Wedding Night: A Novel

20

FLISS

The morning after is always hell.

In Sofia, Bulgaria, after too many glasses of wine, an excruciating argument, and a night of sexual frustration, the morning after achieves fresh levels of hellishness.

From Lorcan’s expression, he feels the same way. Noah ran joyfully to greet him as soon as we entered the dining room, which is why I’m sitting with him, not through choice. He’s savagely buttering a piece of toast, and I’m crumbling a croissant. From our desultory conversation we’ve established that we both slept terribly, that the coffee is abysmal, that there are 2.4 Bulgarian leva to the pound and that the flight to Ikonos today hasn’t been delayed, as far as we can glean from the airline website.

Areas we haven’t touched on: Ben, Lottie, their marriage, their sexual conduct, Bulgarian politics, the state of the world economy, my attempts to sabotage my sister’s honeymoon and thus risk losing my relationship with her forever. Among others.

The restaurant is adjacent to the bar we were in last night, and I can see a pool attendant dabbing at the pristine water with a filtering net. I’ve no idea why they bother. I expect Noah is the only person to have swum in that pool all year. Although, to be fair, he might well have peed in it.

“Can I swim?” he says, as though reading my thoughts.

“No,” I say shortly. “We’re getting on the airplane soon.”

Lorcan has his BlackBerry to his ear again. He’s been speed-dialing all through breakfast but never getting through. I think I can guess who he’s been calling, and this is confirmed when he says, “Ben, at last,” and pushes his chair back. I watch in slight resentment as he walks right away, to the side of the pool, and perches in front of the sauna entrance. How am I supposed to eavesdrop now?

I try to ignore my tension by slicing up an apple for Noah. When Lorcan returns, I force myself not to grip his lapels and demand information. Instead, I ask, with only moderate urgency:

“Well? Have they done it?”

Lorcan gives me a disbelieving look. “Is that all you’re interested in?”

“Yes,” I say defiantly.

“Well, they haven’t. They’ve just arrived at the guest house. I guess they’re planning to do it there.”

The guest house? I stare at him in horror. I can’t get at them there. There’s no Nico. It’s out of my power zone. Shit. Shit. I’m going to be just too late—

“Your sister is quite something,” Lorcan continues with animation. “She’s come up with a great idea for the company. We’re far too weak on the research-and-development side, and I’ve known it for a while. But she’s suggested we tie up with a research project in Nottingham she knows about. It’s a tiny team, which is why I hadn’t heard of it, but it sounds as if it’s directly relevant to us. We could get some joint funding going. It’s brilliant.”

“Oh yes,” I say, still preoccupied. “She’d know about that. She works for a pharmaceutical company. She meets scientists all the time.”

“What exactly does she do?”

“Recruitment.”

“Recruitment?” I look up to see that his eyes have lit up. “We need a new head of HR! This is perfect!”

“What?”

“She could head up HR, keep the good ideas coming, get involved with the estate.…” I can see his mind working hard. “This is just what Ben needed! A wife who can be a business partner too. A helpmate. Someone to stand at his side and—”

“Stop right there!” I plant a hand on the table. “You’re not poaching my sister to go and play a game of Happy Families in Staffordshire.”

“Why not?” demands Lorcan. “What’s your problem with it?”

“My problem is it’s nonsense! It’s ridiculous!”

Lorcan stares at me silently for a moment, and I feel the briefest of shivers under his gaze.

“You really take the biscuit,” he says at last. “How do you know you’re not ruining your sister’s great love? How do you know this isn’t her chance for a fantastically happy life?”

“Oh, for God’s sake.” I shake my head impatiently. I’m not even going to answer that question, it’s so stupid.

“I think Ben and Lottie have every chance of being happy,” he says firmly. “And I, for one, am going to encourage them.”

“You can’t switch sides!” I glare at him in fury.

“I was never on your side,” retorts Lorcan. “Your side is the nutty side.”

“The nutty side.” Noah picks up on this and decides it’s hilarious. “The nutty side!” He falls about in laughter. “Mummy’s on the nutty side!”

I glare at Lorcan, stirring my coffee viciously. Traitor.

“Morning, everyone.”

I look up to see Richard approaching the table. He looks about as cheery as the rest of us, i.e., suicidal.

“Morning,” I say. “Did you sleep well?”

“Terribly.” He scowls and pours himself some coffee, then glances at my phone. “So, have they done it yet?”

“For God’s sake!” I take out some of my resentment on him. “You’re obsessed!”

“You can talk,” mutters Lorcan.

