Wedding Night: A Novel

6

FLISS

I can’t believe she’s ignored me for a full twenty-four hours. She’s got some nerve.

It’s the following afternoon, the wedding is due to start in an hour, and I still haven’t spoken to Lottie. She’s sidestepped my every call (approximately one hundred of them). But at the same time she’s managed to leave a whole series of messages on my phone, about the registry office and the restaurant and meeting for pre-wedding drinks at Bluebird. A purple satin bridesmaid’s dress arrived at my office at lunchtime by bike. A poem arrived by email, along with a request for me to read it aloud during the ceremony: It will make our day so special!

She doesn’t fool me. There’s a reason she’s not been taking my calls: she feels defensive. Which means I’m in with a chance. I know I can talk her out of this nonsense. I just need to work out exactly where her vulnerability is and exploit it.

As I arrive at Bluebird, I can see her already sitting at the bar in a cream lace minidress, with roses in her hair and adorable vintage-style shoes with button straps. She looks radiantly beautiful, and for a moment I feel bad, coming in to derail her.

But, no. Someone has to stay sane around here. She won’t be looking so radiant when she’s being billed for her decree nisi.

Noah’s not with me. He’s having a sleepover with his friend Sebastian. I fibbed to Lottie, saying it was really special and he would be “so sorry to miss the wedding.” The real reason is that I’m not intending for there to be any wedding.

Lottie has spotted me and waves to get my attention. I wave back and approach with an innocent smile. I’m walking into the paddock quietly, unthreateningly, the halter hidden behind my back. I’m the Bride Whisperer.

“You look gorgeous!” As I reach Lottie, I give her a huge hug. “How exciting. What a happy day!”

Lottie scans my face without replying, which proves I’m right: she’s on the defensive. But I keep my smile steady, as though I haven’t noticed a thing.

“I thought you weren’t keen on the idea,” she says at last.

“What?” I act shocked. “Of course I’m keen on the idea! I was just surprised. But I’m sure Ben is absolutely wonderful and you’ll be happy for many, many years.”

I hold my breath. She’s visibly relaxing. Her guard is coming down.

“Yes,” she says. “Yes, we will. Well, sit down. Have some champagne! Here’s your bouquet.” She hands me a little cluster of roses.

“Wow! Fabulous.”

She pours me a glass and I raise it in a toast. Then I glance at my watch. Fifty-five minutes to go. I need to get cracking on the derailment strategy.

“So, any honeymoon plans?” I say casually. “You probably didn’t manage to book anywhere at such short notice. What a shame. A honeymoon is such a special time, you want it to be perfect. If you’d held on a few weeks, I could have helped you arrange something amazing. In fact … shall we do that?” I put down my glass as though seized by a brilliant new idea. “Lottie, let’s put off the wedding just a teeny bit and have fun planning the perfect honeymoon for you!”

“Don’t worry,” says Lottie happily. “We already have the perfect honeymoon arranged! One night at the Savoy and then off tomorrow!”

“Really?” I get ready to trump it. “Where are you going, then?”

“We’re going back to Ikonos. Back to where we met. Isn’t it perfect?”

“To a backpackers’ guest house?” I stare at her.

“No, silly! To that amazing hotel! The Amba. The one with the waterfall. Didn’t you review it?”

Damn. The Amba is pretty untrumpable. It opened three years ago and we’ve reviewed it twice since then—five stars each time. It’s the most spectacular place in the Cyclades and was voted Top Honeymoon Destination two years running.

Since then, it’s already become just a touch tacky, truth be told. It’s been flooded with celebrity couples and Hello! magazine photo shoots, and it plays to the “honeymoon” market too strongly if you ask me. Still, it remains an amazing, world-class hotel. I’ll need to work hard to talk her out of it.

“The only thing about the Amba is, you have to be on the best side.” I shake my head gloomily. “At such short notice, they’ve probably shoved you in that awful side wing. There’s no sun, and it smells. You’ll be miserable.” I suddenly brighten. “I know! Wait a few weeks, and let me call in a favor. I can get you the Oyster Suite, I’m sure. Honestly, Lotts, the bed alone is worth waiting for. It’s massive, with a glass dome above so you can see the stars. You have to have it.” I proffer my phone. “Why don’t you call Ben and say you want to put things off, only for a few weeks—”

“But we’ve got the Oyster Suite!” Lottie interrupts me joyfully. “It’s all booked! We’re having a bespoke honeymoon, with our own private butler and treatments every day and a day on the hotel yacht!”

