. “Since we’re doing home truths, can I ask how you’re planning to sail a season in the Caribbean when we’re moving to France?”

“We might move to France,” he retorts impatiently. “We might not. We were only knocking a few ideas around. Jesus!”

“We weren’t knocking ideas around!” I stare at him in horror. “We were making plans! I was basing my whole life on them!”

“Everything OK?” Sarah rejoins us on the veranda, and Ben instantly switches on his charming, lopsided smile.

“Great!” he says, as though nothing’s happened. “We’re just chilling out.”

“More coffee? Or Scotch?”

I can’t answer her. I’m realizing the awful truth: I’m basing my whole life on this guy sitting in front of me. This guy with his charming smile and easy manner who suddenly seems alien and unfamiliar and just wrong, like a guest bedroom in someone else’s house. Not only do I not know him, I don’t understand him, and I’m afraid I don’t much like him.

I don’t like my husband.

It’s like a clanging in my ears. A death knell. I have made a monumental, humongous, terrifying mistake.

I have an instinctive, desperate longing for Fliss, but at the same time I realize I can never, never admit this to her. I’ll have to stay married to Ben and pretend everything’s OK till the end of my days. It’s too embarrassing otherwise.

OK. So that’s my fate. I feel quite calm about it. I married the wrong man and must simply live with it in misery forever. There’s no other way.

“… great place for a honeymoon,” Sarah’s saying as she sits down. “Are you having a good time?”

“Oh yeah,” says Ben sarcastically. “Really great. Super.” He flicks an antagonistic look at me, and I bristle.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, we’ve hardly been enjoying the usual ‘honeymoon pleasures,’ have we?”

“That’s not my fault!”

“Who turned me down this morning?”

“I was waiting for the cove! We were supposed to be doing it at the cove!”

I can see that Sarah is uncomfortable, but I can’t stop myself. I feel as if I’m boiling over.

“There’s always some excuse,” Ben snarls.

“I’m not making excuses!” I exclaim, absolutely livid. “What, you think I don’t want to … you know?”

“I don’t know what to think!” Ben throws back furiously. “But we haven’t, and you don’t seem bothered about it! You do the math!”

“I am bothered about it!” I yell. “Of course I’m bothered!”

“Wait,” says Sarah, looking warily from Ben to me. “You guys haven’t …?”

“There hasn’t been the opportunity,” says Ben tightly.

“Wow.” Sarah breathes out, looking incredulous. “That’s … unusual for a honeymoon.”

“Our room was messed around,” I explain succinctly, “and Ben got drunk and we were stalked by butlers and I had an allergic reaction and basically—”

“It’s been a nightmare.”

“Nightmare.”

We’re both slumped in gloom, our energy gone.

“Well,” says Sarah with a twinkle. “We’ve got empty rooms upstairs. Beds. Condoms, even.”

“Seriously?” Ben lifts his head. “There’s a bed upstairs? A private double bed that we could use? You have no idea how we’ve wanted to hear that.”

“Loads of them. We’re half empty.”

“This is great! Great!” Ben’s spirits have zoomed up. “We can do it right here at the guest house! Where we first met! Come on, Mrs. Parr, let me ravish you.”

“I won’t listen,” jokes Sarah.

“You can join in if you like!” says Ben, then adds to me quickly, “Joke. Joke.”

He holds out his hands to me, his smile as endearing as it’s ever been. But the magic isn’t working. The sparkle has gone.

There’s silence for what seems like forever. My mind is a maelstrom. What do I want? What do I want?

“I don’t know,” I say after a long pause, and hear Ben inhale sharply.

“You don’t know?” He sounds as though he’s at the end of his tether. “You don’t fucking know?”

“I … I have to take a walk.” Abruptly, I push back my chair and stride away before he can say anything else.

I head round the back of the guest house and up the scrubby hill behind. I can see the new hostel—a concrete-and-glass building plonked in the space where the guys used to play football. I stride straight past it and keep walking down the hillside till I can’t see it anymore. I’m in a little dip in the land, surrounded by olive trees, with a derelict hut that I dimly remember from the old days. There’s rubbish here too—old cans and crisp packets and the remains of some pita bread. I stare at it, feeling a swell of hatred for whoever left it here. On impulse, I go round the small clearing, picking up all the trash, working with a burst of energy. There isn’t a rubbish bin, but I gather it together and put it next to a large rock. My life might be a mess, but I can clear a patch of land, at least.

When I’m done, I sit on the rock and stare ahead, not wanting to visit my thoughts. They’re too confusing and scary. The sun is beating on my head and I can hear the distant bleating of goats. It makes me smile reminiscently. Some things haven’t changed.

