Wedding Night
Page 64
I stare at the diary, seething gently, then force myself to turn over a few pages. I can’t wallow in some fifteen-year-old argument. I need to skip ahead. I need to get to Ben. As I turn the pages, skimming the text, I almost feel like I’m on her gap-year journey with her: first to Paris and then to the South of France, then Italy, all in bite-size snippets. It’s kind of addictive.
… think I might move to Paris when I’m older … ate too many croissants, urgh, God, I’m fat, I’m hideous … this guy called Ted who’s at university and REALLY COOL … he’s really into existentialism … I should get into that, he said I was a natural …
… AMAZING sunset … drank too many rum-and-Cokes … really REALLY sunburned … slept with this guy called Pete, shouldn’t have … made this plan to move to the South of France when we’re all like thirty …
… I WISH I spoke Italian better. This is where I want to live, forever. It’s AMAZING … ate too many gelati, urgh, my legs are hideous … leaving for Greece tomorrow …
… this place is INCREDIBLE … amazing party atmosphere, like we all just GET each other … I could LIVE on feta … diving in these underwater caves … this guy called Ben … picnic with some of the guys and Ben … slept with Ben … AMAZING …
“Lottie?” A male voice interrupts my concentration, and I start so violently the diary flies up into the air. I make an instinctive grab for it, then realize that’s incriminating, so I draw my hand away sharply and it falls on the floor, where I kick it away, then finally lift my head.
“Richard?”
He’s standing in the doorway in a raincoat, his hair disheveled and a suitcase in his hand. His face is agitated, and he’s definitely looking more young Gordon Brown than young Pierce Brosnan.
“Where’s Lottie?” he demands.
“I’m here for security,” I mumble hurriedly, my face blazing with shame and my eyes darting to the diary. “Security.”
Richard looks at me as though I’m making no sense at all. Which, to be fair, I’m not.
“Where’s Lottie?” he demands again, more forcefully. “What’s wrong? I go to her work, no one will tell me where she is. I come here, you’re sitting on her bed. Just tell me.” He drops his suitcase. “Is she ill?”
“Ill?” I almost want to laugh hysterically. “No, not ill. Richard, what are you doing here?”
His case has an airline tag on it. He must have come straight from the airport in a dashing, romantic manner. I feel quite sad that Lottie isn’t here to see it.
“I made a mistake. A bad mistake.” He strides to the window and stares out a moment, then darts me a look. “I don’t know how much she tells you.”
“A fair amount,” I say diplomatically.
I don’t think he’ll want to hear that she’s told me absolutely everything, including his penchant for doing it blindfolded and her penchant for sexy toys, which she’s terrified the cleaner will find.
“Well, we split up,” he says heavily. “A few weeks ago.”
No kidding.
“Yes, I heard that.” I nod. “She was very upset.”
“Well, so was I!” He wheels round, breathing hard. “It came out of nowhere! I thought we were happy together. I thought she was happy.”
“She was happy! But she couldn’t see where things were heading.”
“You mean …” He hesitates for a long time. “Marriage.”
I feel a flick of irritation. I’m not such a huge fan of marriage myself, but he doesn’t need to look quite so unenthusiastic.
“It’s not such an outlandish idea,” I point out. “It is what people do when they love each other.”
“Well, I know, but …” He makes a face, as though we’re talking about some freaky hobby pursued by people on freaky reality shows. Now I’m starting to feel furious. If he’d just manned up and bloody well proposed in the first place, none of this would have happened.
“What do you want, Richard?” I ask abruptly.
“I want Lottie. I want to talk to her. I want to get things back on track. She wouldn’t return my calls or my emails. So I told my new boss I had to come back to England.” There’s a throb of pride in his voice. He clearly reckons he’s made the supreme gesture.
“And what are you going to say to her?”
“That we belong together,” he says steadily. “That I love her. That we can work things out. That maybe marriage is a possibility, down the line.”
… think I might move to Paris when I’m older … ate too many croissants, urgh, God, I’m fat, I’m hideous … this guy called Ted who’s at university and REALLY COOL … he’s really into existentialism … I should get into that, he said I was a natural …
… AMAZING sunset … drank too many rum-and-Cokes … really REALLY sunburned … slept with this guy called Pete, shouldn’t have … made this plan to move to the South of France when we’re all like thirty …
… I WISH I spoke Italian better. This is where I want to live, forever. It’s AMAZING … ate too many gelati, urgh, my legs are hideous … leaving for Greece tomorrow …
… this place is INCREDIBLE … amazing party atmosphere, like we all just GET each other … I could LIVE on feta … diving in these underwater caves … this guy called Ben … picnic with some of the guys and Ben … slept with Ben … AMAZING …
“Lottie?” A male voice interrupts my concentration, and I start so violently the diary flies up into the air. I make an instinctive grab for it, then realize that’s incriminating, so I draw my hand away sharply and it falls on the floor, where I kick it away, then finally lift my head.
“Richard?”
He’s standing in the doorway in a raincoat, his hair disheveled and a suitcase in his hand. His face is agitated, and he’s definitely looking more young Gordon Brown than young Pierce Brosnan.
“Where’s Lottie?” he demands.
“I’m here for security,” I mumble hurriedly, my face blazing with shame and my eyes darting to the diary. “Security.”
Richard looks at me as though I’m making no sense at all. Which, to be fair, I’m not.
“Where’s Lottie?” he demands again, more forcefully. “What’s wrong? I go to her work, no one will tell me where she is. I come here, you’re sitting on her bed. Just tell me.” He drops his suitcase. “Is she ill?”
“Ill?” I almost want to laugh hysterically. “No, not ill. Richard, what are you doing here?”
His case has an airline tag on it. He must have come straight from the airport in a dashing, romantic manner. I feel quite sad that Lottie isn’t here to see it.
“I made a mistake. A bad mistake.” He strides to the window and stares out a moment, then darts me a look. “I don’t know how much she tells you.”
“A fair amount,” I say diplomatically.
I don’t think he’ll want to hear that she’s told me absolutely everything, including his penchant for doing it blindfolded and her penchant for sexy toys, which she’s terrified the cleaner will find.
“Well, we split up,” he says heavily. “A few weeks ago.”
No kidding.
“Yes, I heard that.” I nod. “She was very upset.”
“Well, so was I!” He wheels round, breathing hard. “It came out of nowhere! I thought we were happy together. I thought she was happy.”
“She was happy! But she couldn’t see where things were heading.”
“You mean …” He hesitates for a long time. “Marriage.”
I feel a flick of irritation. I’m not such a huge fan of marriage myself, but he doesn’t need to look quite so unenthusiastic.
“It’s not such an outlandish idea,” I point out. “It is what people do when they love each other.”
“Well, I know, but …” He makes a face, as though we’re talking about some freaky hobby pursued by people on freaky reality shows. Now I’m starting to feel furious. If he’d just manned up and bloody well proposed in the first place, none of this would have happened.
“What do you want, Richard?” I ask abruptly.
“I want Lottie. I want to talk to her. I want to get things back on track. She wouldn’t return my calls or my emails. So I told my new boss I had to come back to England.” There’s a throb of pride in his voice. He clearly reckons he’s made the supreme gesture.
“And what are you going to say to her?”
“That we belong together,” he says steadily. “That I love her. That we can work things out. That maybe marriage is a possibility, down the line.”
