I’m trying to look around and show an interest in our surroundings, but it’s only road and scrubby hills and garish billboards for Greek drinks with unfamiliar names. The airport is on the other side of the island from the guest house we stayed at all those years ago. I probably never even came here. So I’m not having any reminiscences or recognizing anything. I’m just feeling desperate.
Soon … soon … soon … We’ll be in our massive honeymoon suite bed, and our clothes will be lying on the floor, and we’ll be facing each other, skin-to-skin, nothing to stop us, and finally, finally …
“The Amba Hotel,” the driver announces with a proud flourish, and leaps out to open our doors.
As I get out of the car, the warm Greek air seems to bathe my shoulders. I look around, taking in a huge white-pillared entrance, four marble lions, and a series of fountains crashing into an ornamental pond. Bougainvillea is falling in vivid pink cascades from balconies to the left and right. Candles are flickering in massive hurricane lanterns. I can hear the chirp of evening crickets as well as the distant strains of a string quartet. This place is spectacular.
As we head up the shallow marble steps, I feel a sudden wave of euphoria. This is going to be perfect. The perfect, perfect honeymoon. I squeeze Ben’s arm.
“Isn’t this amazing?”
“Stunning.” He slides a hand around my waist and up under my top to my bra catch.
“Don’t! This is a posh hotel!” I jerk away, even though my whole body is longing for him to keep going. “We have to wait.”
“I can’t wait.” His darkened eyes meet mine.
“Nor can I.” I swallow. “I’m dying.”
“I’m dying more.” His fingers move down to the waistband of my skirt. “Don’t tell me you’re wearing anything under that.”
“Not a stitch,” I murmur.
“Jesus.” He makes a low, growling noise. “OK, we’re going to get our room key, and we’re going to lock the door, and—”
“Mr. and Mrs. Parr?” A voice interrupts us and I look up to see a short, dark man in a suit approaching us swiftly down the steps. His shoes are very shiny, and as he gets nearer I see a badge that reads NICO DEMETRIOU, VIP MANAGER. In one hand is a massive bouquet of flowers, which he proffers to me. “Madame. Welcome to the Amba Hotel. We are delighted to welcome you. You are on honeymoon, I understand!”
He’s ushering us through the large glass doors into a massive domed lobby. It has a marble floor and a sunken pool in which are floating little candles. Low music is playing and there’s a wonderful musky scent in the air.
“Many congratulations. Please. Sit.” He gestures to a long linen sofa. “A glass of champagne for you both!”
A waiter has appeared from nowhere, bearing two glasses of champagne on a silver tray. I hesitate, then take one, glancing at Ben.
“That’s very kind,” Ben says, not moving toward the sofa. “But we’d like to get to our suite as quickly as possible.”
“Of course. Of course.” Nico twinkles understandingly. “Your luggage is being taken up. If you can simply fill in some details …” He offers a leather-bound book to Ben, along with a pen. “Please, sit. You will find it more comfortable.”
Reluctantly, Ben sinks into the sofa and starts scrawling at top speed. Meanwhile, Nico hands me a printed sheet headed Welcome Mr. and Mrs. Parr, followed by a list of facilities and experiences. I run my eyes over the list, which is pretty awesome. Guided snorkeling and champagne picnic … day trip on the hotel’s sixty-foot yacht … dinner cooked by a private chef on your terrace … starlight aromatherapy couples’ massage …
“We are delighted to present our Superlative Honeymoon Experience.” Nico beams at me. “You will be attended by a private twenty-four-hour butler. You will enjoy complimentary treatments within the private spa area in your suite. I, personally, will be at your service at all times. No request is too great or too small.”
“Thanks.” I can’t help smiling back, he’s so charming.
“Your honeymoon is a special, special time. I, Nico, will make it the experience of your lifetime.” He clasps his hands together. “Never to be forgotten.”
“OK, done.” Ben stamps a final full stop and hands the forms back. “Can we get into our room? Where is it?”
“I will escort you personally!” exclaims Nico. “Come this way, to your private penthouse lift.”
We have our own lift? I flash a look at Ben. I can tell that’s given him ideas. Me too.
As we stand in the lift, I’m trying to appear composed, but I can see Ben eyeing up my skirt. He’s not going to hang about. We’re going to take all of thirty seconds, and then we’ll have to do it again, and then maybe have dinner and then, really slowly, start all over again.…
“And here we are!” The lift doors ping open and Nico leads us cheerfully into a lobby, with marble floor and dark-wood paneled walls. “The Oyster Suite. It was recently voted top honeymoon suite by Condé Nast Traveler. After you.”
“Wow,” I breathe as he swings open the door. Fliss was right: this is incredible. The whole place is designed like a grotto, with Greek pillars and low daybeds and statues of Greek gods on pedestals. The only immediate downside is that the TV is blaring out Teletubbies. I’ve loathed Teletubbies, ever since I had to watch about twenty episodes while babysitting Noah. Who on earth put that on?
“Can we turn that off, please?” I say.
“Of course, madame. Let me first show you the amenities. As well as the lift entrance, there is a dedicated front door.” Nico strides briskly through the marble-floored rooms. “Here we have the bathroom, with a walk-in rain shower. Here is your private spa room, kitchen with staff entrance, small library, sitting room with cinema screen.…”
I’m trying to look interested as he demonstrates how to use the DVD player. But my head is fuzzy with desire. We’re here. We’re actually here. In our honeymoon suite. On our wedding night. And as soon as this guy finishes his spiel and leaves … in a matter of seconds, maybe … Ben will be ripping off my skirt and I’ll be ripping off his shirt, and … Oh God, I can’t wait a moment longer.…
“The minibar is situated within this cabinet and works by electronic sensor—”
“Uh-huh.” I manage a polite nod, but my whole body is pulsing with lust. I don’t care how the bloody minibar works. Just stop talking and leave us alone to have sex.
“And through here is the bedroom.” Nico swings open a door. I take an expectant step forward—then stop in dismay.
“Whaaat?” I hear Ben exclaim beside me.
The room is large and grand, with a domed glass ceiling. And under the dome are two single beds.
“I … wh—” I’m so wrong-footed I can barely get out a word. “Beds.” I turn to Ben and point. “The beds.”
“Yes, these are the beds, madame.” Nico gestures at the singles with a proud beam. “This is the bedroom.”
“I know those are beds!” I’m gulping for air. “But why are they singles?”
“On the website, it shows a super-king bed,” Ben takes over. “I saw a picture of it. Where’s that gone?”
Nico looks baffled at the question. “We offer many different sleeping options for the suite. The previous occupants of the suite must have ordered two beds, such as you see. They are two very fine beds.” He slaps one. “Finest quality. Is this not satisfactory?”
“No, it’s not bloody satisfactory!” snaps Ben. “We need a double bed. One bed. Super-king. Best you’ve got.”
“Ah.” Nico pulls a regretful face. “A thousand apologies, sir. I am desolated. Since this was not ordered in advance—”