“What?” I stare at her, my phone dangling limply in my hand. “How?”

“There was a cancelation!” She beams. “Ben uses some special concierge service and they fixed it up. Isn’t it great?”

“Marvelous,” I say after a pause. “Super.”

“Ikonos is so special to us.” She’s bubbling over. “I mean, it’s been totally ruined, I’m sure. When we were there, they didn’t even have an airport, let alone any big hotels. We had to get there by boat. But, still, it’ll be like going back in time. I can’t wait.”

There’s no point pushing this one any further. I sip my champagne, thinking hard.

“Have you got a vintage Rolls-Royce today?” I try a different tack. “You always wanted a vintage Rolls-Royce for your wedding.”

“No.” She shrugs. “I can walk.”

“But what a shame!” I put on a stricken expression. “It was your dream to have a vintage Rolls-Royce. If you just waited a bit, you could have one.”

“Fliss.” Lottie gives me a gently chiding smile. “Aren’t you being rather shallow? The important thing is love. Finding a life partner. Not some random car. Don’t you think?”

“Of course.” I smile back tightly. OK, leave the car. Try another approach.

Dress? No. She’s wearing a lovely dress.

Wedding-gifts list? No. She’s not that materialistic.

“So … will there be any hymns at the wedding?” I ask at last. There’s silence. Quite a long silence. I stare at Lottie in sudden hope. Her face has tightened.

“We’re not allowed hymns,” she says at last, and looks down into her drink. “You can’t have them at a registry-office wedding.”

Yes! Bingo!

“No hymns?” I raise a hand to my mouth in horror, as though I hadn’t known this all along. “But how can you have a wedding without hymns? What about ‘I Vow to Thee, My Country’? You were always going to have that at your wedding.”

Lottie was in the choir at our boarding school. She used to sing solos. Music was a big deal to her. I should have started with this tack first.

“Well. It’s not important.” She smiles briefly—but her whole demeanor has changed.

“What does Ben think?”

“Ben’s not really into hymns,” she says after a pause.

Ben’s not really into hymns.

I want to whoop. This is it. Her Achilles’ heel. I have her like putty in my hands.

“I vow to thee, my country,” I start singing very quietly. “All earthly things above.”

“Stop,” she says, almost snapping.

“Sorry.” I raise an apologetic hand. “Just … thinking aloud. For me, a wedding is all about the music. The beautiful, wonderful music.”

This is untrue. I couldn’t care less about music, and if Lottie were sharper, she’d instantly realize I’m winding her up. But she’s looking away, lost in her own world. Are her eyes a little glassy?

“I always imagined you kneeling at the altar in a country church with the organ playing,” I muse, rubbing it in. “Not at a registry office. Funny, that.”

“Yes.” She doesn’t even turn her head.

“Da-da-daah-da-da-da-da-ah-da …” I’m still humming the tune of “I Vow to Thee, My Country.” Obviously I don’t know all the words, but the tune is enough. That’s what’ll get her.

Her eyes are glassy. OK, time to go in for the kill.

“Anyway!” I break off from singing. “The important thing is that this is your special day. And it’s going to be perfect. Nice and quick. No stupid fussing about with music, or choirboys, or bells pealing from a country steeple … Just in and out. Sign a paper, say a couple of words, and you’re done. For life,” I add. “Finito.”

I feel almost cruel. I can see her bottom lip quivering very slightly.

“Do you remember the bridal scene in The Sound of Music?” I add casually. “When Maria walks up the aisle to the nuns’ singing and her big long veil floating everywhere …”

Don’t overdo it, Fliss.

I lapse into silence and sip my champagne, waiting. I can see Lottie’s eyes flickering with thoughts. I can sense her inner battle between romance and lust. I think romance is just getting the edge. I think the violins are playing louder than the jungle drums. She looks as if she’s coming to a decision. Please go the right way, go on.…

“Fliss …” She looks up. “Fliss …”

Just call me the World Champion Bride Whisperer.

There was no argument. No confrontation. Lottie thinks it was her idea to postpone. I was the one saying, “Are you sure, Lottie? Are you positive you want to call things off? Really?”