After a while, the sound of puffing makes me turn my head. A blond woman in a pink sundress is climbing up the hill. She sees me on the rock, smiles, and heads toward it gratefully.

“Hi,” she says. “Can I—”

“Go ahead.”

“Hot.” She wipes her forehead.

“Very.”

“Are you here to look at the ruins? The ancient ruins?”

“No,” I say apologetically. “I’m just hanging out. I’m on my honeymoon,” I add, as an excuse.

I vaguely remember people talking about the ruins in my gap year. We all intended to go and look at them, but in the end none of us ever bothered.

“We’re on honeymoon too.” She brightens. “We’re at the Apollina, but my husband dragged me here to look at these ruins. I told him I needed a sit-down and I’d join him in a minute.” She gets out a bottle of water and takes a swig. “He’s like that. We went to Thailand last year; it nearly killed me. I went on strike in the end. I said, ‘Not another bloody temple. I want to lie on the beach.’ I mean, what’s wrong with lying on the beach?”

“I agree.” I nod. “We went to Italy and it was endless churches.”

“Churches!” She rolls her eyes. “Tell me about it. That was us in Venice. I said to him, ‘Do you ever go to churches in England? Why the sudden interest just because we’re on holiday?’ ”

“That’s exactly what I said to Richard!” I say eagerly.

“My husband’s called Richard too!” the woman exclaims. “Isn’t that funny? Richard what?”

She smiles at me, but I stare back, stricken. What have I been saying? Why did my thoughts instantly go to Richard, not Ben? What is wrong with me?

“Actually …” I rub my face, trying to calm my thoughts. “Actually, my husband’s not called Richard.”

“Oh.” She looks taken aback. “Sorry. I thought you said …” She peers closer in dismay. “Are you all right?”

Oh God. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Tears are streaming out of my eyes. Lots of tears. I wipe them away and try to smile.

“I’m sorry.” I swallow hard. “I’ve recently split up from my boyfriend. I haven’t really got over it.”

“Your boyfriend?” The woman stares at me, disconcerted. “I thought you said you were on your honeymoon?”

“I am,” I sob. “I am on my honeymoon!” And now I’m really crying: huge, racking, childlike sobs.

“So which one is Richard?”

“Not my husband!” My voice rises to an anguished wail. “Richard’s not my husband! He never asked me! He never asked meeeee!”

“I’ll give you some privacy,” says the woman awkwardly, and clambers down off the rock. As she disappears hastily from view, I give way to the noisiest, most abandoned crying I’ve ever indulged in.

I feel homesick. Homesick for Richard. I miss him so much. I feel as though when we split up he wrenched a bit of my heart out. For a while the adrenaline of the situation kept me going—but now I’m realizing just how wounded I am. My whole body’s throbbing with the pain, and it’s nowhere near healing.

I miss him, I miss him, I miss him.

I miss his humor and his sense. I miss the feel of him in bed. I miss catching his eye at a party and knowing we’re thinking the same thing. I miss the smell of him. He smells the way a man should. I miss his voice and his kisses and even his feet. I miss everything.

And I’m married to someone else.

I give a fresh, desperate sob. Why did I get married? What was I thinking? I know Ben is hot and fun and charming, but suddenly that all seems meaningless. It feels hollow.

So what do I do now? I bury my head in my hands, feeling my breathing gradually slow down. I’m twisting my wedding ring round and round on my finger. I’ve never felt so terrified in my life. I’ve made mistakes before, but never on this scale. Never with these repercussions.

I can’t do anything about it, my brain is telling me. I’m stuck. Trapped. It’s my own fault.

The sun is beating strongly on my head. I should really get down off the rock and move into the shade. But I can’t bring myself to. I can’t move a muscle. Not till I’ve sorted myself out. Not till I’ve made a few decisions.

It’s nearly an hour before I move. I jump down from the rock, dust myself off, and head swiftly toward the guest house. Ben didn’t bother trying to find me to see if I was all right, I note. But I don’t even care anymore.

I see them before they see me. Ben is sitting close to Sarah on the veranda, his hand curled around her shoulders and playing lightly with her strap. It’s so obvious what has been going on, I feel like screaming. But, instead, I creep toward the guest house, staying silent as a cat.

Kiss, I’m willing them. Kiss. Confirm what I secretly believe.

I stand there, hardly breathing, my eyes fixed on them. It’s like watching Ben and me when we met up in the restaurant however many days ago. They’re revisiting their teenage fling. They can’t help it. The hormones emanating from them are so strong, they’re almost visible. Sarah is laughing at something Ben is saying, and he’s playing with her hair now, and they’ve got that intense couple-y look going on and …

Houston, we have touchdown.

Their lips have fixed together. His hand is exploring inside her tank top. Before this can go any further, I march toward the veranda, feeling like a soap opera actress who’s slightly late for her cue.

