Wedding Night: A Novel

2

FLISS

Oh God. I want to weep. It went wrong. I don’t know how, but it went wrong.

Every time one of Lottie’s relationships ends, she immediately talks about doing a master’s degree. It’s like a Pavlovian reaction.

“Maybe I could even go on to do a PhD, you know?” she’s saying, with only the tiniest shake in her voice. “Maybe do some research abroad?”

She might fool the average person—but not me. Not her sister. She’s in a bad way.

“Right,” I say. “Yes. A PhD abroad. Good idea!”

There’s no point in pressing her for details or asking bluntly what happened. Lottie has her own distinct process for dealing with breakups. You can’t hurry her and you must not express any sympathy. I’ve learned this the hard way.

There was the time she split up from Seamus. She arrived on my doorstep with a carton of Phish Food and bloodshot eyes and I made the elementary error of asking, “What happened?” Whereupon she exploded like a grenade: “Jesus, Fliss! Can’t I just come and share ice cream with my sister without getting the third bloody degree? Maybe I just want to hang out with my own sister. Maybe life isn’t just about boyfriends. Maybe I just want to … reassess my life. Do a master’s degree.”

Then there was the time Jamie dumped her and I made the mistake of saying, “Oh God, Lottie, poor you.”

She eviscerated me. “Poor me? What do you mean, poor me? What, Fliss, you’re pitying me because I don’t have a man? I thought you were a feminist.” She vented all her hurt on me in one long tirade, and by the end I practically needed an ear transplant.

So now I listen in silence as she talks about how she’s been meaning to explore the more academic side of herself for ages, and a lot of people don’t appreciate how cerebral she is, and her tutor entered her for a university prize, did I know that? (Yes, I did: she mentioned it straight after she broke up with Jamie.)

At last she tapers off into silence. I don’t breathe. I think we might be getting to the nub of things.

“So, by the way, Richard and I aren’t together anymore,” she says in a careless, dropping-something-from-the-tips-of-her-fingers manner.

“Oh, really?” I match her tone. We could be talking about a minor subplot in EastEnders.

“Yeah, we split up.”

“I see.”

“Wasn’t right.”

“Ah. Well. That’s a real …” I’m running out of anodyne one-syllable words. “I mean, that’s …”

“Yes. It’s a shame.” She pauses. “In one way.”

“Right. So, was he …” I’m treading on eggshells here. “I mean, weren’t you …”

What the fuck went wrong when an hour ago he was in the middle of a bloody proposal? is what I want to demand.

I don’t always trust Lottie’s version of events. She can be a little starry-eyed. She can see what she wants to see. But, hand on heart, I believed as firmly as she did that Richard was planning to propose to her.

And now not only are they not engaged but they’re over? I can’t help feeling profoundly shocked. I’ve got to know Richard pretty well, and he’s a good’un. The best she’s ever dated, if you ask me. (Which she has, many times, often at midnight when she’s drunk and interrupts before I’ve finished to announce she loves him whatever I think.) He’s sturdy, kind, successful. No chippiness, no baggage. Handsome but not vain. And in love with her. That’s the main point. In fact, the only point. They’ve got that vibe of successful couples. They’ve got that connection. The way they talk, the way they joke, the way they sit together, always with his arm hooked gently around her shoulders, his fingers playing with her hair. The way they seem to be heading for the same things—whether it’s take-out sushi or a holiday in Canada. They have togetherness. You can just see it. At least, I can.

Correction: I could. So why couldn’t he?

Bastard, stupid man. What exactly is he hoping to find in a partner? What exactly is wrong with my sister? Does he think she’s holding him back from some great romance with a six-foot supermodel?

I let off steam by chucking a balled-up piece of paper aggressively into my bin. A moment later I realize I actually need that paper. Bugger.

The phone is still silent. I can feel Lottie’s misery emanating down the line. Oh God, I can’t bear this. I don’t care how prickly she is, I have to know a bit more. It’s insane. One minute they’re getting married, the next we’re on Stage One of Lottie’s Breakup Process, do not pass Go.

“I thought you said he had a ‘big question’?” I say as tactfully as I can.

“Yes. Well. He changed his story,” she says in a determinedly nonchalant voice. “He said it wasn’t a ‘big question.’ It was a ‘question.’ ”

I wince. That’s bad. A “big question” isn’t a variety of “question.” It’s not even a subset.

“So what was the question?”

“It was about air miles, as it happens,” she says, her voice flat.

Air miles? Ouch. I can imagine how that went down. Ian Aylward is at my office window, I suddenly notice. He’s gesticulating energetically. I know what he wants. It’s the speech for the awards ceremony tonight.

“Done,” I mouth, in a blatant lie, and point at my computer, trying to imply that mere technology is holding up its arrival. “I’ll email it. Email. It.”

At last he walks away. I glance at my watch, and my heart ups its pace a little. I have precisely ten minutes to listen supportively to Lottie, write the rest of my speech, and touch up my makeup.

No, nine and a half minutes.

I feel yet another stab of resentment, directed straight at Richard. If he really had to break my sister’s heart, could he have chosen a day which wasn’t my most insanely busy of the whole year? I hurriedly pull up the speech document on my screen and start typing.

In conclusion, I would like to thank everyone here tonight. Both those who have won awards and those who are gnashing their teeth furiously. I can see you! (Pause for laughter.)

“Lottie, you know it’s our big awards event tonight,” I say guiltily. “I’m going to have to go in five. If I could come round, you know I would in a heartbeat.…”

Too late, I realize I’ve made a heinous error. I’ve expressed sympathy. Sure enough, she turns on me.