I’ve totally sold her on the idea of a country wedding with music and a choir and bells. She’s already looked up the name of the chaplain at our old school. She’s off on a new dream of satin and posies and “I Vow to Thee, My Country.”

Which is fine. A wedding is lovely. Marriage is lovely. Maybe Ben is destined to be her life partner and I’ll kick myself as she has her tenth grandchild and think, What was my problem? But at least this way gives her some breathing space. At least it gives her time to look at Ben and think, Hmm. Sixty more years with you. Is this a good idea?

Lottie’s gone off to the registry office, to tell Ben the news. My work is done. The only task remaining is to buy her Brides magazine. We’re going to meet up for coffee tomorrow and have a cozy chat about veils, and then, in the evening, finally I’ll get to meet Ben.

I’m waiting to cross the King’s Road, mentally congratulating myself for being so brilliant, when I see a face I recognize. Beaky nose. Windswept dark hair. Rose in his buttonhole. He’s about ten feet tall and is striding along the pavement on the other side, with the kind of thunderous frown that you wear when your rich best friend has been grabbed by an evil gold digger and you’ve got to be best man. As he’s walking, his rose suddenly falls out, and he stops to pick it up. He’s looking at it with such a murderous expression, I almost want to laugh.

Ha. Well, wait till I tell him. What’s his name again? Oh yes, Lorcan.

“Hi!” I wave frantically as he moves off. “Lorcan! Stop!”

His stride is so fast, I’ll never catch up with him. He pauses and swivels round suspiciously, and I wave again to get his attention.

“Over here! Me! I need to speak to you!” I wait for him to cross, then approach him, brandishing my bouquet. “I’m Fliss Graveney. We spoke yesterday? Lottie’s sister?”

“Ah.” His face clears briefly, then it’s back to the cheery, wedding-day scowl. “I suppose you’re heading there now?”

I’d forgotten about the ridiculous movie-trailer voice. Although somehow it sounds less ridiculous when it’s not a disembodied voice coming down a phone line. It matches his face. Dark and kind of intense.

“Well, actually …” I can’t help sounding complacent. “I’m not heading there, because it’s off.”

He stares at me in shock. “What do you mean?”

“It’s off. For now,” I add. “Lottie’s gone to postpone the wedding.”

“Why?” he demands. He’s so bloody suspicious.

“So she can make sure Ben’s fortune is invested in a way that makes it easy to plunder,” I say with a shrug. “Obviously.”

Lorcan’s face flickers with amusement. “OK. I deserved that. What’s going on? Why is she postponing?”

“I talked her out of it,” I say proudly. “I know my sister, and I know the power of suggestion. After our little chat, she wants a romantic wedding in a small stone church in the country. That’s why she’s postponing. My reasoning is: if they delay, at least it gives them a chance to see if they’re right for each other.”

“Well, thank God for that.” Lorcan breathes out and runs a hand through his hair. Finally his hackles are coming down; finally his brow is starting to relax. “Ben is in no place to be getting married right now. It was nuts.”

“Ridiculous,” I agree.

“Insane.”

“Stupidest idea ever. No, I take that back.” I glance down at myself. “Putting me in a purple bridesmaid’s dress was the stupidest idea ever.”

“I think you look very nice.” Another flicker of amusement passes across his face. He glances at his watch. “What should I do? I’m supposed to be meeting Ben at the registry office by now.”

“I think we should stay away.”

“Agreed.”

There’s a pause. This is weird, standing on a street corner, all dressed up with no wedding to go to. I finger my bouquet awkwardly and wonder if I should throw it in the bin. It seems wrong somehow.

“Do you feel like a drink?” says Lorcan abruptly. “I feel like a drink.”

“I feel like about six drinks,” I counter. “It takes it out of you, talking someone out of a wedding.”

“OK. Let’s do it.”

A man of swift decisions. I like that. He’s already ushering me down a side street, toward a bar with a striped canopy and French-looking tables and chairs.

“Hey, I assume your sister did call it off?” Lorcan stops dead in the doorway. “We’re not going to get an irate text saying, Where the hell are you?”

“Nothing from Lottie.” I check my phone. “She was pretty determined to cancel. I’m sure she did.”

“Nothing from Ben either.” Lorcan’s looking at his BlackBerry. “I think we’re in the clear.” He ushers me to a corner table and opens the drinks menu. “You want a glass of wine?”