“Why do you keep asking if they’ve done it?” says Noah alertly.

“Well, aren’t you obsessed too?” counters Richard.

“No, I’m not obsessed. And, no, they haven’t done it.” I put him out of his misery.

“Done what?” asks Noah.

“Put the sausage in the cupcake,” says Lorcan, draining his coffee.

“Lorcan!” I snap. “Don’t say things like that!”

Noah has exploded with laughter. “Put the sausage in the cupcake!” he crows. “The sausage in the cupcake!”

Great. I glare at Lorcan, who stares back, unmoved. And, anyway, cupcake? I’ve never heard it called that.

“I suppose you think it’s funny.” Richard turns his ire on Lorcan. “I suppose this is all a joke to you.”

“Oh, give it a break, Sir Lancelot.” Lorcan loses his patience. “Isn’t it time to butt out? You must want to give up by now. No woman is worth this rigmarole.”

“Lottie would be worth ten times this ‘rigmarole,’ as you put it.” Richard juts his chin at Lorcan. “And I’m not giving up when I’m only six hours away from seeing her. I’ve worked it out exactly.” He takes a piece of toast from the rack. “Six hours.”

“Sorry.” I put a hand on his. “But you should know. It’ll be more than that. They’re not at the hotel anymore. They’re at the guest house.”

Richard stares at me, wide-eyed with horror. “Bugger,” he says at last.

“I know.”

“They’ll shag there, for definite.”

“They might not,” I say, to convince myself as much as him. “And mind your language, please. Little pitchers.” I gesture at Noah.

“They will.” Richard is hunched with gloom. “That place is Lottie’s fantasyland. It’s her yellow brick road. Of course she’ll—” He stops himself, just in time. “Put the sausage in the muffin.”

“Cupcake,” corrects Lorcan.

“Shut up!” I say, exasperated.

As we’re all sitting there silently, a waitress approaches the table with a coloring book for Noah, and he accepts it with delight.

“You can draw your mummy or daddy,” she suggests, producing a box of crayons.

“My daddy isn’t here,” explains Noah politely, and gestures at Lorcan and Richard. “Neither of them is my daddy.”

Great. What kind of impression is he giving?

“It’s a business trip,” I say, smiling quickly.

“My daddy lives in London,” says Noah chattily. “But he’s moving to Hollywood.”

“Hollywood!”

“Yes. He’s going to live next to a movie star.”

My stomach plunges in dismay. Oh God, he’s doing it again. Even after we had the Big Talk. As soon as the waitress has moved away, I turn to Noah, trying to hide my agitation.

“Noah, sweetheart. Do you remember what we said about telling the truth?”

“Yes,” he says equably.

“So why did you say that Daddy’s moving to Hollywood?” I’m losing my cool, but I can’t help it. “You can’t say things like that, Noah! People will believe you!”

“But it’s true.”

“No, it isn’t! Daddy isn’t moving to Hollywood!”

“Yes, he is. Look, here’s his address. It says Beverly Hills. Daddy says that’s the same as Hollywood. He’s going to have a swimming pool and I can swim in it!” Noah reaches into his pocket and produces a slip of paper. I stare at it in disbelief. It’s in Daniel’s writing.

NEW ADDRESS

Daniel Phipps and Trudy Vanderveer

5406 Aubrey Road

Beverly Hills

CA 90210

I blink several times in bewilderment. Beverly Hills? What? I mean— What?

“Just wait there a minute, Noah,” I say, in a voice which doesn’t sound like mine. I’m already speed-dialing Daniel and pushing back my chair.

“Fliss,” he replies in his infuriating I’ve just been doing yoga, how about you? voice.

“What’s all this about Beverly Hills?” My words are falling over one another. “You’re moving to Beverly Hills?”

“Babe, calm down,” he says.

Babe?

“How can I calm down? Is it true?”

“So, Noah told you.”

My heart falls like a clanging thing. It’s true. He’s moving to L.A. and he didn’t even tell me.

“It’s Trudy’s work,” he’s saying now. “You know she’s in media law? This great opportunity arose for her, and I have dual nationality anyway.…”

His words carry on, but they fade to meaningless sounds. For some reason I’m remembering our wedding day. We had a very cool wedding. All ironic twists and fun details like custom-made cocktails. I was so concerned with making sure my guests would have a good time that I forgot to check the small detail of whether I was marrying the right man.

“… fabulous realtor, and she came up with this place under budget—”

“But, Daniel.” I cut him off in midstream. “What about Noah?”

“Noah?” He sounds surprised. “Noah can come out and visit.”