“Come round?” she spits scathingly. “You don’t need to come round! What, you think I’m upset about Richard? You think my whole life revolves around one man? I wasn’t even thinking about him. I only called to tell you about my plans for a master’s degree. That was the only reason.”

“I know,” I backtrack. “Of course it was.”

“Maybe I’ll see if there’s an exchange program in the States. Maybe I’ll look at Stanford.…”

She carries on talking, and I type faster and faster. I’ve given this speech six times before. It’s just the same old words, every year, in a different order.

The hotel industry continues to innovate and inspire. I am awed at the accomplishments and innovations that we see in our industry.

No. Crap. I press delete and try again.

I am awed at the accomplishments and advances that my team of reviewers and I have witnessed around the world.

Yes. “Witnessed” adds a nice touch of gravitas to the occasion. One could almost think we’ve spent the year engaging with a series of holy prophets rather than with tanned PR girls in stilettos showing us the latest technology in poolside towel-chilling.

My thanks are due to Bradley Rose, as ever.…

Do I thank Brad first? Or Megan? Or Michael?

I’ll leave someone out. I know it. This is the law of the thank-you speech. You miss some vital person, then grab the microphone again and call out their name in a shrill voice, but no one’s listening. Then you have to find them and spend a hideous half hour thanking them personally while you both smile but above their head in a thought bubble are floating the words: You forgot I exist.

My thanks are due to everyone who put this awards ceremony together, everyone who didn’t put this awards ceremony together, my entire staff, all your staffs, all our families, all seven billion people on this planet, God/Allah/Other.…

“… I actually see this as a positive. I really do, Fliss. This is my chance to reconfigure my life, you know? I mean, I needed this.”

I drag my attention back to the phone. Lottie’s refusal to admit that anything is wrong is one of her most endearing qualities. Her resolute bravery is so heartbreaking, it makes me want to hug her.

But it also slightly makes me want to tear my hair out. It makes me want to yell, Stop talking about bloody master’s degrees! Just admit you’re hurt!

Because I know how this goes. I’ve been here before. Every breakup is the same. She starts off all brave and positive. She refuses to admit anything is wrong. She goes days, maybe weeks, without cracking, a smile lodged on her face, and people who don’t know her say, “Wow, Lottie coped with the breakup really well.”

Until the delayed reaction happens. Which it does, every time. In the form of some impulsive, outrageous, total fuckwit gesture which makes her feel euphoric for about five minutes. Each time, it’s something different. A tattoo on her ankle; an extreme haircut; an overpriced flat in Borough that she then had to sell at a loss. Membership of a cult. An “intimate” piercing which went septic. That was the worst.

No, I take it back, the cult was the worst. They got six hundred pounds of her money and she was still talking about “enlightenment.” Evil, preying bastards. I think they circle London, sniffing out the newly dumped.

It’s only after the euphoric period that Lottie finally, properly cracks. And then it’s into the weeping and the days off work and “Fliss, why didn’t you stop me?” And “Fliss, I hate this tattoo!” And “Fliss, how can I go to my GP? I’m so embarrassed! What will I dooooo?”

I privately call these post-breakup fuckwit actions her Unfortunate Choices, which is a phrase our mother used a lot while she was alive. It covered anything from a dodgy pair of shoes worn by a dinner-party guest to my father’s eventual decision to shack up with a South African beauty queen. “Unfortunate choice,” she would murmur, with that glacial stare, and we children would shiver, thanking our lucky stars it wasn’t us who had made Unfortunate Choices.

I don’t often miss my mother. But sometimes I wish there was another family member I could call on to help pick up the pieces of Lottie’s life. My dad doesn’t count. First of all, he lives in Johannesburg. And, second, if it’s not a horse, or offering him a glass of whiskey, he’s not interested in it.

Now, listening to Lottie babble on about sabbatical programs, my heart is sinking. I can sense another Unfortunate Choice looming. It’s out there somewhere. I feel as though I’m scanning the horizon, my hand shading my eyes, wondering where the shark will surface and grab her foot.

I wish she would just curse and rant and throw things. Then I could relax; the madness would be out of her system. When I broke up with Daniel, I swore obscenely for two solid weeks. It wasn’t pretty. But at least I didn’t join a cult.

“Lottie …” I rub my head. “You know I’m off on holiday tomorrow for two weeks?”

“Oh yes.”

“You’ll be OK?”

“Of course I’ll be OK.” Her scathing tone returns. “I’m going to have a pizza and a nice bottle of wine tonight. I’ve been meaning to do that for ages, actually.”

“Well, have a good one. Just don’t drown the pain.”

That’s another of our mother’s sayings. I have a sudden memory of her in her pencil-slim white trouser suit and green glittery eye shadow. “Drowning the pain, darlings.” She’d be sitting at the bar in that house we had in Hong Kong, cradling a martini while Lottie and I watched, in our matching pink dressing gowns flown out from England.

After she’d gone out, we would intone the phrase to each other like some kind of religion. I thought it was a general toast like “Down the hatch,” and shocked a school friend many years later, at a family lunch, by raising my glass and saying, “Well, drown the pain, everyone.”

Now we use it as a shorthand for “getting totally trashed in an embarrassing manner.”

“I will not be drowning the pain, thank you,” retorts Lottie, sounding offended. “And, anyway, you should talk, Fliss.”

I may have drunk a few too many vodkas after Daniel and I split up, and I may have made a long speech to an audience of curry-house diners. It’s a fair point.

