The thing about Nico is, he prides himself on being able to solve any problem. Any problem. I bet he’s already imagining how he’d do it.
“If you can do this for me, I’ll be eternally grateful.” I lower my voice. “And of course I’ll express my gratitude by reviewing the hotel again. Five stars. Guaranteed.”
“We have already had the privilege of a five-star review in your magazine,” he bats me back.
“Six stars, then,” I improvise. “I’ll invent a new category, just for you. ‘The new world-class super-luxe.’ And I’ll flag the hotel on the front cover. Do you know how much that’s worth? Do you know how pleased your directors would be?”
“Fliss, I understand your dilemma,” Nico shoots back. “However, you must realize that I cannot possibly interfere with guests’ private lives, especially when they are here to enjoy their honeymoon!”
He sounds fairly resolute. I’m going to have to pull something pretty massive out of the bag.
“OK!” I drop my voice still lower. “Listen. If you help me out with this, I’ll publish a profile of you in the magazine. You personally, Nico Demetriou. I’ll call you … the secret of the Amba’s success. The most prized asset of the hotel. The go-to VIP manager. Everyone in the industry will see it. Everyone.”
I don’t need to spell out the rest. The magazine is distributed in sixty-five countries. Every CEO of every hotel at least glances through it. A profile like that would be his ticket to any job he wanted in the world.
“I know you’ve always dreamed about the Four Seasons, New York,” I add softly.
My heart is pounding a little. I’ve never abused my power before, and it’s giving me a rush. Partly good, partly bad. This is how corruption starts, I reflect. Next thing, I’ll be exchanging reviews for suitcases of cash and Trident missiles.
It’s a one-off, I tell myself firmly. A one-off with extenuating circumstances.
Nico is quiet. I can feel his conscience rubbing against professional ambition, and I feel bad for putting him in this position. But it’s not me who began this whole charade, is it?
“You’re a master, Nico.” I add some flattery. “You’re a genius at making things happen. If anyone in the world can do this, you can.”
Is he persuaded? Am I nuts? Is he even now sending an email to Gavin?
I’m on the point of giving up, when his voice suddenly comes low down the phone: “Fliss, I do not promise anything.”
I feel a sudden bubble of hope.
“I understand completely,” I reply, matching his tone. “But … you’ll try?”
“I will try. Just for twenty-four hours. What is your sister’s name?”
Yes!
“Charlotte Graveney.” I’m almost gabbling with relief. “Although I guess she’ll be under Mrs. Parr. Her husband’s Ben Parr. They’re booked into the Oyster Suite. And I don’t mind what they do, as long as they don’t have sex. With each other,” I add as an afterthought.
There’s a long silence, then Nico says simply:
“This will be a very strange honeymoon.”
8
LOTTIE
I’m married! My mouth is fixed in a permanent, gleeful smile. I’m so euphoric, I feel like I might float away. Today has been the best, most magical, most extraordinary day of my life. I’m married!! I’m married!!!
I still keep replaying the moment when I looked up from my desk to see Ben marching into the office, holding a bouquet of roses. His jaw was set and his eyes were flashing, and you could see he meant business. Even my boss, Martin, came out of his office to watch. The whole place was hushed as Ben stood at my office door and proclaimed, “I’m going to marry you, Lottie Graveney, and I’m going to do it today.”
Then he lifted me up—lifted me up—and everyone cheered, and Kayla came running after me with my bag and phone, and Ben handed me the bouquet and that was it. I was a bride.
I barely remember the marriage ceremony. I was in a state of shock. Ben practically jumped on each answer; I do remember that. He didn’t pause for a moment—in fact he sounded almost aggressive as he said, “I do.” He’d brought along some environmental confetti, which we sprinkled on ourselves, and he opened a bottle of champagne and then it was time to pack and leave for the airport. I haven’t even got changed; I’m still in my work suit. I got married in my work suit and I don’t care!
I catch sight of myself in the mirror above the drinks bar and want to giggle. I look as flushed and giddy as I feel. We’re in the business-class lounge at Heathrow, waiting for the Ikonos flight. I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast, but I’m not hungry. I’m hyped up. My hands won’t stop trembling.
I take a few slices of fruit and a sliver of Emmental, just for the sake of it, then jump as I feel a hand on my leg.
“Fueling up?” comes Ben’s voice in my ear, and I feel a delicious shiver. I turn to face him and he nuzzles my neck, his hand traveling up discreetly under my skirt. That’s good. Oh, that’s good.
“I can’t wait,” he murmurs in my ear.
“Me neither,” I murmur back.
“You’re so hot.” His breath is warm against my neck.
“You’re hotter.”
Yet again I work out how long we have to wait. Our flight to Ikonos is three and a half hours. It can’t take more than two hours to go through customs and get to the hotel. Ten minutes for them to take our luggage up … five minutes to show us how the light switches work … thirty seconds to put up the DO NOT DISTURB sign …
Nearly six hours. I’m not sure I can wait nearly six hours. Ben seems the same way too. He’s actually panting. Both his hands are roaming between my thighs. I can hardly concentrate on the fig compote.
“Excuse me.” An elderly man pushes his way between us and starts forking Emmental slices onto his plate. He eyes Ben and me with disfavor. “As they say,” he adds ponderously, “get a room.”
I feel myself flush. We weren’t that obvious.
“We’re on our honeymoon,” I shoot back.
“Congratulations.” The old man looks unimpressed. “I hope your young man will wash his hands before serving himself any food.”
Spoilsport.
I glance at Ben and we both move away, to a set of plushy chairs. I’m pulsating all over. I want his hands back where they were, doing what they were doing.
“So. Um. Cheese?” I proffer the plate to Ben.
“No, thanks.” He frowns moodily.
This is torture. I look at my watch. Only two minutes have passed. We’re going to have to fill the time somehow. Conversation. That’s what we need. Conversation.
“I love Emmental,” I begin. “Don’t you?”
“I hate it.”
“Really?” I log this new fact about him. “Wow. I had no idea you hated Emmental.”
“I went totally off it the year I lived in Prague.”
“You lived in Prague?” I say with interest.
I’m intrigued. I had no idea Ben had lived abroad. Or hated Emmental. This is the great advantage of marrying someone without spending years living together first. You still have stuff to find out. We’re on an adventure of discovery together. We’ll spend our whole lives exploring one another. Unwrapping each other’s secrets. We’ll never be that couple sitting in dead silence because they know everything and have said everything and are just waiting for the bill.
“So … Prague! Why?”
“I don’t remember now.” Ben shrugs. “That was the year I learned circus skills.”
Circus skills? I wasn’t expecting that one. I’m about to ask what else he’s done, when his phone bleeps with a text and he pulls it out of his pocket. As he reads it, his brow creases angrily and I look at him in concern.