Wedding Night: A Novel

5

FLISS

I hope Lottie’s OK, I really do. I’ve been away for two weeks and I haven’t heard one word from her. She hasn’t answered any of my friendly texts, and the last phone call we had was when she was planning to fly to San Francisco and surprise Richard. As Unfortunate Choices go, that one took the biscuit. Thank God I headed it off.

But since then: nothing. I’ve tried leaving voicemails as well as texting, but no response. I did manage to get through to her intern, who assured me that she was coming in to work every day—so at least I know she’s alive and well. But it’s not like Lottie to be incommunicado. It troubles me. I’ll go round and see her tonight, make sure she’s OK.

I pull out my phone and send her yet another text: Hi, how’s it going??? Then I put it away and survey the school playground. It’s thronging with parents, children, nannies, dogs, and toddlers on scooters. It’s the first day of term, so there are lots of tanned faces and shiny shoes and new haircuts. And that’s just the mothers.

“Fliss!” A voice greets me as we get out of the car. It’s Anna, another mother. She’s clutching a Tupperware container in one hand and a dog lead in the other, at the end of which her Labrador is itching to get away. “How are you? Hi, Noah! Been meaning to have that coffee …”

“Love to.” I nod.

Anna and I talk about having coffee every time we see each other—which would be getting on for two years now—and it hasn’t yet happened. But somehow that doesn’t matter. Somehow that’s not the point.

“That bloody travel project,” Anna is saying as we walk toward the school entrance. “I was up at five a.m. finishing that off. Up your street, I suppose, travel!” She gives a cheerful laugh.

“What travel project?”

“You know, the art thing?” She gestures to her container. “We did a plane. Utterly lame. We covered a toy with silver foil. Hardly homemade, but I said to Charlie, ‘Sweetie, Mrs. Hocking won’t know there’s a toy underneath.’ ”

“What travel project?” I say again.

“You know. Make a vehicle or whatever. They’re showing them all off at assembly.… Charlie, come on! The bell’s rung!”

What bloody travel project?

As I approach Mrs. Hocking, I can see another mother, Jane Langridge, standing in front of her, holding out a model of a cruise ship. It’s made out of balsa wood and paper. It has three funnels and rows of little portholes cut out perfectly and teeny clay figures on top, sunbathing round the blue-painted swimming pool. I stare at it, speechless in awe.

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Hocking,” Jane is saying. “Some of the paint is still wet. We’ve had such fun making it, haven’t we, Joshua?”

“Hello, Mrs. Phipps,” calls out Mrs. Hocking cheerfully. “Nice holiday?”

Mrs. Phipps. It sets my teeth on edge every time I’m addressed this way. I haven’t got round to becoming “Ms. Graveney” for school purposes. Truth is, I’m unsure what to do. I don’t want to unsettle Noah. I don’t want to make a big deal of rejecting his surname. I like having the same name as Noah. It feels homey and right.

I should have chosen a brand-new surname when he was born. Just for us. Divorce-proof.

“Mummy, did you bring the hot-air balloon?” Noah is peering up at me anxiously. “Have we got the hot-air balloon?”

I stare at him blankly. I have no idea what he’s talking about.

“Noah told us he was making a hot-air balloon. Super idea.” Mrs. Hocking descends on us, beaming. She’s a woman in her sixties who lives in tapered trousers. She’s so cool and unhurried, I inevitably feel like a gabbling lunatic next to her. Now her eyes rest on my empty hands. “Do you have it?”

Do I look like I have a hot-air balloon about my person?

“Not on me,” I hear myself saying. “Not exactly on me.”

“Ah.” Her smile fades. “Well, if there’s any chance you could get it to us this morning, Mrs. Phipps, we’re setting up the display for assembly.”

“Right! Of course!” I flash her a confident smile. “I just need to— One tiny detail— Let me just talk to Noah a moment.” I draw him away and bend down. “Which hot-air balloon, darling?”

“My hot-air balloon for the travel project,” says Noah, as though it’s obvious. “We have to bring them in today.”

“Right.” It’s nearly killing me, staying bright and breezy. “I didn’t know you had a project. You never mentioned it.”

“I forgot.” He nods. “But remember we had a letter?”

“What happened to the letter?”

“Daddy put it in his fruit bowl.”

I feel a volcanic surge of fury. I knew it. I bloody knew it.

“Right. I see.” I grind my fingernails into my palms. “Daddy didn’t tell me there was a project. What a pity.”

“And we talked about what to make, and Daddy said, ‘What about a hot-air balloon?’ ” Noah’s eyes start to gleam. “Daddy said we would get a balloon and cover it with papier-mâché and make a basket and people. And ropes. And paint it. And the people could be Batman.” His little cheeks are glowing with excitement. “Has he made it?” He looks at me expectantly. “Have you got it?”

