Wedding Night (34 page)

Carissa has finished with my neck. She and Angelina move to the head end of the bed and in synchronization begin a head massage. I’m relaxing more and more—in fact, I’d probably fall asleep if it weren’t that I’m also absolutely hopping with lust. Just the sight of Ben slick with oil and naked beside me was enough. We are going to use every minute of that two hours, I vow. We have
earned
this sex. He’ll only have to touch me and I’ll explode—

Ting!

I’m jolted out of my reverie. From nowhere, Angelina and Carissa have produced matching little bells, which they’ve struck above our heads in a kind of ritual.

“Finish,” whispers Carissa, and tucks my sheet around me. “Now relax. Take it easy.”

Yes! It’s over! Sexy private time, here we come. I watch through semi-closed eyes as Angelina and Carissa withdraw from our curtained enclosure. There’s no sound at all except for the cotton curtains, flapping gently in the breeze. I stare up at the blue, unable to speak, I’m so overcome by torpor and lust. I think this is the most blissful state I’ve ever been in. Post-massage; pre-sex.

“So.” Ben’s hand squeezes mine again. “At last.”

“At
last
.” I’m about to lean over and kiss him, but he’s too fast. Before I know it, he’s straddling me, holding a small
bottle of oil. He must have brought it along secretly. He thinks of everything!

“I don’t like anyone massaging you but me.” He pours oil onto my shoulders. It smells musky and sensual and gorgeous. I inhale pleasurably as he covers me all over with it, using firm, sweeping gestures which make me shiver.

“You know, you’re very talented, Mr. Parr,” I say, my voice jerky with lust. “You could set up a spa.”

“I want only one client.” He starts to rub the oil into my nipples, over my stomach, lower down.… At once I’m whimpering with desire. I have so, so wanted him.…

“You like this?” His eyes are intent.

“I’m tingling all over. It’s unbearable.”

“So am I.” He leans in to kiss me, his hands moving down with purpose, between my thighs.…

“Oh God.” I’m breathless. “I really am tingling.”

“Me too.”

“Ow!” I can’t help wincing.

“I know you like it a bit rough.” He chuckles, but I’m not sure I can join in. I’m tingling too much. Something’s wrong.

“Can we stop a moment?” I push him away. My skin feels like it’s crawling with insects. “I’m a little sore.”

“Sore?” His eyes glint with amusement. “Babe, we haven’t even started.”

“It’s not funny! It’s painful!” I stare agitatedly at my arm. It’s turned red. Why is it red? Ben moves in on me again, and I try my hardest to moan with appreciation as his lips nuzzle their way down my neck. But, truthfully, they’re moans of pain.

“Stop!” I say at last, in desperation. “Time out! I feel like I’m on fire!”

“So do I,” pants Ben.

“Really! I can’t do this!
Look
at me!”

At last Ben moves back and surveys me, his eyes cloudy with desire. “You look great,” he says briefly. “You look awesome.”

“No, I don’t! I’m all red.” I survey my arms with mounting alarm. “And I’m swelling up! Look!”

“These are swelling up, all right.” Ben cups one of my breasts appreciatively. Isn’t he
listening
?

“Ow!” I wrench his arm away. “This is serious. I think I’ve had an allergic reaction. What’s in that oil? Not peanut oil? You
know
I’m allergic to peanuts.”

“It’s just oil.” Ben seems evasive. “I don’t know what’s in it.”

“You must! You must have looked at the label when you bought it.” There’s a short silence. Ben looks a bit sulky, as though I’ve caught him out.

“I didn’t buy it,” he says at last. “Nico gave it to me, compliments of the hotel. It’s their signature blend or something.”

“Oh.” I can’t help feeling disappointed. “And you didn’t check? Even though you know I’m allergic?”

“I’d forgotten, OK?” Ben sounds thrown. “I can’t remember every tiny little thing!”

“I hardly think your wife’s allergy is ‘every tiny little thing’!” I say furiously, feeling an uncharacteristic urge to hit him. It was all going so brilliantly.
Why
did he have to slather me with evil peanut oil?

“Look, maybe if we get the right angle it won’t hurt you so much.” Ben looks around desperately and pushes aside the curtains. “Try standing on those rocks.”

“OK.” I’m as eager as he is to make this work. If we minimize actual contact … I clamber onto the rocks, trying not to flinch too much. “Ow—”

“Not like that—”

“Ouch! Stop!”

“Try the other way.…”

“If you could rotate a bit … Oof!”

“Was that your
nostril
?”

“This isn’t working,” I say, after slipping off the rocks for the third time. “I could try kneeling on the rocks if we had some padding.…”

“Or on the edge of the bed …”

“I’ll go on top.… No! Ow! Sorry,” I wince, “but that’s really painful.”

“Can you put your leg behind your head?”

“No, I can’t,” I say resentfully. “Can you?”