“He’s seven. He’s at school.”

“In the holidays, then.” Daniel sounds unconcerned. “We’ll make something work.”

“When do you leave?”

“Monday.”

Monday?

I close my eyes, breathing hard. The hurt I’m feeling on Noah’s behalf is indescribable. It’s physical pain that makes me want to curl into a ball. Daniel’s moving to L.A. with barely a thought of how he’ll maintain a relationship with his only child, our son. Our precious, charming, imaginative son. He’s putting five thousand miles between them in the blink of an eyelid.

“Right.” I try to gather myself. There’s no point saying anything else. “Daniel, I have to go. I’ll talk to you soon.”

I switch off and swivel round, intending to join the others. But something strange is happening to me. An unfamiliar, scary sensation. Suddenly a sound escapes from my lips. A kind of yelp, like a dog might make.

“Fliss?” Lorcan has got out of his seat. “You OK?”

“Mummy?” Noah looks worried.

The two men make brief eye contact and Richard nods.

“Hey, buddy,” Richard says easily to Noah. “Let’s go and buy some chewing gum for the flight.”

“Chewing gum!” yells Noah ecstatically, and follows Richard off.

I give another involuntary yelp, and Lorcan takes me by the elbows.

“Fliss … are you crying?”

“No!” I say at once. “I never cry in the daytime. It’s my rule. I never ever cryyy-eee.” The word disintegrates into a third of these strange, high-pitched yelps. Something wet is on my cheek. Is that a tear?

“What did Daniel say?” says Lorcan gently.

“He’s moving to L.A. He’s leaving us.…” I can see people looking over from other tables. “Oh God.” I bury my head in my hands. “I can’t … I have to stop.…”

I emit a fourth yelp, which sounds a bit more like a sob. It feels as if something is looming up inside me, something unstoppable and violent and loud. The last time I felt like this, I was giving birth.

“You need somewhere private,” says Lorcan swiftly. “You’re going to have a meltdown. Where shall we go?”

“I’ve checked out of my room,” I mutter, between gasps. “They should have a crying room. Like a smoking room.”

“I’ve got it.” Lorcan grabs my arm and leads me through the tables to the swimming-pool area. “Steam room.” He doesn’t wait for a reply but opens the glass door and pushes me inside.

The atmosphere is so thick, I have to grope for a seat. The air is dense with vapor and there’s a soft, herby scent.

“Cry,” says Lorcan through the misty air. “No one’s watching. No one can hear, Fliss. Cry.”

“Can’t.” I swallow hard. Everything in me is resisting. The odd yelp still escapes, but I can’t surrender.

“Then tell me. Daniel’s moving to L.A.,” he prompts.

“Yes. He won’t see Noah anymore, and he doesn’t even care.” A shudder overcomes me. “He didn’t even tell me.”

“I thought you wanted him out of your life? That’s what you said.”

“I did,” I say, momentarily confused. “I do. I think I do. But this is so final. It’s such a rejection of us both.” Something is rising up in me again. Something churning and powerful. I think it could be grief. “It means it’s over. Our family’s oooover.” And now the churning is threatening to consume me. “Our whole family is ooooover.…”

“Come here, Fliss,” says Lorcan quietly, and proffers a shoulder. Immediately, I recoil.

“I can’t cry on you,” I say, my voice jerky. “Look away.”

“Of course you can cry on me.” He laughs. “We’ve had sex, remember.”

“That was sex. This is far more embarrassing.” I gulp. “Look away. Go away.”

“I’m not looking anywhere,” he says steadily. “And I’m not going anywhere. Come on.”

“I can’t,” I say desperately.

“Come on, you stupid woman.” He holds out his suited arm, pearlescent with steam. And finally, gratefully, I descend on it in a volcano of sobs.

We’re there for a while—me shuddering and sobbing and coughing, and Lorcan rubbing my back. For some reason I keep remembering Noah’s delivery. It was an emergency C-section and I was terrified, but, all the way through, Daniel was beside me in green scrubs, holding my hand. I never doubted him then. Back then I never doubted anything for a minute. And that makes me want to cry all over again.

At last I look up and push my hair back off my sweaty face. I can feel that my nose is swollen and my eyes are puffy. I haven’t cried like that since I was about ten, probably.

“I’m sorry—” I begin, but Lorcan holds up a hand.

“No. No apologies.”

“But your suit!” I begin to become aware of exactly what we’re doing here. We’re sitting in a steam room, both fully dressed.