“I’ll just … check.” My smile feels glued into place. “Play on the climbing frame a moment.”

I step away and speed-dial Daniel.

“Daniel Phi—”

“It’s Fliss.” I cut him off evenly. “Are you by any chance speeding toward the school holding a papier-mâché hot-air balloon with Batman in the basket?”

There’s quite a long pause.

“Oh,” Daniel says at last. “Shit. Sorry.”

He doesn’t sound remotely concerned. I want to kill him.

“No! Not ‘Oh. Shit. Sorry.’ You can’t do this, Daniel! It’s not fair on Noah and it’s not fair on me and—”

“Fliss, relax. It’s just some little school project.”

“It’s not little! To Noah, it’s huge! It’s— You’re—” I break off, breathing fast. He’ll never get it. There’s no point wasting breath. I’m on my own. “Fine, Daniel. Whatever. I’ll sort it.”

I switch off before he can answer. I’m feeling a red heat of determination. I am not going to let Noah down. He’s going to have his hot-air balloon. I can do this. Come on.

I bleep open the car and snap up the lid of my briefcase. I’ve got a tiny cardboard gift bag in there, from some fancy lunch. That can be the basket. Shoelaces out of my gym crosstrainers will be the ropes. I grab a sheet of paper and pen from my briefcase and beckon Noah over.

“I’m just going to finish off our hot-air balloon,” I say brightly. “Why don’t you draw Batman to put in the basket?”

As Noah starts drawing, leaning on the car seat, I swiftly take out my shoelaces. They’re brown and speckled. They’ll make perfect ropes. I’ve got some Scotch tape in the glove compartment. And for the balloon itself …

Bloody hell. What can I use? It’s not like I travel around with packets of balloons, on the off chance that—

A ridiculous, unspeakable idea grabs me. I could always—

No. No way. I can’t.…

Five minutes later, I approach Mrs. Hocking, nonchalantly holding Noah’s project. The mothers standing around gradually fall silent. In fact, it feels as though the whole playground has fallen silent.

“That’s Batman!” Noah is pointing to the basket proudly. “I drew him.”

All the children are looking at Batman. All the mothers are looking at the balloon. It’s a blown-up Durex Fetherlite Ultra. It inflated to quite an impressive size, and the teat on the end is bobbing in the breeze.

I hear a sudden snort from Anna, but when I look around sharply, all I can see are innocent expressions.

“Goodness, Noah,” says Mrs. Hocking faintly. “What a … big balloon!”

“That’s obscene,” snaps Jane, clutching her boat to her as though for protection. “This is a school, in case you’d forgotten. There are children here.”

“And as far as they’re concerned, this is a perfectly innocent balloon,” I retort. “My husband let me down.” I turn apologetically to Mrs. Hocking. “I didn’t have much time.”

“It’s very good, Mrs. Phipps!” Mrs. Hocking rallies herself. “What a creative use of …”

“What if it bursts?” says Jane.

“I’ve got spares,” I shoot back triumphantly, and proffer the rest of my Durex variety pack, splayed out like a pack of cards.

A moment too late, I realize how this looks. My cheeks flaming, I surreptitiously adjust my hand to cover up the words Ribbed for extra pleasure. And lube. And stimulation. My fingers are doing a starfish impression, trying to censor the condom packets.

“I think we’ll be able to find a balloon for Noah in the classroom, Mrs. Phipps,” Mrs. Hocking says at last. “I’d keep those yourself, for …” She hesitates, clearly searching for a way to finish her sentence.

“Absolutely.” I hastily head her off. “Good idea. I’ll use them for … exactly. That. I mean, not.” I laugh shrilly. “Actually, I probably won’t use them at all. Or at least … I am responsible, obviously.…”

I trail away into silence. I’ve just shared details of my condom use with my son’s teacher. I’m not sure how that happened.

“Anyway!” I add in bright desperation. “So. I’ll take those away now. And use them. For … some purpose or other.”

Hastily, I stuff the condoms back in my bag, dropping a Pleasuremax and diving for it before any of the seven-year-olds can reach it. All the other mothers are staring, jaw-dropped, as though they’ve witnessed a car crash.

“I hope the assembly goes well. Have a lovely day, Noah.” I hand him the hot-air balloon with a kiss, then swivel on my heel and march away, breathing hard. I wait until I’m on the road, then dial Barnaby from the car phone.

“Barnaby.” I launch in. “You will not believe what Daniel just did. Noah had a school project which Daniel didn’t say a single word about—”

“Fliss,” says Barnaby patiently. “Calm down.”