“I want a large gin and tonic.”

“You earned it.” He gives that flicker of a smile again. “I’ll join you.”

He orders the drinks, switches off his phone, and slips it into his pocket. A man who puts away his phone. I like that too.

“So, why is it a bad time for Ben to be getting married?” I ask. “In fact, who is this Ben? Fill me in.”

“Ben.” Lorcan’s face twists wryly as though he doesn’t know where to start. “Ben, Ben, Ben.” There’s a long pause. Has he forgotten what his best friend is like? “He’s … bright. Inventive. He has a lot going for him.”

He sounds so strained and unconvincing, I stare at him. “Do you realize you sounded as if you were saying, ‘He’s an ax murderer.’ ”

“I did not.” Lorcan looks caught out.

“You did. I’ve never seen anyone look so negative while they’re trying to big up their friend.” I put on a funereal voice. “ ‘He’s bright. He’s inventive. He kills people in their sleep. In inventive ways.’ ”

“Jesus! Are you always this—” Lorcan breaks off and sighs. “OK. I suppose I’m trying to protect him. He’s in a difficult place, Ben. His father died. The company has an uncertain future, and he needs to decide which direction it’s going in. He’s a natural gambler but he lacks judgment. It’s difficult for him. He’s having a bit of an early midlife crisis, I guess.”

An early midlife crisis? Oh, perfect. Just what Lottie needs.

“Not husband material, then?” I say, and Lorcan snorts.

“Maybe one day. When he’s got his shit together. Last month he was buying a cabin in Montana. Then he was going to buy a boat, sail in races. Before that, he was all about investing in vintage motorbikes. Next week it’ll be some other craze. My guess is he won’t stay married five minutes. I’m afraid your sister will be the casualty.”

My heart is sinking, fast. “Well, thank God it’s off.”

“You did a good thing.” He nods. “Not least because we need Ben around. He can’t go AWOL again.”

I screw up my eyes. “What do you mean, ‘AWOL again’?”

Lorcan sighs. “He did it once before. When his father became ill. Disappeared for ten days. There was a hell of a fuss. We got the police involved, everything. Then he reappeared. No apologies, no explanations. To this day I don’t know where he got to.”

The drinks arrive and Lorcan raises his glass. “Cheers. To canceled weddings.”

“Canceled weddings.” I lift my own glass and take a delicious gulp of gin and tonic, then return to the subject of Ben. “So, why is he having a midlife crisis?”

Lorcan hesitates, as though he doesn’t want to break his friend’s confidence.

“Come on,” I prod. “I’m nearly related to him, after all.”

“I suppose so.” He shrugs. “I’ve known Ben since I was thirteen. We were at school together. My own parents are expats in Singapore and I don’t have any other family. I went to stay with Ben a couple of times in the holidays and I became close to the whole family. Ben’s dad and I share a love of hiking. Shared, I should say.” He pauses, fingers clasped gently round his glass. “Ben never came hiking with us. Not interested. And he never wanted to know about the family firm either. He saw it as this massive pressure. Everyone expected he’d join his father as soon as he left school, but it was the last thing he wanted to do.”

“So how come you work for them?”

“I joined a few years ago.” Lorcan gives an odd little half smile. “I was going through some … personal stuff. I wanted to get out of London, so I went to stay with Ben’s dad, up in Staffordshire. At first I was just planning to spend a few days there, go on some hikes, clear my head. But I started getting involved with the company. Never left.”

“Staffordshire?” I say in surprise. “But don’t you live in London?”

“We have offices in London, of course.” He shrugs. “I commute between the two, but I prefer being up there. It’s a beautiful setting. The paper mills are set in a country estate. The offices are in the main house, the family home. It’s Grade One listed. Did you see that BBC series Highton Hall?” he adds. “Well, that’s us. They shot there for eight weeks. Little money-spinner for us.”

“Highton Hall?” I stare at him. “Wow. That place is beautiful. And massive!”

Lorcan nods. “Lots of workers live in cottages on the estate. We do guided tours of the house, the mills, the woodland, we have local conservation projects.… It’s kind of special.” His eyes have lit up.

“Right.” I’m digesting all this. “So you started working for the company—but Ben wasn’t interested?”