“Yes, well.” I sigh. “Talk soon.”

I put the phone down, close my eyes, and give my brain about ten seconds to reboot and focus. I have to forget Lottie’s love life. I have to concentrate on the awards ceremony. I have to finish my speech. Now. Go.

I open my eyes and swiftly type a list of people to thank. It goes on for ten lines, but better safe than sorry. I email it to Ian, headlined Speech! Urgent! and leap up from my desk.

“Fliss!” As I leave my office, Celia pounces on me. She’s one of our most prolific freelancers and has the trademark crow’s feet of the professional spa reviewer. You’d think that the spa treatments would cancel out the sun damage, but I find it tends to be the other way around. They really should stop putting spas in Thailand. They should situate them in northern wintry countries with no daylight at all.

Hmm. Is there a piece in that?

I quickly type into my BlackBerry: Zero-daylight spa? then look up. “Everything OK?”

“The Gruffalo is here. He looks livid.” She swallows. “Maybe I should leave.”

The Gruffalo is the industry nickname for Gunter Bachmeier. He owns a chain of ten luxury hotels and lives in Switzerland and has a forty-inch waist. I knew he was invited tonight, but I assumed he wouldn’t turn up. Not after our review of his new spa–hotel in Dubai, the Palm Stellar.

“It’s fine. Don’t worry.”

“Don’t tell him it was me.” Celia’s voice is actually trembling.

“Celia.” I grip her by both shoulders. “You stand by your review, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then.” I’m willing some strength into her, but she looks terrified. It’s amazing how someone who writes such savage, excoriating, witty prose can be so gentle and sensitive in the flesh.

Hmm. Is there a piece in that?

I type: Meet our reviewers in the flesh?? Profiles??

Then I delete it. Our readers don’t want to meet the reviewers. They don’t want to know that “CBD” lives in Hackney and is an accomplished poet on the side. They simply want to know that their massive slice of cash is going to buy them all the sunshine/snow, white beach/mountains, solitude/beautiful people, Egyptian cotton/hammocks, haute cuisine/expensive club sandwiches that they require of a five-star holiday.

“No one knows who ‘CBD’ is. You’re safe.” I pat her arm. “I have to run.” I’m already striding down the corridor again. I head into the central atrium and look around. It’s a large, airy, double-height hall—the only impressive space at Pincher International—and every year our overcrowded sub-editors suggest that it’s converted into office space. But it comes into its own for the awards party. I scan the space, ticking off items in my head. Massive iced cake in shape of magazine cover, which no one will eat: check. Caterers setting out glasses: check. Table of trophies: check. Ian from IT is crouching by the podium, fiddling with the auto reader.

“All OK?” I hurry over.

“Grand.” He jumps up. “I’ve loaded the speech. Want a sound check?”

I step onto the stage, switch on the microphone, and peer at the reader.

“Good evening!” I raise my voice. “I’m Felicity Graveney, editor of Pincher Travel Review, and I would like to welcome you to our twenty-third annual awards ceremony. And what a year it’s been.”

I can see from Ian’s sardonic eyebrow that I’m going to have to sound a bit more excited than that.

“Shut up,” I say, and he grins. “I have eighteen awards to present.…”

Which is far too many. Every year we have a stand-up battle over which ones to get rid of, and then we get rid of none.

“Blah, blah … OK, fine.” I switch off the mike. “See you later.”

As I hurry back down the corridor, I see Gavin, our publisher, at the far end. He’s ushering an unmistakable forty-inch waist into the lift. As I’m watching, the Gruffalo turns and flashes a menacing anti-smile at me. He holds up four stubby fingers and is still doing so as the doors close.

I know what that means, and I’m not going to be intimidated. So his new hotel got four stars from us instead of five. He should have created a better hotel. He should have invested in slightly more sand to lay on the concrete base of his “award-winning, man-created beach” and tried hiring slightly less pretentious staff.

I head into the Ladies’, survey my reflection, and wince. Sometimes I’m genuinely shocked at the version of me in the mirror. Do I look so unlike Angelina Jolie? When did those shadows appear under my eyes? Everything about me is too dark, I abruptly decide. My hair, my brows, my sallow skin. I need to get something bleached. Or maybe everything, all at once. There must surely be a spa somewhere that has an all-in-one bleaching tank. One quick dip; keep your mouth open for the teeth-whitening option.

Hmm. Is there a piece in that? I type Bleach? into my BlackBerry, then attack everything I can with brushes. Finally I apply a generous amount of Nars Red Lizard. One thing: I can damn well wear lipstick. Perhaps they’ll put it on my grave. FELICITY GRAVENEY LIES HERE. SHE COULD DAMN WELL WEAR LIPSTICK.

I head out, glance at my watch, and press Daniel on speed dial as I walk. He’ll know I’m phoning now, we discussed the timing, he’ll pick up, he has to pick up.… Go on, Daniel, pick up.… Where are you …?

Voicemail.

Bastard.

With Daniel, I am quite capable of going from calm to seething in 0–60.

The beep sounds and I draw breath.

“You’re not there,” I say with elaborate calmness, walking toward my office. “That’s a shame, because I have to be at this event soon, which you knew, because we discussed it. Several times.”

My voice is shaking. I cannot allow him to get to me. Let it go, Fliss. Divorce is a process and this is a process and we’re all part of the Tao. Or the Zen. Whatever. The thing in all those books I was given with the word “Divorce” on the cover above a circle or a picture of a tree.