“I had to hand a blown-up condom to Noah’s teacher! It was supposed to be a hot-air balloon!” I can hear Barnaby bursting into laughter down the line. “It wasn’t funny! He’s a shit! He pretends to care, but he’s totally selfish; he lets Noah down—”

“Fliss.” Barnaby’s voice is suddenly harder and stops me in my tracks. “This has to stop.”

“What has to stop?” I stare at the speakerphone.

“The daily rant. I’m going to say something to you now, as an old friend. If you keep going on like this, you’ll drive everyone insane, including yourself. Shit happens, OK?”

“But—”

“It happens, Fliss.” He pauses. “And it doesn’t help to stir it up again and again. You need to move on. Get a life. Go on a date without mentioning your ex-husband’s underpants.”

“What are you talking about?” I say evasively.

“It was a date. A date.” I can hear Barnaby’s frustration bursting through the phone. “You were supposed to flirt with Nathan. Not open up your laptop and read out your entire divorce dossier.”

“I didn’t read out the entire thing!” I finger my memory stick defensively. “We were just talking, and I happened to mention it, and he seemed interested—”

“He wasn’t interested! He was being polite. Apparently you ranted for five solid minutes about Daniel’s underwear.”

“That’s a total exaggeration,” I retort hotly.

But my face has flamed. Maybe it was five minutes. I’d had a bit to drink by that stage. And there’s a lot to say about Daniel’s underwear, none of it good.

“Do you remember our first appointment, Fliss?” Barnaby continues relentlessly. “You said whatever you did, you wouldn’t end up bitter.”

I gasp at his use of the B-word. “I’m not. I’m … angry. Regretful.” I search my mind for further acceptable emotions. “I’m rueful. Sad. Philosophical.”

“The word Nathan used was ‘bitter.’ ”

“I’m not bitter!” I almost yell at him. “I think I would know if I was bitter or not!”

There’s silence at the other end. I’m breathing fast. My hands feel sweaty around the steering wheel. I’m flashing back to my date with Nathan. I thought I was talking about Daniel in an amusing, detached, ironic way. Nathan never said a word to indicate he wasn’t having a good time. Is that what everyone’s been doing? Humoring me?

“OK,” I say at last. “Well, now I know. Thanks for the heads-up.”

“Anytime.” Barnaby’s cheerful voice resounds through the car. “Before you say it, I am your friend. And I do love you lots. But this is what you need. Tough love, Fliss. I’ll talk to you soon.”

He rings off, and I signal left, chewing my bottom lip and glaring darkly at the road. It’s all very well. It’s all very well.

When I get to work, I can see my in-box is full, but I sit at my desk, staring blindly at my computer. Barnaby’s words have stung me more than I want to admit to myself. I’m turning into a bitter, twisted hag. I’m going to end up a gnarled old crone in a black hood who scowls at the world and battles her way along the street, hitting people with her stick and refusing to smile at the neighborhood children, who run away, terrified.

Worst-case scenario.

After a bit, I reach for the phone and call Lottie’s office number. Maybe we can buoy each other up.

The girl who answers is Dolly, Lottie’s junior.

“Oh, hi, Dolly,” I say. “Is Lottie about?”

“She’s out. Shopping. Don’t know when she’ll be back.”

Shopping? I blink at the phone in surprise. I know Lottie sometimes gets frustrated with her job, but to go out shopping and blatantly tell your junior is really not the way to go in this economic climate.

“Any idea when she’ll be back?”

“Dunno. She’s buying stuff for her honeymoon.”

I stiffen. Did I hear that right? Honeymoon? As in … honeymoon?

“Did you just say …” I swallow. “Dolly, is Lottie getting married?”

“Didn’t you know?”

“I’ve been away! This is … I’ve been …” I can hardly speak. “Oh my God! Please say I rang and congratulations!”

I put down the phone and beam elatedly around the empty office. My gloomy mood has vanished. I want to dance. Lottie’s engaged! It goes to show, some things in the world do go right in the end.

But, how?

How, how, how, how, how?

What happened? Did she fly out to San Francisco after all? Or did he fly back? Or did they call each other? What? I text her:

You’re engaged????????

I’m expecting radio silence again, but a moment later she replies.

Yes!!!! Was waiting to tell u all about it!

OMG! What happened???

All very fast. Still can’t believe it. He came back into my life out of nowhere, asked me in a restaurant, had no idea he would, absolute whirlwind!!!!

I have to talk to her. I call her mobile number, but it’s engaged. Damn. I’ll get myself a coffee, then try again. As I head to our in-house Costa outlet, I can’t stop beaming. In fact, I’m so happy I really want to cry, but editors at Pincher International don’t cry at work, so I’ll settle for hugging myself.

