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13: Fliss
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Our Wedding Night 14
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 Iwas 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 a
Our Wedding Night 15
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,
Our Wedding Night 16
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
Our Wedding Night 17: Fliss
FLISSI 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 he
Our Wedding Night 18
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 choirand 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 ha
Our Wedding Night 19
“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 aguy 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 scowli
Our Wedding Night 20: Fliss
I’m half awake. I think. Oh God. My head hurts.So many thoughts. Where do I start? Remembered sensations are crowding out my brain in a blur. And sudden flashes: intense, astonishing memories like squeezes of lemon. Him. Me. Under. Over … Suddenly I realize I’m mentally intoning Noah’s old picture book, Opposites Are Fun! Inside. Outside. This way. That way.But now the fun’s over. It must be morning, if the light dazzling my eyelids is a clue. I’m lying, one leg thrown over the duvet, not quite daring to open my eyes. You. Me. Then. Now. Oh God, now.I open one eye a chink and get an eyeful of beige duvet. Ah yes. I remember the beige duvet from last night. Clearly the ex-wife took all the White Company Egyptian cotton and he went to the nearest Linen for Divorced Men store. My head is throbbing, and after a moment the beige starts to shimmer in front of my eyes. So I close them and roll onto my back. I haven’t had a one-night stand in a long time. A looooong time. I’ve forgotten ho
Our Wedding Night 21
All morning, I feel aftershocks of embarrassment.At least I managed to streak from the taxi to my front door with no neighbors seeing me. I ripped off the purple dress, had the quickest shower known tomankind, then called Noah on speakerphone while I was trying to do speedy makeup. (There is no point in rushing mascara application. I know this. So why do I always fall into the same trap and end up wiping blobs of it off my cheeks and forehead and mirror?) Evidently Noah’s sleepover was a 100 percent rip- roaring, triumphant success. Wish I could say the same about mine.I couldn’t bring myself to call Lottie back, and anyway I didn’t have time.Instead, I texted her, suggesting drinks at seven P.M.Now I’m back at the office, speed-reading a review of a new luxury safari lodge in Kenya, which has just come in, about two thousand words over the limit. Clearly this journalist thinks he’s writing the next Out of Africa. He hasn’t mentioned the pool or the room service or the spa, only
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