“Not until his dad became ill and he had to face the fact he was going to inherit this thing,” says Lorcan bluntly. “Before that, he did everything he could to avoid it. He trained as an actor, he tried out stand-up comedy—”

“It was him!” I put my gin and tonic glass down with a tiny crash. “I Googled him and all I could find were stand-up comedy reviews. Terrible ones. Was he that bad?”

Lorcan stirs his glass, his attention fixed on the remaining ice cubes.

“You can tell me.” I lower my voice. “Between us. Was he embarrassing?”

Lorcan isn’t answering. Well, of course he isn’t. He doesn’t want to dis his best friend. I respect that.

“All right,” I say after a moment’s thought. “Just answer me one thing. When I meet him, is he going to tell me jokes and I have to pretend they’re funny?”

“Watch out if he starts a riff on jeans.” At last Lorcan looks up, his mouth twitching. “And laugh. He’ll be upset if you don’t.”

“Jeans.” I make a mental note. “OK. Thanks for the warning. Is there anything positive to say about this guy?”

“Oh.” Lorcan seems shocked. “Of course! When Ben’s on form, believe me, there’s no one you’d rather spend the evening with. He’s charming. He’s funny. I can understand why your sister would have fallen for him. When you meet him, you’ll understand too.”

I take another gulp of my drink. I’m slowly starting to relax. “Well, maybe he’ll become my brother-in-law. But at least it won’t happen today. Job done.”

“I’ll talk to Ben later.” Lorcan nods. “Make sure he doesn’t get any stupid ideas.”

At once I feel a tweak of irritation. I just said “Job done,” didn’t I?

“You don’t have to talk to Ben,” I say politely. “I’ve already sorted it. There’s no way Lottie will get married in a hurry now. I’d leave it.”

“It can’t hurt.” He looks unmoved. “Just to hammer the point home.”

“Yes, it can!” I plonk my drink down. “Don’t do any hammering! I’ve spent half an hour making Lottie think that pulling out of the wedding was her idea. I was subtle. I was careful. I didn’t go rushing in like a … a hammerer.”

His face doesn’t shift a millimeter. He’s clearly a control freak. But so am I. And this is my sister.

“Don’t talk to Ben,” I command him. “Leave it. Less is more.”

There’s a pause—then Lorcan shrugs and drains his drink, without answering. I’m guessing he knows I’m right but doesn’t want to admit it. I finish my gin and tonic too, then wait a beat, almost holding my breath. I’m hoping he suggests another drink, I realize. I only have an empty house to go to. No work. No plans. And the truth is, I like sitting here, sparring with this slightly too intense, slightly bad-tempered man.

“Another?” He looks up and meets my eye, and I feel things shift between us a little. The first drink was like a coda to the whole affair. It was resolution. It was just being polite.

This is more than polite.

“Yes, let’s.”

“Same again?”

I nod and watch as he summons the waiter and orders. Nice hands. Good strong jaw. Unhurried, laconic mannerisms. He’s a lot more appealing than his webpage gives away.

“Your website photo is terrible,” I say abruptly, as the waiter disappears. “Really bad. Did you know that?”

“Wow.” Lorcan raises his eyebrows, looking taken aback. “You’re direct. Lucky I’m not vain.”

“It’s not about vanity.” I shake my head. “It’s not that you’re better-looking in the flesh. It’s that your personality is better. I’m looking at you and I’m seeing a guy who makes time for people. A guy who puts away his phone. Who listens. You’re charming. In a way.”

“In a way?” He gives an incredulous laugh.

“But your photo doesn’t say that.” I ignore him. “In your photo, you’re scowling. You’re giving out the message: Who the hell are you? What are you looking at? I haven’t got time for this.”

“You got all that from one website photo?”

“I’m guessing you gave the photographer about five minutes and grumbled the whole time and checked your BlackBerry between every shot. Bad move.”

Lorcan seems a bit speechless, and I wonder if I’ve gone too far.

OK, of course I’ve gone too far. I don’t even know the guy and I’m critiquing his photo.

“Sorry,” I backpedal. “I can be … blunt.”

“No kidding.”

“Feel free to be blunt back.” I meet his eyes. “I won’t be offended.”

“Fair enough,” says Lorcan without missing a beat. “That bridesmaid’s dress is terrible on you.”

In spite of myself, I feel a flicker of hurt. I didn’t think it was that bad.

“Earlier on, you said it looked very nice,” I retaliate.