Richard is perfect. He’s everything I could ever have wanted for Lottie. Which sounds motherly—but, then, I do feel motherly toward her. Always have. Our own parents both kind of gave up on the job, what with the divorce and the alcohol and the affairs with loaded businessmen and South African beauty queens.… Put it this way: we were left alone a lot. Lottie is five years younger than me, and, well before our mother died, she started turning to me when things went wrong.

And as mother figure/sister/possible chief bridesmaid (?), I could not be more thrilled that Richard’s joining our strange little family unit. For a start, he’s good-looking but not to-die-for. This is important, I think. You want your sister to land a sex god in her own eyes, but you don’t want to be lusting after him yourself. I mean, how would I feel if Lottie brought Johnny Depp home?

I try to examine my thoughts honestly, in the privacy of my own head. Yes, I would be unable to stay sisterly. I would probably try to steal him. I would feel like all bets were off.

But Richard isn’t Johnny Depp. He’s handsome, don’t get me wrong, but not overly handsome. Not gay handsome, which that awful Jamie was, always preening and competing over carbs. Richard’s a man. To my eye, he sometimes looks like a younger Pierce Brosnan and sometimes like a younger Gordon Brown. (Although I think I’m the only one who can see the Gordon Brown thing. I mentioned the resemblance to Lottie once, and she got quite offended.)

I know he’s good at his job. (Obviously, when he first started dating Lottie I asked around all my City contacts for the lowdown on him.) I also know he can have a short fuse and once bawled out his team so hugely, he had to take them all out to lunch to apologize. But he’s also good-natured. The first time I ever saw him, he was holding an armchair, which Lottie wanted moved in her flat. She was wandering round the sitting room, saying, “There … no, there! Ooh, what about there?” And he just held that big heavy chair patiently while she dithered around, and I caught his eye and he grinned and I knew. This is the right guy for Lottie.

I want to jump up and down, I’m so happy. After all the shit of my divorce, we needed something good to come our way. So, how did it happen? What did he say? I want to know everything. As I head back to my desk, I impatiently dial her number again—and this time she answers.

“Hi, Fliss?”

“Lottie!” I erupt with excitement. “Congratulations! Amazing news! I can’t believe it!”

“I know! I know!” She sounds even more euphoric than I was expecting. Richard must have swept her off her feet.

“So … when?” I sit down at my desk and sip my coffee.

“Two weeks ago. It still hasn’t really sunk in!”

“Details!”

“Well, he just contacted me out of the blue.” Lottie gives an exhilarated laugh. “I couldn’t believe it. I thought I’d never see him again. Let alone this!”

If he proposed two weeks ago, that means he’d been gone for a day, max. He must have landed at San Francisco and turned right around. Good work, Richard!

“And what did he say? Did he get down on one knee?”

“Yes! He said he’d always loved me and he wanted to be with me and then he asked me to marry him about ten times, and at last … I said yes!” Her elation bubbles over again. “Can you believe it?”

I sigh happily and take another sip of coffee. It’s so romantic. It’s so dreamy. I wonder if I could skive my British Airways press conference and take Lottie out for a celebratory lunch.

“So … what else?” I probe for more details. “Did you give him the ring?”

“Well, no.” Lottie sounds drawn up short. “Of course not.”

Thank God for that. I was never into the ring idea.

“You just decided not to in the end?”

“It didn’t even occur to me!” To my surprise, she sounds pained. “I mean, the ring was for Richard.”

“What do you mean?” I blink at the phone, not following.

“Well, I bought the ring for Richard.” She sounds quite put out. “It would be weird, giving it to someone else. Don’t you think?”

I try to answer, but my thoughts have jammed, as though a pencil’s fallen into a smoothly whirring machine. What’s this “someone else”? I open my mouth to reply—then close it again. Did I hear wrong? Is she using some figure of speech?

“So …” I proceed warily, feeling as though I’m speaking a foreign language. “You bought the ring for Richard … but you didn’t give it to him?”

I’m only trying to work out what she meant. I’m not expecting her to flip out on me as though I’ve single-handedly ruined her day.

“Fliss, you know I didn’t! God, you could be a bit more sensitive!” Her voice rises shrilly. “I’m trying to start afresh here! I’m trying to embark on a whole new life with Ben! You don’t have to bring up Richard!”

Ben?

I’m completely confused. I think I’m going mad. Who’s Ben and what does he have to do with this?

“Look, Lottie. Don’t get upset, but I really don’t understand.…”

“I told you just now in my text! Can’t you read?”

“You said you were engaged!” A terrible feeling grips me. Is this all some massive misunderstanding? “Are you not engaged?”

“Yes! Of course I’m engaged! To Ben!”

“Who the fuck is Ben?” I yell, more loudly than I meant to. Elise looks in at the door curiously, and I shoot her an apologetic smile, mouthing, “It’s OK.”

There’s silence at the end of the phone.

