Abruptly, I stop combing my hair. In a flash of inspiration, it has come to me. The answer. The left-field solution. I, Lottie Graveney, am going to reverse the pattern. I’m going to do the opposite of what I’ve done with all previous boyfriends.
I meet my eyes in the mirror. I look a little wild, but, then, is that any surprise? If I was exhilarated before, I’m euphoric now. I feel like a scientist who’s discovered a new, game-changing subatomic particle. I’m right. I know I’m right. I’m right!
I stride back into the restaurant, staggering a little in my heels, and approach the table.
“No sex,” I say firmly.
“What?”
“Till we’re married. No sex.” I sit down. “Take it or leave it.”
“What?” Ben looks flabbergasted, but I just smile serenely back. I’m brilliant. If he really loves me, he’ll wait. And there’ll be no chance of anyone going off the boil. None. And the best part is, we’ll have the hottest honeymoon ever. We’ll be connected and united and blissed out. Exactly like honeymooners should be.
His shirt is still hanging open. I picture him naked, in some gorgeous hotel bed, surrounded by rose petals. Just the idea makes me quiver.
“You’re kidding.” His face has completely dropped. “Why?”
“Because I want things to be different. I want to break the mold. I love you, yes? You love me? We want to make a life together?”
“For fifteen years I’ve loved you.” He shakes his head. “Fifteen fucking years, we wasted, Lottie—”
I can tell he’s going to start another drunken speech.
“So.” I cut him off. “We wait a bit longer. And then we can have a wedding night. A proper wedding night. Think about it. We’ll both be gagging for it by then. Absolutely … gagging.” I reach under the table with my bare foot and slowly walk it up the inside of his leg. His face is transfixed. Never fails, this one.
For a moment, neither of us talks. Let’s say we’re communicating in a different way.
“Actually …,” he says at last, his voice thick, “that could be fun.”
“A lot of fun.” Casually, I unbutton my top a couple of notches and lean forward, giving him maximum view of my uplift bra. My other foot is moving up to his crotch now. Ben seems unable to speak. “Remember the night of your birthday?” I say huskily. “On the beach? We could reprise that.”
If we reprise that, I am wearing protective knee guards. I had scabs for a week. As if he’s reading my mind, Ben closes his eyes and moans faintly. “You’re killing me.”
“It’ll be amazing.” I have a sudden memory of us as teenagers, lying entwined in my room at the guest house, lit only by the flickering of all my scented candles.
“Do you know how hot you are? Do you realize how badly I want to get under this table now?” He grabs my hand and starts nibbling at the tip of my thumb. But this time I don’t move it away. My entire body seems wired to the feel of his lips and teeth on my skin. I want them everywhere. I remember this. I remember him. How could I have forgotten?
“Wedding night, huh?” he says at last. My toes are still doing their stuff, and there’s pretty firm evidence that he’s enjoying it. All still in working order, then.
“Wedding night.” I nod.
“You realize I’ll die of frustration meanwhile?”
“Me too. And then I’ll explode.” He takes my thumb right inside his mouth, and I gasp inwardly as the sensation rockets through my body. We need to leave soon or the waiter will be telling us to get a room.
And when Richard hears about this—
No. Don’t go there. This has nothing to do with Richard. It’s fate. It’s part of a bigger picture. A huge, sweeping romantic story starring Ben and me, with Richard only a bit part along the way.
I know I’m drunk. I know this is rushed. But it feels so right. And if there’s still a soreness deep in my heart, then this is like some magical soothing lotion. I was meant to break up with Richard. I was meant to be miserable. The karma for my suffering is that now I get a wedding ring and the hottest sex of my life.
I feel like my raffle prize wasn’t a thousand pounds. It was a million pounds.
Ben’s eyes are glazed. I’m breathing more and more heavily. I’m not sure I can stand this.
“When shall we get married?” I murmur.
“Soon.” He sounds desperate. “Really, really soon.”
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.