“How could you?” As I yell the words, I realize there’s a genuine torment behind them. How could he bring me here, to the scene of his other teenage fling, the one which predates me and which he never mentioned? He should have known Sarah would be here. He should have known the teenage hormones would flare up again. Did he do it all on purpose? Is it a game?

At least I’ve rattled them. They leap apart, and Ben bangs his ankle on the bench and curses.

“Ben, we need to talk,” I say shortly.

“Yes.” He glowers at me as though this is my fault, and I bridle. Sarah tactfully disappears into the guest house, and I join Ben on the veranda.

“So. This isn’t working.” I stare away from him, out toward the sea, my whole body tensed miserably. “And now I see you prefer someone else, anyway.”

“For fuck’s sake,” he says irritably. “One kiss—”

“It’s our honeymoon!”

“Exactly!” he says furiously. “You just turned me down! What’s a guy supposed to do?”

“I didn’t turn you down,” I retort, immediately realizing that, yes, I did turn him down. “OK.” I backtrack. “Well, I’m sorry. I just …”

I just didn’t want to do it with you. I wanted to do it with Richard. Because he’s the man I love. Richard, my beloved Richard. But I’ll never see him again. And now I’m going to cry again.…

“It’s difficult to say this,” I manage at last, and blink back fresh tears. “But I think our marriage was too quick. I think we rushed. I think …” I exhale a shuddery breath. “I think it was … wrong. And I blame myself. I’d only recently come out of a relationship. It was too soon.” I spread my hands. “My bad. Sorry.”

“No,” says Ben at once. “My bad.”

There’s silence as I take his words in. So we both think it was a mistake. A massive sense of failure is heaving in my chest. Combined with relief. Fliss was right shoots through my brain, and I flinch. That thought is too painful to deal with right now.

“I don’t want to move to France,” says Ben abruptly. “I hate fucking France. I shouldn’t have let you think I was serious.”

“Well, I shouldn’t have pressed you on it,” I say, wanting to be fair. “And I shouldn’t have made you go in for Couples’ Quiz.”

“I shouldn’t have got drunk the first night.”

“I should have had sex with you in the guest house,” I say remorsefully. “That was rude. Sorry.”

“No worries.” Ben shrugs. “Those beds squeak, anyway.”

“So … we’re done?” I can barely say the words. “Call it quits, no hard feelings?”

“We could go for quickest divorce,” says Ben, deadpan. “We might get a world record.”

“Shall we tell Georgios to cancel the honeymoon album, then?” I give a snort of almost painful laughter.

“What about the honeymooners’ karaoke evening? Shall we still do that?”

“We won Couples’ Quiz,” I remind him. “Maybe we could announce our divorce at the gala prize-giving.” I catch his eye, and suddenly the pair of us are in fits of uncontrollable, hysterical laughter.

You have to laugh. Because what’s the alternative?

When we’ve both calmed down a bit, I hug my knees and look at him properly. “Was this marriage ever real to you?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” He winces as though I’ve touched a sore spot. “Nothing’s felt real to me these last few years. My dad dying, the company, giving up on comedy … I think I need to sort this out.” He bangs his head with his fist.

“It wasn’t real for me either,” I say honestly. “It was like a fantasy. I was in such a bad place, and you pitched up and you looked so hot.…”

He still looks hot. He’s lithe and tanned and taut. But to my eye he’s lost something. He has a synthetic quality, like orange soda instead of freshly squeezed juice. It’s orangey and bubbly and it quenches your thirst, but it leaves a bitter aftertaste. And it’s not good for you.

“What shall we do?” All my laughter has abated, and all my anger too. I feel strangely detached. This is surreal. My marriage is over before it’s begun.

And we haven’t even had sex. I mean, how laughable is that? What kind of cruel, twisted games has fate been playing with us? Our honeymoon has been such an unbelievable disaster, it’s like someone Up There didn’t want us to stay together.

“I dunno. See out the holiday? Take it from there?” Ben looks at his phone. “I have this meeting with Yuri Zhernakov. You know he’s sailed here especially to see me?”

“Wow!” I stare at him, impressed.

“I know.” He puffs himself out a bit. “I want to sell. It makes sense. Lorcan thinks I shouldn’t,” he adds, “which makes it an even better reason to do it.”

His face has twisted into a familiar disgruntled expression. I’ve already heard several rants about how Lorcan’s a control freak and how Lorcan’s a cynical user and once, randomly, how Lorcan’s a bad Ping-Pong player. I’m not wild to hear another one, so I hastily move the conversation on.

“So you’ll give up work completely?” This seems like a bad idea to me—although who cares what I think? I’m only the soon-to-be ex-wife.