“Oh,” says Lottie at last. “Sorry. I just looked back at my text. I thought I’d told you. I’m not marrying Richard; I’m marrying Ben. Remember Ben?”

“No, I do not remember Ben!” I say, feeling increasingly frazzled.

“That’s right, you never met him. Well, he was my gap-year boyfriend in Greece, and he’s come back into my life and we’re getting married.”

I feel as though the ceiling has caved in. She was marrying Richard. It all made sense. Now she’s running off with some guy called Ben? I don’t even know where to start.

“Lotts … But, Lotts, I mean … How can you be getting married to him?” A thought suddenly comes to me. “Is this a visa thing?”

“No, it’s not a visa thing!” She sounds indignant. “It’s love!”

“You love this guy Ben enough to marry him?” I can’t believe I’m having this conversation.

“Yes.”

“When exactly did he come back into your life?”

“Two weeks ago.”

“Two weeks ago,” I repeat calmly, although I want to burst into hysterical laughter. “After how long?”

“Fifteen years.” She sounds defiant. “And before you ask me, yes, I have thought it through.”

“OK! Well, congratulations. I’m sure Ben’s wonderful.”

“He’s amazing. You’ll love him. He’s good-looking, and he’s fun, and we’re totally connected—”

“Great! Look, let’s meet up for lunch, OK? And we can talk about it.”

I’m overreacting, I tell myself. I simply have to adjust to this new situation. Maybe this guy Ben is perfect for Lottie and it will all work out brilliantly. As long as they have a nice long engagement and don’t rush into anything—

“Shall we meet at Selfridges?” Lottie says. “I’m there now, actually. I’m buying honeymoon underwear!”

“Yes, I heard. So, when were you planning to get married?”

“Tomorrow,” she says happily. “We wanted to do it as soon as possible. Can you take the day off?”

Tomorrow? She’s gone mad.

“Lotts, stay there.” I can hardly get the words out. “I’ll come and meet you. I think we should have a talk.”

I should never have relaxed. I should never have gone on holiday. I should have realized Lottie wouldn’t rest till she’d found something to channel all her hurt energy into. And it’s this. A marriage.

By the time I get to Selfridges, my heart is thumping and I have a head full of questions. Lottie, on the other hand, has a basket full of underwear. No, not underwear, sex kit. She’s standing looking at a transparent basque as I hurtle toward her, almost knocking over a rail of Princesse Tam Tam teddies. As she sees me, she holds it up.

“What do you think?”

I eye the stuff in her basket. She’s clearly been at the Agent Provocateur concession. There’s lots of black see-through lace. And is that an eye mask?

“What do you think?” she says impatiently, and jiggles the basque at me. “It’s quite expensive. Shall I try it on?”

Isn’t there a slightly bigger question we should be discussing? I want to yell. Like: who is this Ben and why are you marrying him? But if I know one thing about Lottie, it’s that I need to play things carefully. I need to talk her down.

“So!” I say as brightly as I can. “You’re getting married. To someone I’ve never met.”

“You’ll meet him at the wedding. You’ll love him, Fliss.” Her eyes are shiny as she tosses the transparent basque into her basket and adds a teeny thong. “I can’t believe everything’s worked out so perfectly. I’m so happy.”

“Right. Wonderful! Me too!” I leave a tiny pause before adding, “Although—just a thought—do you need to get married so soon? Couldn’t you have a long engagement and plan everything properly?”

“There’s nothing to plan! It’s all going to be so easy. Chelsea Register Office. Lunch at some lovely place. Simple and romantic. You’re going to be bridesmaid, I hope.” She squeezes my arm, then reaches for another basque.

There’s something extra-weird about her. I survey her, trying to work out what’s different. She’s got that post-breakup manic air about her—but even more than usual. Her eyes are overbright. She’s hyper. Is Ben a dealer? Is she on something?

“So, Ben just contacted you out of the blue?”

“He got in touch and we had dinner. And it was as though we’d never been apart. We were so in tune with each other.” She sighs blissfully. “He’d been in love with me for fifteen years. Fifteen years. And I’d been in love with him too. That’s why we want to get married quickly. We’ve wasted enough time already, Fliss.” Her voice throbs dramatically, as though she’s in a TV true-life movie. “We want to get on with the rest of our life.”

What?

OK, this is bollocks. Lottie has not been in love with someone called Ben for the last fifteen years. I think I might know if she had.

“You’ve been in love with him the last fifteen years?” I can’t help challenging her. “Funny that you never mentioned him. At all.”

“I loved him inside.” She clasps a hand to her side. “Here. Maybe I didn’t tell you about it. Maybe I don’t tell you everything.” She defiantly throws a garter belt into her basket.

“Have you got a photo of him?”