“Anyway.” I take a deep breath. “Maybe you can let Noah listen to this message? Thank you.”

I close my eyes briefly and remind myself I’m not talking to Daniel anymore. I have to shift his repulsive face out of my mind. I’m talking to the little face that lights up my life. The face that—against pretty tall odds—keeps the world making sense. I picture his shaggy fringe, his huge gray eyes, his school socks wrinkled around his ankles. Curled up on the sofa at Daniel’s place, with Monkey under his arm.

“Sweetheart, I hope you’re having a lovely time with Daddy. I’ll see you soon, OK? I’ll try calling later, but if I don’t manage it, then night night and I love you.”

I’m nearly at my office door now. I have stuff to do. But I can’t help talking for as long as possible, till the beep tells me to go and get a life.

“Night night, sweetheart.” I press the phone up against my cheek. “Have lovely dreams, OK? Night night—”

“Night night,” answers a familiar little voice, and I nearly trip over my party Manolos.

What was that? Am I hallucinating? Has he overridden the voicemail? I peer at my phone to make sure, give it a quick bash against my palm, and listen again.

“Hello?” I say cautiously.

“Hello! Hello-hello-hello …”

Oh my God. That voice isn’t coming from the phone. It’s coming from—

I hurry round the corner into my office and there he is. My seven-year-old son. Sitting on the armchair I give to visitors.

“Mummy!” he yells in delight.

“Wow.” I’m almost speechless. “Noah. You’re here. At my office. That’s just … Daniel?” I turn to my ex-husband, who is standing by the window, flicking through a past issue of the magazine. “What’s going on? I thought Noah would be having tea by now? At your place?” I add with bright emphasis. “As we planned?”

“But I’m not,” puts in Noah triumphantly.

“Yes! I can see that, darling! So … Daniel?” My smile has spread right across my face. Generally the rule is: the more I smile at Daniel, the more I’m feeling like stabbing him.

I can’t help surveying his features with a critical eye, even though he has nothing to do with me anymore. He’s gained a couple of pounds. New fine-stripe shirt. No hair product. That’s a mistake; his hair looks too floppy and wispy now. Maybe Trudy likes it that way.

“Daniel?” I try again.

Daniel says nothing, just shrugs easily, as though everything is obvious and words are superfluous. That shrug of his is new. It’s a post-me shrug. When we were together, his shoulders were permanently hunched. Now he shrugs. He wears a Kabbalah bracelet under his suit. He bounces confrontation back like he’s made of rubber. His sense of humor has been replaced by a sense of righteousness. He doesn’t joke anymore: he pronounces.

I can’t believe we used to have sex. I can’t believe we produced Noah together. Maybe I’m in The Matrix and I’ll wake up to something which makes far more sense, like all this time I’ve been lying in a tank attached to electrodes.

“Daniel?” My smile is fixed.

“We agreed Noah would spend tonight with you.” He shrugs again.

“What?” I stare at him, dumbfounded. “No, we didn’t. It’s your night.”

“I have to go to Frankfurt tonight. I sent you an email.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I did.”

“You didn’t! You did not send me any email.”

“We agreed I’d drop Noah here.”

He’s totally calm, as only Daniel can be. I, on the other hand, am about to have a nervous breakdown.

“Daniel.” My voice is trembling with the effort of not smashing his head in. “Why would I have agreed to have Noah here tonight when I’m hosting an awards ceremony? Why would I have done that?”

Daniel shrugs again. “I’m about to go to the airport. He’s had something to eat. Here’s his overnight bag.” He dumps Noah’s rucksack on the floor. “All right, Noah? Mummy’s going to have you tonight, lucky thing.”

There is no way out of this.

“Great!” I smile at Noah, who is eyeing the two of us anxiously. It breaks my heart to see worry in his huge eyes. No child of his age should ever worry about anything. “What a treat for me!” I ruffle his hair reassuringly. “Excuse me, I’ll just be a moment.…”

I walk along the corridor to the Ladies’. It’s empty, which is a good thing, because I cannot contain myself any longer.

“HE DID NOT SEND ME A FUCKING EMAIL!” My voice rockets round the cubicles. I’m panting as I meet my own eyes in the mirror. I feel about ten percent better. Enough to get through the evening.

I walk calmly back to the office, to see Daniel shrugging on his coat.

“Well, have a good trip or whatever.” I sit down, unscrew my fountain pen, and write Congratulations! on the card for the bouquet which will be presented to the overall winner (that new spa–resort in Marrakesh). With best wishes from Felicity Graveney and all the team.

Daniel is still in my office. I can sense him lurking. He has something to say.

“You still here?” I lift my eyes.

“Just one other thing.” He surveys me with that righteous expression again. “I’ve got a couple more points to raise over the settlement.”

For a moment I’m so stunned I can’t react.

“Wha-at?” I manage to utter at last.

He cannot raise more points. We’ve finished raising points. We’re about to sign off. It’s done. After a court case and two appeals and a million lawyers’ letters. It’s finished.

“I was talking it over with Trudy.” He does his hand-spreading again. “She raised some interesting issues.”

No way. I want to thwack him. He does not get to talk about our divorce with Trudy. It’s ours. If Trudy wants a divorce, she can marry him first. See how she likes that.

“Just a couple of points.” He puts a wad of papers down on the desk. “Have a read.”

Have a read. As though he’s recommending a good whodunit.

“Daniel.” I feel like a kettle coming to the boil. “You can’t start laying new stuff on me now. The divorce is done. We’ve thrashed everything out already.”

“Surely it’s more important to get it right?”