“I was lying. You look like a fruit pastille.”

I guess I asked for it.

“Well, OK. Maybe I do look like a fruit pastille.” I can’t resist making a little extra dig. “But at least I don’t have a picture of myself looking like a fruit pastille on my website.”

The waiter puts down two more gin and tonics, and I pick mine up, feeling a bit fired up after our exchange. I’m also wondering how we’ve got so far off topic. Maybe we should get back to the subject in hand.

“Did you hear about Lottie and Ben’s no-sex policy, by the way?” I say. “How ridiculous is that?”

“Ben mentioned something. I thought he was joking.”

“It’s no joke. They’re waiting till the wedding night.” I shake my head. “If you want my opinion, it’s irresponsible to get married to someone without sleeping with them. It’s asking for trouble!”

“Interesting idea.” Lorcan shrugs. “Old-fashioned.”

I take a deep gulp. I’m feeling a need to off-load my thoughts on the subject, and I can’t exactly sound off to Noah.

“If you want my theory”—I lean forward—“it’s skewed their judgment. The whole thing is about sex. Lottie’s lost in a cloud of lust. The longer she waits, the less she can think straight. I mean, I get it. I’m sure he’s very hot and she’s longing to roll around with him. But does she have to marry him?”

“It’s cockeyed.” Lorcan nods.

“That’s what I said! They should just go to bed. Spend a week in bed. A month if they want to! Have a good time. Then see if they still want to marry each other.” I take another massive gulp of my drink. “I mean, you don’t need to sign your life away just to have sex—” I break off as a thought suddenly occurs to me. “Are you married?”

“Divorced.”

“Me too. Divorced. So. We know.”

“About what?”

“Sex.” I realize that came out wrong. “Marriage,” I amend.

Lorcan thinks for a moment, sipping his drink. “The more I think back over the last few years,” he says slowly, “the less I feel I know about marriage. Sex, on the other hand, I would hope I’ve nailed.”

The gin has gone straight to my head. I can feel it buzzing around, loosening my tongue.

“I’m sure you have,” I hear myself saying.

The air seems to thicken in the silence. A little too late, I realize I’ve just told a total stranger that I’m sure he’s good in bed. Do I backtrack? Qualify in some way?

No. Move on. I cast around for something anodyne, but it’s Lorcan who speaks next.

“Since we’re speaking frankly—how’ve you found it? Your divorce? Total nightmare?”

Have I found my divorce a total nightmare?

I open my mouth and draw in a deep, long breath, automatically reaching for the memory stick round my neck. Then I stop.

Not bitter, Fliss. Not bitter. Sweet. I need to think spun sugar, candy, flowers, fluffy lambs, Julie Andrews.…

“Oh, you know.” I give him a saccharine smile. “These things happen.”

“How long ago was it?”

“Still happening.” My smile broadens. “Should be sorted soon.”

“And you’re smiling?” He sounds incredulous.

“I like to be Zen about it.” I nod several times. “Stay calm, move on. Look on the bright side. Don’t dwell.”

“Wow.” Lorcan’s eyes have widened. “I’m impressed. Mine was four years ago. Still hurts.”

“That’s a real pity,” I manage. “Poor you.”

My fake smile is nearly killing me. I want to ask him how it still hurts and what happened and shall we compare ways in which our exes are total louses? I’m desperate to spill out all the details and talk incessantly about it until I hear from him what I need to hear, i.e., that I’m in the right about everything and Daniel is in the wrong.

Which, no doubt, is why Barnaby gave me a talking-to.

He’s always right. Bastard.

“So. Um. Shall I get some more drinks?” I reach for my bag and hurriedly pull out my purse.

Argh. No.

The purse flipped up as I tugged it out and with it came the contents of my Durex variety pack. Ribbed for Extra Pleasure falls on the table, and a Pleasuremax lands in Lorcan’s drink, splashing him in the face. A Fetherlite has fallen on top of our bowl of peanuts.

“Oh!” I quickly start grabbing them. “Those aren’t—They were for my son’s school project.”

“Ah.” Lorcan nods, politely retrieving the Pleasuremax from his drink and handing it to me. “How old’s your son?”

“Seven.”

“Seven?” He looks scandalized.

“It’s … Long story.” I wince as he hands me the dripping condom. “Let me get you another drink. I’m so sorry.” Automatically I’ve started drying the Pleasuremax with a paper napkin.

