Wedding Night
Page 98
“And Lorcan stayed at the company?” I venture.
“Where else would he go? He’s got a cushy number. Nice salary, cottage on the estate—he’s sorted.”
“Does he have kids?”
“No.” Ben shrugs. “I suppose they never got round to it. Or weren’t into them.”
“Well, then, why don’t you quietly get rid of him?” I’m about to suggest a legal firm I know which specializes in tactfully exiting staff, but Ben doesn’t seem to be listening.
“Lorcan thinks he knows best about everything!” The words come shooting out in a resentful stream. “What I should do with my life. What I should do with my company. What advertising agency I should employ. What I should pay my cleaners. What grade of paper is best for which … I don’t know, desk diary.” He exhales. “And I don’t know the answer. So he wins.”
“It’s not a question of winning,” I say, but I can tell Ben isn’t paying attention.
“He once confiscated my phone in public, because he thought it ‘wasn’t appropriate.’ ” Ben is burning with resentment.
“That sounds like harassment!” I say, shocked. “Do you have an effective HR head?”
“Yes.” Ben sounds sulky. “But she’s leaving. She’d never say anything to Lorcan, anyway. They all love him.”
Listening with my professional hat on, I’m aghast. This all sounds like a shambles. I want to get a piece of paper and start a five-point action plan for Ben to manage Lorcan more effectively, but that’s not exactly sexy honeymoon talk.
“Tell me,” I say instead, my voice gentle and coaxing. “Where did you go when you went AWOL?”
“You really want to know?” Ben gives me a curious, wry smile. “Not my finest moment.”
“Tell me.”
“I went to have lessons in comedy from Malcolm Robinson.”
“Malcolm Robinson?” I stare at him. “For real?”
I love Malcolm Robinson. He’s hilarious. He used to have this brilliant sketch show, and once I saw him live at Edinburgh.
“I bought them anonymously at a charity auction. It was originally a weekend, but I persuaded him to extend it to a week. Cost me a fortune. At the end of the week, I asked him to tell me, straight up, if I had any talent.”
There’s silence. I’m already cringing inside at his expression.
“What—” I say at last, and clear my throat. “What did he—”
“He said no.” Ben cuts me off, almost tonelessly. “He was blunt. Told me to give it up. Did me a favor, really. I haven’t cracked a joke since.”
I wince. “That must have been devastating.”
“It hurt my pride, yes.”
“How long had you been …?” I trail off awkwardly. I don’t know quite how to phrase it. Luckily, Ben gets the gist.
“Seven years.”
“And you just gave up?”
“Yup.”
“And you didn’t tell anybody? Your dad? Lorcan?”
“I thought they might notice I’d stopped doing gigs and ask why. They didn’t.” The hurt in his voice is unmistakable. “I didn’t have anyone else to … you know. Tell stuff.”
Spontaneously, I reach for his hand and squeeze it tight. “You’ve got me now,” I say softly. “Tell me stuff.”
He squeezes my hand back and our eyes are locked. For a moment I feel totally connected to him. Then two waiters come to clear our canapé plates; we release hands and the spell is broken.
“Strange honeymoon, huh?” I say wryly.
“I don’t know. I’m starting to enjoy it.”
“Me too.” I can’t help laughing. “I’m almost glad it’s been so weird. At least we won’t forget it.”
And I mean it. If we hadn’t had all the bedroom disasters, maybe we wouldn’t have had this drink and I might never have found out these things about Ben. It’s funny how things work out. I entwine my leg around Ben’s under the table and start working my toe up his thigh in my signature maneuver, but he shakes his head vigorously.
“No,” he says shortly. “Uh-uh. Can’t stand it. Too horny.”
“How on earth will you survive the couple’s massage, then?” I tease him.
“By telling them to keep it to ten minutes flat and then leave us alone in utter privacy,” he replies seriously. “I’m prepared to tip heavily.”