“Every divorce has casualties,” says Lorcan calmly. “Think of my suit as one of the casualties of yours. Besides which,” he adds, “steam is good for suits.”

“At least our skin will be clean,” I say.

“There you go. Loads of pluses.”

A concealed mechanism in the corner is puffing fresh steam into the tiny chamber, and the air is becoming more opaque. I pull up my feet onto the mosaic-tiled bench and hug my knees tight, feeling as though the steam is a protective barrier. It’s intimate in here. But it’s private too.

“When I got married, I knew life wouldn’t be perfect,” I say into the mist. “I didn’t expect a rose garden. And then, when I got divorced, I didn’t expect a rose garden there either. But I hoped I might at least get … I don’t know. A patio.”

“A patio?”

“You know. A little terrace. Something small with a few plants to tend. Something with a tiny bit of optimism and love. But what I have is a post-nuclear war zone.”

“That’s good.” Lorcan gives a little laugh.

“What do you have? Not a rose garden?”

“It’s kind of alien territory,” he says after a pause. “Like a moonscape.”

Our eyes meet through the murky atmosphere and we don’t need to say any more. We get it.

The steam is still puffing and wreathing around us. It feels healing. It feels as though it’s lifting troublesome thoughts up away with it, leaving behind a kind of clarity. And the longer I sit there, the clearer things are to me. There’s a growing heaviness in my stomach. Lorcan was right. Not just now, but last night. He was right. This has all been a mistake.

I have to give this mission up right now. It’s flashing through my brain like a TV headline. Give up. Give up. I can’t carry on. I can’t risk losing Lottie.

Yes, I want to protect my little sister from the same pain I had. But it’s her life. I can’t make her choices for her. If she breaks up with Ben, so be it. If she goes through a divorce, so be it. If they’re married for seventy years and have twenty grandchildren, so be it.

I feel as though a kind of madness has been propelling me down a crazy path. Was it really about Lottie, or was it about Daniel and me? Is Lorcan right? Has this been my own Unfortunate Choice? Oh God, what have I been doing?

I’m suddenly aware that I muttered those last few words aloud. “Sorry,” I add. “I just … I realized …” I raise my head, feeling abject.

“You’ve been doing your best to help your sister,” says Lorcan, almost kindly. “In a totally deluded, fuckwit, wrong-headed way.”

“What—” I clap my hand to my mouth. “Oh God. What if she found out?” The thought is so horrifying, I feel almost faint. I was so determined to succeed, I never considered the downside. I’ve been an absolute fool.

“She doesn’t need to,” says Lorcan. “Not if you turn round and go home and never say a word. I won’t tell.”

“Nico won’t tell either. He’s my guy at the hotel.” I’m breathing hard, as though I’ve had a narrow escape. “I think I’m OK. She’ll never know.”

“So the honeymoon-sabotage campaign is off?”

“As of this moment.” I nod. “I’ll call Nico. He’ll be relieved.” I look at Lorcan. “I’m never going to interfere in my sister’s life again,” I say with emphasis. “Hold me to that. Hold me to my vow.”

“It’s a deal.” He nods seriously. “And what are you going to do now?”

I shake my head. “I don’t know. Get to the airport. Take it from there.” I tug at my sweaty hair, remembering again that I’m sitting in a steam room in my clothes. “I must look a sight.”

“I agree,” says Lorcan seriously. “You can’t get on a plane like that. You’d better go under the cold-drench shower.”

“The cold-drench shower?” I stare at him disbelievingly.

“Closes up the pores. Invigorates the circulation. Gets rid of snotty tearstains.”

He’s teasing me. I think. Is he?

“I will if you will,” I challenge him.

“Why not?” He shrugs. I feel a rising giggle. We cannot be planning to do this.

“OK, here goes.” I push the door open and hold it politely for Lorcan. I can see the stares and nudges from hotel guests at the sight of two fully-clothed people emerging from the steam room, one in a business suit.

“After you.” Lorcan gestures politely at the cold-drench shower. “I’ll pull the lever, if you like.”

“Go on, then.” I start to laugh as I step underneath. A moment later a blast of freezing water descends on me, and I give a tiny scream.

“Mummy!” A piercing voice hails me in delight. “You had a shower with your clothes on.” Noah is watching from the table with Richard, his face bright with disbelief.

Lorcan takes his turn and lifts his face up to the drenching shower.

“There,” he says to me when it’s finished. “Isn’t that refreshing? Doesn’t life seem better?” He shakes out his wet suit sleeve.

I pause a moment, wanting to answer him honestly. “Yes,” I say at last. “Much better. Thank you.”