“I’d probably chuck that one,” says Lorcan. “Unless you’re desperate.”

I glance up sharply. He looks deadpan but there’s something about his voice that makes me want to laugh.

“It’s fine,” I counter. “Waste not, want not.” I stuff it back into my bag. “Another gin? Without the contraceptive garnish?”

“I’ll get them.” He leans back, tilting his chair to signal at the waiter, and I find my eyes running over his long, lean body. I don’t know if it’s the gin or the frisson of having told him he’s good in bed or this whole weird situation, but I’m becoming a little fixated. I’m mapping myself onto him in my head. Bit by bit. What would those hands feel like on my skin? What would his hair feel like between my fingers? His jaw is faintly stubbled, which is good. I like friction. I like spark. That’s what I’m feeling between us. The right kind of spark.

I predict he’s slow and determined in bed. Focused. Takes sex as seriously as he takes fixing his friend’s love life.

Did I just say predict? What exactly am I thinking myself into here?

As Lorcan lets the chair rest back on the ground, he looks at me and his eyelids flicker. He’s thinking something too. His eyes keep skimming over my legs and I casually shift in my seat so that my skirt rucks a little higher.

I bet he leaves teeth marks. No idea why. I just feel it instinctively.

I don’t know what to say. I can’t find any breezy conversational gambits in my head. I want to drink two more gins, I decide. Two gins should do it. And then …

“So.” I break the silence.

“So.” Lorcan nods, then adds casually, “Do you have to get back for your son?”

“Not tonight. He’s sleeping over at a friend’s.”

“Ah.”

And now he looks directly at me and my throat is suddenly tight with longing. It’s been too long. Far too long. Not that I’ll admit that to him. If he asks, I’ll say casually, Oh, I had a recent short-term relationship that didn’t work out. Easy. Normal. Not: I’ve been so alone, so stressed, I’m totally gagging for it, not just the sex but the touching and the intimacy and the feeling of another human being beside me, holding me, even if it’s only for a night or half a night or some portion of a night.

That’s what I won’t say.

A waitress comes up with our fresh drinks. She sets them down and then eyes my bouquet, followed by Lorcan’s buttonhole. “Oh! Are you two getting married?”

I can’t help bursting into laughter. Of all the questions.

“No. No. Not at all.”

“Definitely not,” Lorcan affirms.

“Only we have a special champagne deal for wedding parties,” she persists. “We get so many, what with the registry office down the road. Are you being joined by the bride and groom?”

“Actually, we’re anti-marriage,” I say. “Our motto is: make love, not vows.”

“Here’s to that.” Lorcan lifts his glass, his eyes glinting.

The waitress looks from Lorcan to me, laughs uncertainly, then retreats. I down about half my glass. My head is gently spinning and I feel another surge of longing. I’m imagining his lips on mine, his hands ripping off my dress.…

Oh God. Get a grip, Fliss. He’s probably imagining his bus home.

I look away again and stir my drink, playing for time. I can never stand this uncertain stage of meeting a man, when you have no idea how things are going. You’re chugging up the slow-climb roller coaster of a date. You know how far up you are, but you don’t know how far he is, or even if he’s really with you. Maybe he’s mentally heading in the other direction. Here I am, already midway through sexual fantasy number 53, but he could be about to wrap up politely and head home.

“Would you like to go somewhere else?” Lorcan says abruptly, and my stomach lurches in anticipation. Somewhere else. Where?

“That would be great, yes.” I force myself to sound low key and chilled. “What kind of place?”

He frowns deeply, attacking his ice cubes with his stirrer, as though he has no idea where to start tackling this profound and complex question.

“We could eat,” he says finally, with no enthusiasm. “Sushi, maybe. Or …”

“Or we could not eat.”

He looks up, his guard finally down, and I feel a delicious shiver. He’s like a mirror image of me. He has a hungry look in his eye. A desperate longing. He wants to devour something, and I don’t think it’s sushi.

“That could work,” he says, his eyes flicking to my legs again. Leg man, clearly.

“So … where do you live?” I ask lightly, as though it’s a totally unrelated question.

“Not too far.”

His eyes are now locked on mine. OK, we’ve reached the top. Together. I can see the view stretching ahead. I can’t help an exhilarated little smile. I think we’re in for a good time.