“Of course I won’t give up,” says Ben, looking a little stung. “Yuri says he’ll keep me on as special adviser. We’ll start some new projects together. Play around with some ideas. Yuri’s a great guy. Want to see his yacht?”

“Of course I do.” I might as well milk the benefits of being his wife while I can. “And after that? What about you and lover-girl?” I nod sharply toward the guest house, and a look of contrition comes over Ben’s face.

“I don’t know what happened. I’m sorry.” He shakes his head ruefully. “It was like Sarah and I were suddenly eighteen again; all the memories came flooding back.…”

“It’s OK,” I say, relenting. “I know. It was the same for us, remember?”

I can’t believe how much damage has been done, just from teenage loves meeting again. People should never come into contact with their first loves, I decide. There should be some official form of quarantine. The rule should be: you break up with your teenage lover and that’s it. One of you has to emigrate.

“I don’t mind what you do with her,” I say. “Knock yourself out. Have your fun.”

He stares at me. “Seriously? But … we’re married.”

If there’s one thing I’m not, it’s a hypocrite.

“Maybe we are on paper,” I say. “Maybe we signed papers and exchanged rings. But you didn’t really commit to me, and I didn’t really commit to you. Not properly. Not thoughtfully.” I give a gusty sigh. “We never even dated properly. I don’t see how I can have any hold over you.”

“Wow.” He looks incredulous. “Lottie, you’re amazing. You’re the most generous … broad-minded … you’re awesome.”

“Whatever.” I shrug.

For a while I’m silent. I might be keeping it together in front of Ben, but inside I feel battered by everything. I want to fall on someone’s shoulder and wail. Everything I thought is upside down. My marriage is over. I started the fire. Fail, fail, fail.

I sit there, my entire body twisted in tension. I feel like my brain is a confused, whirling cloud, with only a few tiny rays of clarity. Like little nudges pushing me in a certain direction. The thing is …

Here’s the thing. Ben is very hot. And good in the sack. And I am absolutely desperate. And maybe it would help me briefly forget how I nearly killed twenty innocent students.

Ben is quiet too, staring out over the arid olive grove, and at last he turns to me with a new glint in his eye.

“Just had an idea,” he says.

“Me too, actually,” I say.

“First and final shag? For old times’ sake?”

“My thoughts exactly. But not here.” I wrinkle my nose. “The mattresses were always gross.”

“Back at the hotel?”

“Sounds good.” I nod, feeling a tingle of excitement rise through me, like a bit of comfort in this whole sorry mess. We deserve this. We need this. First, it will be closure, and, second, it will distract me from my throbbing aching heart, and, third, I’ve been wanting to do this for nearly three weeks and I am going to go mad if we don’t.

If we’d simply shagged each other senseless when we first met up, none of this would have happened. There’s a lesson there, somewhere.

“I’ll tell Sarah we’re off and say our goodbyes.” Ben heads inside the guest house.

As soon as he’s gone, I pull out my phone. Just then, as Ben was talking, I had a weird, psychic-type flash about Richard. It was as though I could sense him thinking about me, somewhere in the world. It was so vivid that I’m actually expecting to see Richard’s name in my phone. My fingers are fumbling as I press the keys, my heart thudding with sudden hope.

But of course there’s nothing. No call, no message, nothing, even after I’ve scrolled through twice. I’m being idiotic. Why would there be? Richard’s in San Francisco, busy with his new life. I may miss him, but he doesn’t miss me.

My spirits crash back down so heavily, I feel tears stinging my eyes again. Why am I even thinking about Richard? He’s gone. Gone. He’s not going to text me. He’s not going to call me. Let alone fly across the world to declare his undying love and say he wants to marry me after all (my secret, stupid, never-going-to-happen fantasy).

Miserably, I scroll again through my other messages, noticing that I have loads of texts from Fliss. Just seeing her name makes me cringe. She warned me about this marriage. She was right. Why is she always right?

The thought of telling her the truth is too excruciating. Too humiliating. I can’t—at least, not straightaway.

I start a new text, feeling a desperate, childish defiance, a determination to prove her wrong.

Hi Fliss. All wonderful here. Guess what? Ben is selling his company to Yuri Zhernakov and we’re going on his yacht!!

As I stare at the words, they mock me. Happy, happy, happy. Lies, lies, lies. My fingers add a new lie:

I’m so glad I married Ben.

A tear drips onto my BlackBerry, but I ignore it and type on.

We’re so happy together; it’s perfect.

More tears are dripping down, and I roughly wipe my eyes. And then my fingers start tapping again and this time I can’t stop:

Imagine the best marriage in the world. Mine is better. We are so sympatico, so alive with the future. Compared with Richard, Ben is a marvel of a man. I haven’t given Richard a single thought.…