“Not on me. But he’s gorgeous. I want you to give a speech, by the way,” she adds blithely. “You’re chief-bridesmaid-slash-best-woman. And Ben’s best man is his friend Lorcan. It’ll just be the four of us at the ceremony.”

I stare at her in exasperation. I was planning to be tactful and go softly, softly, but I can’t. This is all too crazy.

“Lottie.” I plant a hand on the packet of stockings she was about to pick up. “Stop. And listen a moment. I know you don’t want to hear this, but you have to.” I wait until she reluctantly turns her eyes toward me. “You split up from Richard about five minutes ago. You were about to commit to him. You’d bought him an engagement ring. You said you loved him. Now you’re rushing off with some guy you barely know? Is this really a good idea?”

“Well, it’s a good thing I did split up from Richard! A very good thing!” Lottie is suddenly bristling like a cat. “I’ve done a lot of thinking, Fliss. And I’ve realized Richard was all wrong for me. All wrong! I need someone romantic. Someone who can feel. Someone who’ll put himself out there for me, you know? Richard’s a nice guy and I thought I loved him. But now I realize the truth: he’s limited.”

She spits out “limited” as though it’s the worst insult she can come up with.

“What do you mean, ‘limited’?” I can’t help feeling a bit defensive on Richard’s behalf.

“He’s narrow. He has no style. He’d never make some huge, reckless, wonderful gesture. He’d never come and find a girl after fifteen years and tell her that life was darkness without her and now he wants to turn on the switch.” Her chin juts defiantly and I give an inward grimace. Was that Ben’s line? He wanted to turn on the switch?

I mean, I do sympathize. I had a couple of terrible, misjudged rebound flings after Daniel and I separated. But I didn’t marry one of them.

“Look, Lottie.” I try a different tack. “I do understand. I know what it’s like. You’re hurt. You’re confused. An old boyfriend comes along out of the blue—of course you’re going to fall into bed with him. It’s natural. But why do you have to get married?”

“You’re wrong,” she retorts with a triumphant look. “You are so, so wrong, Fliss. I didn’t fall into bed with him. And I’m not going to. I’m saving myself for the honeymoon.”

She …

What?

Of all the things I was expecting to hear, it wasn’t this. I stare at Lottie blankly, unable to find an answer. Where is my sister and what has this man done with her?

“You’re saving yourself?” I echo at last. “But.… why? Is he Amish?” I suddenly fear the worst. “Is he from some kind of cult? Did he promise you enlightenment?”

Please don’t tell me she’s handed over all her money. Not again.

“Of course not!”

“So … why?”

“So I’ll have the hottest sex ever on my honeymoon night.” She grabs the stockings. “We know we’re good together, so why not save up for the moment? It’s our wedding night. It should be special. As special as it can possibly be.” She gives a sudden wriggle, as though she can’t contain herself. “And believe me, it will be. God, Fliss, he’s so hot. We can hardly keep our hands off each other. It’s like we’re eighteen again.”

I stare at her, all the pieces falling into place. Her shiny eyes make sense. The basket of underwear makes sense. She’s raring to go. This engagement is one great big session of fore-play. Why didn’t I realize this straightaway? She is drugged up—on lust. And not only lust, teenage lust. She has the same look about her as teenagers snogging at the bus stop, as though the rest of the world doesn’t exist. For a moment I feel a stab of envy. I wouldn’t mind disappearing into a bubble of teenage lust, quite frankly. But I have to stay rational here. I have to be the voice of reason.

“Lottie, listen.” I’m trying to speak slowly and clearly, to penetrate her trance. “You don’t have to get married. You could just take a hotel suite somewhere.”

“I want to get married!” Humming to herself, she chucks another expensive negligee into her basket, and I suppress a desire to scream. It’s all very well. But if she took off the lust goggles for one bloody moment, maybe she’d see how much this escapade is potentially going to end up costing her. A shed-load of underwear. A marriage. A honeymoon. A divorce. All for one epic night of shagging? Which she could have for free?

“I know what you’re thinking.” She looks up at me resentfully. “You could be happy for me.”

“I’m trying to be, I really am.” I rub my head. “But it makes no sense. You’re doing everything the wrong way round.”

“Am I?” She turns on me. “Who says so? Isn’t this the traditional way?”

“Lottie, you’re being ludicrous.” I’m starting to feel angry. “This is no way to start a marriage, OK? A marriage is a serious, legal thing—”

“I know!” She cuts me off. “And I want to make it work, and this is the way. I’m not stupid, Fliss.” She folds her arms. “I have thought about this, you know. My love life has been a disaster. It’s followed the same old pattern, with man after man. Sex. Love. No marriage. Over and over. Well, now I have a chance to do it differently! I’m reversing the strategy! Love. Marriage. Sex!”