He sounds reproving, as though I’m suggesting we go for a shoddy, ill-prepared divorce. One with no workmanship in it. Botched together with a glue gun instead of hand-sewn.

“I’m happy with what we’ve agreed,” I say tightly, although “happy” is hardly the right word. “Happy” would have been not finding his draft love letters to another woman stuffed in his briefcase, where anyone searching for chewing gum might stumble on them.

Love letters. I mean, love letters! I still can’t believe he wrote love letters to another woman and not to his own wife. I can’t believe he wrote explicit sexual poetry, illustrated by cartoons. I was genuinely shocked. If he’d written those poems to me, maybe everything would have been different. Maybe I would have realized what a self-obsessed weirdo he was before we got married.

“Well.” He shrugs again. “Perhaps I have more of a long-term view. Maybe you’re too close.”

Too close? How can I be too close to my own divorce? Who is this rubber-faced, emotionally stunted idiot, and how did he get into my life? I’m breathing so fast with frustration, I feel like if I rose from my desk now, I could give Usain Bolt a run for his money.

And then it happens. I don’t exactly mean for it to happen. My wrist moves sharply and it’s done, and there are six little ink spots in a trail on his shirt and a bubble of happiness inside my chest.

“What was that?” Daniel looks down at his shirt and then up, his face aghast. “Is that ink? Did you just flick your pen at me?”

I glance at Noah to see if he witnessed his mother’s descent into infantile behavior. But he’s lost in the far more mature world of Captain Underpants.

“It slipped,” I say innocently.

“It slipped. Are you five years old?” His face crumples into a scowl and he dabs at his shirt, smearing one of the ink spots. “I could call my lawyer about this.”

“You could discuss parental responsibility, your favorite subject.”

“Funny.”

“It’s not.” My mood suddenly sobers. I’m tired of playing tit for tat. “It’s really not.” I look at our son, who is bent over his book, shaking with laughter at something. His shorts are rucked up, and on his knee is a face drawn in ballpoint pen with an arrow pointing to it and I AM A SUPERHERO printed in wobbly letters. How can Daniel bail out on him like this? He hasn’t seen him for a fortnight; he never calls to chat with him. It’s as if Noah is a hobby that he bought all the equipment for and reached an elementary level—but then decided he’s just not that into after all and maybe he should have gone for wall-climbing instead.

“It’s really not,” I repeat. “I think you should go.”

I don’t even look up as he departs. I draw his stupid pile of papers to me, flick through them, too angry to read a word, then open a document on my computer and type furiously:

D arrives at office, leaving N with me with no notice, contravening agreement. Unhelpful manner. Wishes to raise more points regarding divorce settlement. Refuses to discuss reasonably.

I unclip my memory stick from its place on a chain round my neck and save the updated file to it. My memory stick is my comfort blanket. The whole dossier is on there: the whole sorry Daniel story. I replace it round my neck, then speed-dial Barnaby, my lawyer.

“Barnaby, you won’t believe it,” I say as soon as his voicemail answers. “Daniel wants to revisit the settlement again. Can you call me back?”

Then I glance anxiously at Noah to see if he heard me. But he’s chortling over something in his book. I’ll have to hand him over to my PA; she’s helped me out with emergency child-care before.

“Come on.” I stand up and ruffle his hair. “Let’s find Elise.”

The thing about avoiding people at parties is, it’s quite easy if you’re hosting. You always have an excuse to move away from the conversation just as you see a forty-inch pink-striped shirt bearing down on you. (So sorry, I must greet the marketing manager of the Mandarin Oriental, back in a moment.…)

The party has been going for half an hour and I’ve managed to avoid the Gruffalo completely. It helps that he’s so massive and the atrium is so crowded. I’ve made it appear totally natural that every time he gets within three feet I’m striding away in the opposite direction, or out of the room completely, or, in desperation, into the Ladies’….

Damn. As I emerge from the Ladies’, he’s waiting for me. Gunter Bachmeier is actually standing in the corridor, staking out the door of the Ladies’.

“Oh, hello, Gunter,” I say smoothly. “How delightful to see you. I’ve been meaning to catch up with you—”

“You hef been avoiding me,” he says in severe guttural tones.

“Nonsense! Are you enjoying the party?” I force myself to put a hand on his meaty forearm.

“You hef traduced my new hotel.”

He pronounces “traduced” with a rich, rolling sound. “Trrrraduced.” I’m quite impressed that he knows the word. I certainly wouldn’t know the equivalent for “traduced” in German. My German extends to “Taxi, bitte?”

“Gunter, you’re overreacting.” I smile pleasantly. “A four-star review is hardly … traducement.” Traduction? Traducedom? “I’m sorry that my reviewer found herself unable to allot you five stars—”

“You hef not reviewed my hotel yourself.” He’s bristling with anger. “You hef sent an amateur. You hef treated me with disrrrrespect!”

“No, I hef not!” I retort before I can stop myself. “I mean hev. Have.” My face is flaming. “Have not.”

I didn’t mean to do that; I just have a terrible parrot habit. I mimic voices and accents without intending to. Now Gunter is glaring at me even more viciously.

“Everything all right, Felicity?” Gavin, our publisher, comes bustling up. I can see his radar twitching and I know why. Last year, the Gruffalo shelled out for twenty-four double-page spreads. The Gruffalo is keeping us in business. But I can’t give his hotel a five-star review simply because he bought some ads. A five-star review in Pincher Travel Review is a very big deal.