“An hour to go.” I glance at my watch. “I wonder what kind of oil they use?”
“Where else would he go? He’s got a cushy number. Nice salary, cottage on the estate—he’s sorted.”
“Does he have kids?”
“No.” Ben shrugs. “I suppose they never got round to it. Or weren’t into them.”
“Well, then, why don’t you quietly get rid of him?” I’m about to suggest a legal firm I know which specializes in tactfully exiting staff, but Ben doesn’t seem to be listening.
“Lorcan thinks he knows best about everything!” The words come shooting out in a resentful stream. “What I should do with my life. What I should do with my company. What advertising agency I should employ. What I should pay my cleaners. What grade of paper is best for which … I don’t know, desk diary.” He exhales. “And I don’t know the answer. So he wins.”
“It’s not a question of winning,” I say, but I can tell Ben isn’t paying attention.
“He once confiscated my phone in public, because he thought it ‘wasn’t appropriate.’ ” Ben is burning with resentment.
“That sounds like harassment!” I say, shocked. “Do you have an effective HR head?”
“Yes.” Ben sounds sulky. “But she’s leaving. She’d never say anything to Lorcan, anyway. They all love him.”
Listening with my professional hat on, I’m aghast. This all sounds like a shambles. I want to get a piece of paper and start a five-point action plan for Ben to manage Lorcan more effectively, but that’s not exactly sexy honeymoon talk.
“Tell me,” I say instead, my voice gentle and coaxing. “Where did you go when you went AWOL?”
“You really want to know?” Ben gives me a curious, wry smile. “Not my finest moment.”
“Tell me.”
“I went to have lessons in comedy from Malcolm Robinson.”
“Malcolm Robinson?” I stare at him. “For real?”
I love Malcolm Robinson. He’s hilarious. He used to have this brilliant sketch show, and once I saw him live at Edinburgh.
“I bought them anonymously at a charity auction. It was originally a weekend, but I persuaded him to extend it to a week. Cost me a fortune. At the end of the week, I asked him to tell me, straight up, if I had any talent.”
There’s silence. I’m already cringing inside at his expression.
“What—” I say at last, and clear my throat. “What did he—”
“He said no.” Ben cuts me off, almost tonelessly. “He was blunt. Told me to give it up. Did me a favor, really. I haven’t cracked a joke since.”
I wince. “That must have been devastating.”
“It hurt my pride, yes.”
“How long had you been …?” I trail off awkwardly. I don’t know quite how to phrase it. Luckily, Ben gets the gist.
“Seven years.”
“And you just gave up?”
“Yup.”
“And you didn’t tell anybody? Your dad? Lorcan?”
“I thought they might notice I’d stopped doing gigs and ask why. They didn’t.” The hurt in his voice is unmistakable. “I didn’t have anyone else to … you know. Tell stuff.”
Spontaneously, I reach for his hand and squeeze it tight. “You’ve got me now,” I say softly. “Tell me stuff.”
He squeezes my hand back and our eyes are locked. For a moment I feel totally connected to him. Then two waiters come to clear our canapé plates; we release hands and the spell is broken.
“Strange honeymoon, huh?” I say wryly.
“I don’t know. I’m starting to enjoy it.”
“Me too.” I can’t help laughing. “I’m almost glad it’s been so weird. At least we won’t forget it.”
And I mean it. If we hadn’t had all the bedroom disasters, maybe we wouldn’t have had this drink and I might never have found out these things about Ben. It’s funny how things work out. I entwine my leg around Ben’s under the table and start working my toe up his thigh in my signature maneuver, but he shakes his head vigorously.
“No,” he says shortly. “Uh-uh. Can’t stand it. Too horny.”
“How on earth will you survive the couple’s massage, then?” I tease him.
“By telling them to keep it to ten minutes flat and then leave us alone in utter privacy,” he replies seriously. “I’m prepared to tip heavily.”
“An hour to go.” I glance at my watch. “I wonder what kind of oil they use?”