“But it’s nuts!” I can’t help erupting. “The whole thing’s nuts! You must see that!”

“No, I don’t!” she retorts hotly. “I see a brilliant answer to the whole problem. It’s retro! It’s tried and tested! Did Queen Victoria have sex before she married Albert? And was their marriage a huge success? Did she love him desperately and build a great big memorial to him in Hyde Park? Exactly. Did Romeo and Juliet have sex before they got married?”

“But—”

“Did Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy have sex before they got married?” Her eyes flash at me as though this proves everything.

Oh, please. If she’s going to use Mr. Darcy to prop up her arguments, I give up.

“Fair enough,” I say at last. “You got me there. Mr. Darcy.”

I need to back off for now and come up with a different angle.

“So, who’s this Lorcan?” A new idea has come to me. “Who’s this best man of Ben’s you mentioned?”

Presumably Ben’s best friend won’t be any wilder than I am about this sudden, out-of-the-blue marriage. Maybe we can join forces.

“Dunno.” She waves vaguely. “Some old friend. Works with him.”

“Where?”

“The company’s called something like … Decree.”

“And what does Ben do, exactly?”

“Dunno.” She holds up a pair of knickers that untie at the back. “Something or other.”

I resist an urge to yell, You’re getting married to him and you don’t even know what he does?

I get out my BlackBerry and type in Ben—Lorcan—Decree?

“What’s Ben’s surname?”

“Parr. I’ll be Lottie Parr. Isn’t that lovely?”

Ben Parr.

I tap at my BlackBerry, peer at the screen, and do a fake gasp. “Oh goodness. I forgot all about that. Actually, Lottie, I’m not sure I’ve got time for lunch, after all. I’d better go. Have fun shopping.” I give her a hug. “Talk to you later. And … congratulations!”

My bright smile lasts all the way out of the underwear department. Before I’ve even got to the lifts, I’m on Google, typing Ben Parr. Ben Parr, my potential new brother-in-law. Who the hell is he?

By the time I get back to my office, I’ve Googled Ben Parr as extensively as I can manage on my phone, but I haven’t found any company called Decree, only a bunch of entries about a Ben Parr who does stand-up comedy. Badly, according to the reviews. Is that him?

Great. A failed stand-up. My favorite kind of brother-in-law.

At last I find an entry which mentions a Ben Parr in a news item about a paper company called Dupree Sanders. He has some made-up title like Strategic Overview Consultant. I type in Ben Parr Dupree Sanders, and a million new entries appear. Dupree Sanders is clearly a thing. A big company. Here’s the home page … and sure enough, a page pops up with his picture and a little bio, which I scan. Having worked with his father as a young man, Ben Parr was delighted to rejoin Dupree Sanders in 2011, in a strategic role … genuine passion for the business … Since his father’s death, he is even more dedicated to the future of the company.

I lean toward the screen and scan the photo intently, trying to get a sense of this man who is zooming like a torpedo toward being related to me. He’s good-looking, I’ll have to agree. Boyish-looking. Slim. Affable. Not sure about his mouth. It looks kind of weak.

After a bit, the pixels start to dance in front of my eyes, so I sit back and type in Lorcan Dupree Sanders.

A moment later another page pops up, with a photo of a very different-looking man. Dark, thrusting hair, black eyebrows, and a frown. Strong, slightly beaky nose. He looks fairly forbidding. Underneath the picture it says, Lorcan Adamson. Extension 310. Lorcan Adamson practiced law in London before joining Dupree Sanders in 2008 … responsible for many initiatives … developed the luxury stationery brand Papermaker … worked with the National Trust to expand the visitor center … committed to sustainable, responsible industry …

A lawyer. Let’s hope he’s the rational, reasonable type, not the arrogant asshole type. I dial the number, simultaneously clicking on my emails.

“Lorcan Adamson.” The voice that answers is so deep and gravelly, I drop my mouse in surprise. Surely that’s not a real voice. It sounds made up.

“Hello?” he says again, and I stifle a giggle. This guy has a film-trailer voice. It’s that deep-down rumbly, subwoofer voice you hear as you’re scarfing down popcorn, waiting for your movie to begin.

We thought the world was safe. We thought the universe was ours. Till THEY came.

“Hello?” The gravelly voice comes again.

In a desperate fight against time, one girl must break the code—

“Hi. Er … hi.” I try to assemble my thoughts. “Is this Lorcan Adamson?”

“It’s he.”

From Academy Award–winning director—

No. Stop, Fliss. Concentrate.

“Right. Right. Yes.” I hastily compose myself. “Well, I think we need to speak. My name is Felicity Graveney. My sister is called Lottie.”