“I was just explaining to Gunter that I sent one of our top freelancers to review his hotel,” I say. “I’m sorry he wasn’t happy, but—”

“You should hef gone yourrrself.” Gunter spits the words dismissively. “Wherrrre is your crrrredibility, Felicity? Wherrre is your rrrreputation?”

As he stalks off, I secretly feel a bit shaken. As I lift my eyes to Gavin, my heart is pumping.

“Well!” I try to sound lighthearted. “What an overreaction.”

“Why didn’t you cover the Palm Stellar?” Gavin is frowning. “You review all major launches. That’s always been the deal.”

“I decided to send Celia Davidson,” I say brightly, avoiding the question. “She’s a great writer.”

“Why didn’t you cover the Palm Stellar?” he repeats, as though he hasn’t heard me.

“I had some stuff going on with … with …” I clear my throat, unwilling to say the word. “Some personal stuff.”

I watch as Gavin suddenly comprehends. “Your divorce?”

I can’t bring myself to answer. I twist my watch round my wrist, as though suddenly interested in the mechanism.

“Your divorce?” His voice sharpens ominously. “Again?”

My cheeks are burning with embarrassment. I know my divorce has taken on epic, Lord of the Rings–style proportions. I know it’s taken up more of my working time than it should have. I know I keep promising Gavin that it’s all done and dusted.

But it’s not like I have a choice. And it’s not like it’s fun.

“I was talking to a specialist barrister based in Edinburgh,” I admit at last. “I had to fly up there; his schedule was really busy—”

“Felicity.” Gavin beckons me to one side of the corridor, and at the sight of his tight-lipped smile, my stomach turns over. That’s the smile he wears to cut salaries and budgets and tell people their magazine is unfortunately being axed, could they please leave the building? “Felicity, no one could be more sympathetic to your plight than me. You know that.”

He’s such a liar. What does he know about divorce? He has a wife and a mistress, and neither of them seems to mind about the other.

“Thank you, Gavin,” I feel obliged to say.

“But you cannot let your divorce get in the way of your job or the reputation of Pincher International,” he raps out. “Understand?”

Suddenly, for the first time, I feel genuinely nervous. I know from experience that Gavin starts invoking the “reputation of Pincher International” when he’s thinking of firing someone. It’s a warning.

I also know from experience, the only way to deal with him is to refuse to admit anything.

“Gavin.” I draw myself up as tall as possible and affect a dignified air. “Let me make one thing quite clear.” I pause, as though I’m David Cameron at Prime Minister’s Questions. “Quite clear. If there’s one thing I never, ever do, it’s let my personal life compromise my job. In fact—”

“Pow!” An earsplitting shriek interrupts me. “Laser attack!”

My blood freezes. That can’t be—

Oh no.

A familiar rat-a-tat sound assaults my ears. Orange plastic bullets are shooting through the air, hitting people in the face and landing in glasses of champagne. Noah is running down the corridor toward the atrium, laughing uproariously and firing all around him with his automatic Nerf gun. Fuck. Why didn’t I check his backpack?

“Stop!” I launch myself at Noah, grab him by the collar, and snatch the plastic gun out of his hands. “Stop that! Gavin, I’m so sorry,” I add breathlessly. “Daniel was supposed to look after Noah tonight, but he left me in the lurch, and— Shit! Argh!”

In my agitation, I’ve pressed some button on the Nerf gun, and it’s spraying more bullets out, like something out of Reservoir Dogs, hitting Gavin in the chest. I’m massacring my boss with an automatic weapon flashes through my mind. This won’t look good in my appraisal. The stream of bullets rises to his face and he splutters in horror.

“Sorry!” I drop the gun on the floor. “I didn’t mean to shoot.…”

With a shudder, I notice Gunter, ten feet away. There are three orange Nerf bullets lodged in his tufty white hair and one in his drink.

“Gavin.” I swallow. “Gavin. I don’t know what to say—”

“It was my fault,” Elise interrupts me hastily. “I was looking after Noah.”

“But he shouldn’t have been at the office,” I point out. “So it’s my fault.”

We turn to Gavin as though waiting for his verdict. He’s just staring at the scene, shaking his head.

“Personal life. Job.” He meshes his hands together. “Fliss, you need to sort yourself out.”

My face is hot with mortification as I frog-march a protesting Noah to my office.

“But I was winning!” he keeps complaining.

“I’m sorry.” Elise is clutching her head. “He said it was his favorite game.”

“No problem.” I shoot her a smile. “Noah, we don’t play with Nerf guns at Mummy’s office. Ever.”

“I’ll go and find him something to eat,” says Elise. “Fliss, you need to get back to the party, quick. Go. Now. It’ll be fine. C’mon, Noah.”

She hustles Noah out of the room and I feel every cell of my body sag.

She’s right. I need to hurry back, sweep in, gather up the Nerf bullets, apologize, charm, and turn this evening back into the slick professional affair it always is.

But I’m so tired. I feel like I could go to sleep right now. The carpet under my desk looks like the perfect place for me to curl up.

I sink down on my chair, just as the phone rings. I’ll take this one call. Maybe it will be some uplifting piece of news.

“Hello?”

“Felicity? Barnaby here.”

“Oh, Barnaby.” I sit up, feeling freshly galvanized. “Thanks for ringing back. You won’t believe what Daniel just did. He’d agreed to have Noah tonight, but then he left me in the lurch. And now he says he wants to revisit the settlement! We might end up back in court!”

“Fliss, calm down. Chill out.” Barnaby’s unhurried Mancunian tones greet me. I do often wish Barnaby spoke a bit more quickly. Especially as I’m paying him by the hour. “We’ll sort it. Don’t worry.”