The atmosphere has totally disintegrated, as we try one acrobatic position after another. I keep gasping, and not in a good way. By now my skin is seriously inflamed. I need some soothing aqueous cream, urgently. But I also need to have sex. It’s unbearable. I want to weep with frustration.

“Come on!” I say to myself crossly. “I’ve had root-canal surgery. I can do this.”

“Root-canal surgery?” Ben sounds mortally offended. “Sex with me is like
root-canal surgery
?”

“That’s not what I meant!”

“You’ve been avoiding sex with me all holiday,” he snarls, suddenly losing his temper. “I mean, what kind of a bloody honeymoon is this?”

This is such an unfair accusation that I recoil with shock.

“I haven’t avoided sex!” I cry. “I want it as much as you do, but I … It’s so painful.…” I cast around desperately. “Could we try tantric sex?”

“
Tantric
sex?” Ben sounds contemptuous.

“Well, it works for Sting.” I feel near tears of disappointment.

“Is your mouth sore?” says Ben, a note of hope in his voice.

“Yes, I got oil on my lips. They’re really smarting.” I catch his drift. “Sorry.”

Ben unhooks his leg from mine and slumps onto the bed, his shoulders hunched. Despite everything, I can’t help feeling relieved that he’s not chafing against me anymore. It was sheer torture.

For a while we just sit there in stony misery. My flesh is still swollen and vivid red. I must look like an overgrown glacé cherry. A tear rolls down my cheek, then another.

He hasn’t even asked me if my allergy is dangerous. I mean, not that it is, but still. He isn’t exactly concerned, is he? The first time Richard saw me react to peanuts, he wanted to drive me to the ER right then. And he’s always scrupulous about checking menus and the boxes of ready meals. He’s really thoughtful—

“Lottie.” Ben’s voice makes me jump a mile with guilt. How can I be thinking about my ex-boyfriend when I’m on my honeymoon?

“Yes?” I turn quickly, in case he guessed my thoughts. “Just thinking about … nothing in particular …”

“I’m sorry.” Ben spreads his hands in a frank gesture. “I didn’t mean it, but I’m so desperate for you.”

“Me too.”

“It’s just bad luck.”

“We seem to be having more than our fair share of bad luck,” I say ruefully. “How can one couple have such a catalog of disasters?”

“Less ‘honeymoon,’ ” he quips, “more ‘horrormoon.’ ”

I smile at his feeble joke, feeling mollified. At least he’s making an effort.

“Maybe it’s fate,” I say, not really meaning it, but Ben seizes on this idea.

“Maybe you’re right. Think about it, Lottie. We’re going back to the guest house tomorrow. We’re returning to the place we first got it together. Maybe
that’s
where we’re meant to consummate our marriage.”

“It would be pretty romantic.” This idea is growing on me. “We could find the same spot in that little cave.”

“You still remember?”

“I’ll always remember that night,” I say in heartfelt tones. “It’s one of my all-time great memories.”

“Well, maybe we can top it,” says Ben, his good humor restored. “How long will you be out of action?”

“Dunno.” I glance down at my lobster skin. “It’s a pretty bad reaction. Probably till tomorrow.”

“OK. So we press
pause
. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” I say gratefully. “We are hereby pressing
pause
.”

“And tomorrow will be
play
.”

“And then
rewind
and
play
again.” I grin wickedly at him. “And again. And again.”

I can tell, we’re both cheered by this plan. We sit gazing out to sea, and I feel myself gradually soothed by the repetitive noise of the surf, punctuated by the cry of birds and, far away, the throb of music coming from the main beach. A band is playing there tonight. Maybe we’ll wander over in a while, drink a cocktail, and have a listen.

It feels as if we’ve made our peace. As we’re sitting there, Ben carefully extends his arm behind me, then bends it round as though to cradle my back, without actually touching. It’s
like a ghost embrace. My skin prickles mildly in response, but I don’t mind. All my resentment has faded away; in fact, I can’t think why it was there at all.

“Tomorrow,” he says. “No peanut oil. No butlers. No harps. Just us.”

“Just us.” I nod. Maybe Ben’s right: maybe we were supposed to do it at the guest house all along. “I love you,” I add impulsively. “Even more because of this.”

“I feel the same way.” He gives me that lopsided smile and my heart swells. And suddenly I feel almost euphoric, despite my stinging skin and frustrated libido and a cricked ankle from climbing on the rocks. Because, after all, here we are, back on Ikonos, after all these years. And tomorrow we come full circle. Tomorrow we return to the most important place of our lives: the guest house. The place where we found love and experienced seismic events and changed our destinies forever.

Ben holds out his hand as though to take mine, and I curl my fingers underneath without quite touching (my hands are swollen too). I don’t need to tell him how important this visit to the guest house is to me. He understands. He gets it like no one else does. And that’s why we’re meant to be together.

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.