“Ah.” There’s a sudden animation to his voice. “Well, excuse my French, but what the fuck is going on here? Ben just called me. Apparently he and your sister are getting married?”

Two things I pick up straightaway. First: he has a faint Scottish accent. Second: he’s not keen on the whole marriage idea either. Thank God. Another voice of reason.

“Exactly!” I say. “And you’re best man? I have no idea how this came about, but I was thinking maybe we could get together and—”

“And what? Plan the table decorations?” He talks right over me. “I have no idea how your sister talked Ben into this ridiculous plan, but I’m afraid I’m going to do everything I can to stop it, whether you and your sister like it or not.”

I stare at the phone. What did he say?

“I work with Ben, and this is a crucial time for him,” Lorcan presses on. “He can’t just zoom off on some ludicrous, spur-of-the-moment honeymoon. He has responsibilities. He has commitments. Now, I don’t know your sister’s motivation—”

“What?” I’m so outraged, I don’t know where to start.

“Excuse me?” He sounds puzzled that I’ve dared to interrupt. Oh, he’s one of those.

“OK, mister.” Instantly I feel stupid for saying “mister.” But too late now. Better plow on. “First of all, my sister didn’t talk anybody into anything. I think you’ll find your friend arrived out of the blue and bamboozled her into getting married. And, second, if you think I phoned you up to ‘plan the table decorations,’ you’re very much mistaken. I’m intending to put a stop to this marriage myself. With or without your help.”

“I see.” He sounds skeptical.

“Is Ben saying that Lottie talked him into it?” I demand. “Because if so, he’s lying.”

“Not as such,” says Lorcan after a pause. “But Ben can be … what shall we say? Easily swayed.”

“Easily swayed?” I retort furiously. “If anyone was doing any swaying, he was. My sister is at a low point, she’s very vulnerable, and she doesn’t need some chancer coming along.” I’m still half-expecting this Ben character to belong to some weirdo cult or time-share pyramid scheme. “I mean, what’s his job? I don’t know anything about him.”

“You don’t know his background.” Again he sounds skeptical. God, this guy is pissing me off.

“I know nothing except he met my sister on her gap year and they had a teenage shag-fest and now he says he’s always loved her and they’re planning to get married tomorrow and resume the teenage shag-fest. And he works for Dupree Sanders.”

“He owns Dupree Sanders,” Lorcan corrects me.

“What?” I say stupidly.

I don’t even know what Dupree Sanders is, exactly. I didn’t stop to check it out.

“As of his father’s death a year ago, Ben is the major shareholder in Dupree Sanders, a paper-manufacturing company worth thirty million pounds. And, for what it’s worth, his life has been complicated and he’s also pretty vulnerable.”

As I digest his words, a boiling hot fury starts to rise within me.

“You think my sister’s a gold digger?” I erupt. “That’s what you think?”

I have never been so insulted in all my life. The arrogant … conceited … shit. I’m breathing faster and faster, staring daggers at his screen face.

“I didn’t say that,” he counters calmly.

“Just listen to me, Mr. Adamson,” I say in my iciest tones. “Let’s look at the facts, shall we? Your precious friend talked my sister into a ridiculous, rushed marriage. Not the other way round. How do you know she isn’t an heiress worth even more? How do you know we’re not related to the … the Gettys?”

“Touché,” says Lorcan after a pause. “Are you?”

“Of course we’re not,” I say impatiently. “The point is, you jumped to conclusions. Surprising, for a lawyer.”

There’s another silence. I get the feeling I’ve needled him. Well, good.

“OK,” he says finally. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to imply anything about your sister. Maybe she and Ben are a match made in heaven. But that doesn’t change the fact that we have some very big stuff happening at the company. Ben needs to be available in the UK now. If he wants to go on honeymoon, he’ll have to do it later.”

“Or never,” I put in.

“Or never. Indeed.” Lorcan sounds amused. “You’re not a fan of Ben, then?”

“I’ve never even met him. But this has been a useful chat. It’s all I needed to know. Leave it with me. I’ll deal with it.”

“I’ll deal with it,” he contradicts me. “I’ll talk to Ben.”

God, this guy is winding me up. Who says he should be in charge?

“I’ll talk to Lottie,” I counter as authoritatively as I can. “I’ll fix it.”

“I’m sure that won’t be necessary.” He talks straight across me. “I’ll speak to Ben. The whole thing will be forgotten.”

“I’ll talk to Lottie,” I repeat, ignoring him. “And I’ll let you know when I’ve sorted everything out.”

There’s silence. Neither of us is going to concede, I can tell.

“Right,” says Lorcan at last. “Well, goodbye.”

“Goodbye.”

I put down the receiver, then grab my mobile and dial Lottie’s mobile. No more Ms. Nice Sister. I am stopping this marriage. Right here, right now.