Wedding Night: A Novel

28

LOTTIE

I can see the tiny figures of swimmers bobbing around in the sea as I gaze back to shore. The late-afternoon sun is casting long shadows on the beach. Children are screaming and couples are embracing and families are playing together. And I suddenly wish with all my heart I was one of them. People on simple holidays, without complicated lives, without flaky, self-centered husbands, without disastrous decisions they have to unpick.

I hated the yacht the minute we got on board. Yachts are awful. Everything is clad in white leather and I’m terrified of making a mark, and Yuri Zhernakov just ran a glance over me as though to say, No, you won’t make the cut as my fifth wife. I was instantly banished to the company of two Russian women with plumped-up lips and boobs. They’re so puffed up with silicone they make me think of balloon animals, and they have made no conversation except “Which limited-edition designer compact are you examining your reflection in?”

Mine’s Body Shop, so that didn’t go very far.

I sip my mojito and wait for my worries to drown in it. But instead of sputtering and fading, they’re circling my brain, bigger and bigger. Everything’s a catastrophe. Everything’s terrible. I want to cry, I realize. But I can’t cry. I’m on a super-yacht. I’ve got to be sparkling and bright and somehow increase my cleavage.

I lean over the rail of the deck I’m standing on and wonder how far it is down to the sea. Could I jump?

No. I might hurt myself.

God knows where Ben is. He’s been unbearable ever since we arrived here, showing off and preening and telling Yuri Zhernakov about fifteen times how he’s planning to buy a yacht himself.

My hand steals into my pocket. There’s a thought that’s been sitting in my brain like a very patient person who isn’t going to give up. The same, simple thought. It’s been there for hours now. I could call Richard. I could call Richard. I’ve been ignoring it and ignoring it, but now I can’t remember all the reasons why it’s a bad idea. It seems like an exciting idea. A joyful idea. I could just call him. Now.

I know Fliss would tell me not to, but it’s not her life, is it?

I don’t exactly know what I want to say to him. In fact, I think I don’t want to say anything. I only want to make a connection. Like when you reach for someone’s hand and squeeze it. That’s it: I want to squeeze his hand over the ether. And if he pulls his hand away, well, then I’ll know.

I can see the two Russian women coming on deck, and I hurry round the corner so they won’t see me. I pull out my phone, stare at it for an instant, then plunge my finger down onto the keypad. As his number rings, my heart starts to thud, and I feel sick.

“Hello, it’s Richard Finch here.”

It’s gone to voicemail. My stomach corkscrews in panic and I press stop. I can’t leave a voicemail. A voicemail isn’t a squeezed hand. It’s an envelope pressed into the palm. And I don’t know what I want to put in the envelope. Not exactly.

I try to visualize what he might be doing right now. I have no concept of his life in San Francisco. Getting up, maybe? Having a shower? I don’t even know what his apartment looks like. He’s drifted right away from me. Tears sting my eyes and I look miserably at my phone. Could I try again? Would that count as stalking?

“Lottie! There you are!” It’s Ben, along with Yuri. I shove my phone back in my pocket and turn to face them. Ben is pink-faced from booze, and my heart sinks. He looks manic, like a small child who’s stayed up too late. “We’re going to seal the deal over some champagne,” he says excitedly. “Yuri’s got some vintage Krug. Care to join us?”