“He’s so frustrating.”

“I hear you. But you mustn’t stress. Try to forget about it.”

Is he kidding?

“I’ve written the incident up. I can email it to you.” I finger my memory stick on its chain. “Shall I do that now?”

“Fliss, I’ve told you, you don’t need to keep a dossier of every single incident.”

“But I want to! I mean, talk about ‘unreasonable behavior.’ If we put all this into the case, if the judge knew what he was like—”

“The judge does know what he’s like.”

“But—”

“Fliss, you’re having the Divorce Fantasy,” says Barnaby tranquilly. “What have I told you about the Divorce Fantasy?”

There’s silence. I hate the way Barnaby can read my mind. I’ve known him since college, and although he costs a bomb even on mates’ rates, I never considered going to anyone else. Now he’s waiting for me to answer, like a teacher in class.

“The Divorce Fantasy will never happen,” I mumble finally, staring at my fingernails.

“The Divorce Fantasy will never happen,” he repeats with emphasis. “The judge will never read a two-hundred-page dossier on Daniel’s shortcomings aloud in court, while a crowd jeers at your ex-husband. He will never start his summing up, ‘Ms. Graveney, you are a saint to have put up with such an evil scumbag and I thus award you everything you want.’ ”

I can’t help coloring. That is pretty much my Divorce Fantasy. Except in my version, the crowd throws bottles at Daniel too.

“Daniel will never admit to being wrong,” Barnaby presses on relentlessly. “He’ll never stand in front of the judge, weeping and saying, ‘Fliss, please forgive me.’ The papers will never report your divorce with the headline: TOTAL SHIT ADMITS FULL SHITTINESS IN COURT.”

I can’t help half-snorting with laughter. “I do know that.”

“Do you, Fliss?” Barnaby sounds skeptical. “Are you sure about that? Or are you still expecting him to wake up one day and realize all the bad things he’s done? Because you have to understand, Daniel will never realize anything. He’ll never confess to being a terrible human being. I could spend a thousand hours on this case, it would still never happen.”

“But it’s so unfair.” I can feel a ball of frustration. “He is a terrible human being.”

“I know. He’s a shit. So don’t dwell on him. Flush him out of your life. Gone.”

“It’s not as easy as that,” I mutter after a pause. “He is the father of my child.”

“I know,” says Barnaby more gently. “I didn’t say it was easy.”

There’s silence for a while. I stare at my office clock, watching the crappy plastic hand tick round. At last I slump right down, resting my head in the crook of my elbow.

“God, divorce.”

“Divorce, eh,” says Barnaby. “Man’s greatest invention.”

“I wish I could just … I dunno.” I sigh heavily. “Wave a magic wand and our marriage never happened. Except Noah. I’d keep Noah and the rest would all be a bad dream.”

“You want an annulment, that’s what you want,” says Barnaby cheerfully.

“An annulment?” I stare at the phone suspiciously. “Is that a real thing?”

“Real enough. It means the contract is null and void. The marriage never existed. You’d be amazed how many clients ask for one.”

“Could I get one?”

I’m seized by this idea. Maybe there’s some cheap, easy way round this I haven’t seen before. “Annulment.” Null and void. I like the sound of that a lot. Why didn’t Barnaby mention this before?

“Not unless Daniel was a bigamist,” says Barnaby. “Or forced you into marriage. Or you never consummated it. Or one of you was mentally unfit at the time.”

“Me!” I say at once. “I was crazy to even think of marrying him.”

“That’s what they all say.” He laughs. “Won’t wash, I’m afraid.”

My spark of hope slowly dies away. Damn. I wish Daniel had been a bigamist now. I wish some original wife in a Mormon bonnet would pop up and say, I got there first! and save me all this trouble.

“I guess we’ll have to stick with the divorce,” I say at last. “Thanks, Barnaby. I’d better go before you charge me another thirty thousand pounds just for saying hi.”

“Quite right.” Barnaby never sounds remotely offended, whatever I say. “But before you do, you’re still going to France, right?”

“Yes, tomorrow.”

Noah and I are heading off for two weeks to the Côte d’Azur. As far as he’s concerned, it’s our Easter holiday. As far as I’m concerned, I’m reviewing three hotels, six restaurants, and a theme park. I’ll be working on my laptop every night till late, but I can’t complain.

“I contacted my old mate Nathan Forrester. The one I told you about? Based in Antibes? You two should meet up while you’re there, have a drink.”

“Oh.” I feel my spirits lift. “OK. That sounds fun.”

“I’ll email you the details. He’s a nice guy. Plays too much poker, but don’t hold that against him.”

A poker-playing resident of the South of France. Sounds intriguing. “I won’t. Thanks, Barnaby.”

“My pleasure. Bye, Fliss.”

I put the phone down and it immediately rings again. Barnaby must have forgotten some point or other.

“Hi, Barnaby?”

There’s silence, except for some rather fast, rather heavy breathing. Hmm. Has Barnaby inadvertently pressed redial while snogging his secretary? But even as I’m thinking this, I know who it is really. I recognize that breathing. And I can hear Macy Gray’s “I Try” faintly in the background: a classic Lottie breakup soundtrack.

“Hello?” I try again. “Lottie? Is that you?”

There’s more heavy breathing, this time raspy.

“Lottie? Lotts?”

“Oh, Fliss …” She erupts into a massive sob. “I really, really thought he was going to propooooooose.…”

“Oh God. Oh, Lottie.” I cradle the phone, wishing it was her. “Lottie, sweetheart—”

“I spent three whole years with him and I thought he loved me and wanted babeeeeees.… But he didn’t! He didn’t!” She’s crying as bitterly as Noah does when he scrapes his knee. “And what am I going to do now? I’m thirty-threeeee.…” Now she’s hiccuping.

“Thirty-three is nothing,” I say quickly. “Nothing! And you’re beautiful and you’re lovely—”

“I even bought him a riiiiiing.”

She bought him a ring? I stare at the phone. Did I hear that right? She bought him a ring?

“What kind of ring?” I can’t help asking. I imagine her presenting Richard with some sparkly sapphire in a box.

Please don’t say she presented him with a sparkly sapphire in a box.

“Just, you know.” She sniffs defensively. “A ring. A manly engagement ring.”

A manly engagement ring? No. Uh-uh. Doesn’t exist.

“Lotts,” I begin tactfully. “Are you sure Richard is the engagement-ring type? I mean, could that have put him off?”

“It was nothing to do with the ring!” She erupts into sobs again. “He never even saw the ring! I wish I’d never bought the bloody thing! But I thought it would be fair! Because I thought he’d bought one for meeeeeeee!”

“OK!” I say hastily. “Sorry!”

“It’s fine.” She calms down a little. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to have a meltdown.…”

“Don’t be silly. What else am I here for?”

It’s awful to hear her so upset. Of course it is. Ghastly. But secretly I can’t help feeling a bit relieved too. The façade is down. Her denial has cracked. This is good. This is progress.

“Anyway, I’ve decided what to do, and I feel so much better. It’s all fallen into place, Fliss.” She blows her nose noisily. “I feel like I have a purpose. A plan. A goal.”

My ears twitch. Uh-oh. A “goal.” That’s one of my post-breakup alarm-bell terms. Along with “project,” “change of direction,” and “amazing new friend.”

“Right,” I say cautiously. “Great! So … um … what’s your goal?”

My mind is already scurrying around the possibilities. Please not another piercing. Or another crazy property purchase. I’ve talked her out of quitting her job so many times, it can’t be that again, surely?

Please not move to Australia.

Please not “lose a stone.” Because 1) she’s skinny already, and 2) last time she went on a diet, she made me be her “buddy” and instructed me to phone up every half hour and say, “Keep to the plan, you fat bitch,” then complained when I refused.

“So, what is it?” I press her as lightly as I can, my entire body screwed up with dread.

“I’m going to fly to San Francisco on the first flight I can get and surprise Richard and propose!”

“What?” I nearly drop the phone. “No! Bad idea!”

What’s she planning to do, burst into his office? Wait on his doorstep? Kneel down and present him with the so-called “manly” engagement ring? I can’t let this happen. She’ll be utterly humiliated and devastated and I’ll have to pick up the pieces afterward.

“But I love him!” She sounds totally hyper. “I love him so much! And if he can’t see that we’re meant to be together, then surely I have to show him! Surely it has to be me who makes the move! I’m on the Virgin Atlantic website right now. Should I get premium economy? Can you get me a discount?”

“No! Do not book a flight to San Francisco,” I say in the firmest, most authoritative tones I can muster. “Close down your computer. Step away from the internet.”

“But—”

“Lottie, face it,” I say more gently. “Richard had his chance. If he’d wanted to get married, it would be happening.”

I know what I’m saying sounds harsh. But it’s true. Men who want to get married propose. You don’t need to read the signs. They propose and that’s the sign.

“But he just doesn’t realize he wants to get married!” she says eagerly. “He just needs persuading. If I just gave him a little nudge …”

Little nudge? Bloody great elbow in the ribs, more like.

I have a sudden vision of Lottie dragging Richard up the aisle by his hair, and I wince. I know exactly where that story ends up. It ends up in the office of Barnaby Rees, Family Lawyer, at five hundred quid for the first consultation.

“Lottie, listen,” I say severely. “And listen hard. You don’t want to go into a marriage anything less than two hundred percent sure it’s going to work out. No, make that six hundred percent.” I eye Daniel’s latest divorce demands morosely. “Believe me. It’s not worth it. I’ve been there and it’s … Well, it’s hideous.”

There’s silence at the other end of the phone. I know Lottie so well. I can practically see her hearts-and-flowers image of proposing to Richard on the Golden Gate Bridge melting away.

“Think about it first, at least,” I say. “Don’t jump in. A few weeks won’t make any difference.”

I’m holding my breath, crossing my fingers.

“OK,” says Lottie at last, sounding forlorn. “I’ll think about it.”

I blink in astonishment. I’ve done it. I’ve actually done it! For the first time in my life, I’ve headed off one of Lottie’s Unfortunate Choices before it even happened. I’ve stamped out the infection before it could take hold.

Maybe she’s getting more rational in her old age.

“Let’s go out to lunch,” I suggest, to cheer her up. “My treat. As soon as I get back from holiday.”

“Yes, that would be nice,” says Lottie in a small voice. “Thanks, Fliss.”

“Take care. Talk soon.”

She rings off and I exhale my frustration in a groan—although I’m not sure who I’m most frustrated with. Richard? Daniel? Gavin? Gunter? All men? No, not all men. Maybe all men except various honorable exceptions, viz: Barnaby; my lovely milkman, Neville; the Dalai Lama, obviously—

My eyes suddenly focus on my reflection in my computer screen and I lean forward in horror. I have a Nerf bullet stuck in my hair.

Great.