“We shouldn’t have to order it in advance! It’s our honeymoon! This is the honeymoon suite!” Ben’s breathing hard. “What kind of honeymoon suite has two single beds in it?”
“Please, sir. Do not alarm yourself,” says Nico soothingly. “I understand. I will order a double bed immediately.” He takes out his phone and launches into a stream of Greek. At last he switches off and beams again. “The matter is in hand. Again, my apologies. While we are sorting out this problem, may I offer you a complimentary cocktail downstairs at the bar?”
I quell a snappy reply. I don’t want a cocktail at the bar. I want my wedding night. Now.
“Well, how long is it going to take?” Ben scowls. “This is ridiculous.”
“Sir, we will complete the substitution as quickly as possible. The removers will be with us as soon as— Ah!” There’s a knocking sound at the door, and Nico brightens. “Here we are!”
Six guys in white overalls troop into the room, and Nico addresses them in Greek. One guy lifts up the end of a bed and looks at it doubtfully. He says something in Greek to another guy, who shrugs and shakes his head.
“What?” says Ben in agitated tones, looking from one to the other. “What’s the problem?”
“No problem,” says Nico reassuringly. “Perhaps I could recommend that you take a seat in your sitting room while we address this small matter?”
He ushers us out and we find ourselves in the sitting room. The TV is still playing Teletubbies at full volume. I jab at it with the remote, but it doesn’t switch off. Nor does the volume control work. Is the remote out of juice?
“Please,” I say shortly. “I can’t stand this. Could you turn it off?”
“And it’s cold in here,” adds Ben. “How do we adjust the air-conditioning?”
It is pretty freezing in here. I’d already noticed.
“I will summon your butler,” says Nico with a beam. “He will attend to you.”
He disappears out the door and I look at Ben in disbelief. We should have been having sex by now. We should have been having the hottest time of our life. Not sitting on a sofa with “Time for Tubby Bye-Bye” blaring at us, in a subzero room with six workmen next door.
“Come on,” says Ben suddenly. “The library. That’s got a sofa.”
He hustles me in there and shuts the door. There are shelves of fake-looking books and a desk with hotel writing paper and a chaise longue upholstered in heavy brown linen. Ben shuts the door and faces me.
“Oh my God,” he exhales incredulously.
“Oh my God.” I echo. “Insane.” We both draw breath. And then it’s as if the starting pistol has been fired for the Most Erogenous Zones in a Minute contest. He’s all over me. I’m all over him. His hands are everywhere. My bra is unhooked, my top is ripped off, and I’m unbuttoning his shirt.… His skin is so warm, so delicious, I want to savor him for a bit, but Ben’s already looking purposefully around the room.
“Sofa?” he pants. “Or desk?”
“Don’t care,” I manage.
“I can’t wait any longer.”
“What if they hear?”
“They won’t hear.” He’s unhooking my skirt. I’m almost popping. At last, at last, at last … yes … yes …
“Sir? Madame?” There’s a rapping at the door. “Sir, madame? Mr. Parr?”
What?
“Noooo,” I whimper. “Noooooo …”
“What the fuck—” Ben looks livid. “Hello?” he raises his voice. “We’re busy. Come back in ten.”
“I have a gift from the management,” comes a voice through the door. “Fresh cookies. Where would you like me to put it?”
“Anywhere,” Ben calls back impatiently. “Don’t care.”
“Please, sir, could you kindly sign for the gift?”
I think Ben might explode. For a moment neither of us speaks.
“Sir?” The rapping comes again. “Can you hear me? I have here fresh cookies, courtesy of the management.”
“Just sign quickly,” I mutter. “Then we’ll come back in here.”
“Jesus Christ—”
“I know.”
We’re both trying to tidy ourselves up a bit. Ben buttons up his shirt and takes a few deep breaths.
“Think about tax returns,” I suggest helpfully. “OK, let’s get these bloody cookies.”
Ben swings open the library door to reveal an elderly man in a smart gray braided jacket, holding a silver salver with a dome on it.
“Welcome to the Amba Hotel, Mr. and Mrs. Parr,” he says with grave dignity. “I am your personal butler, Georgios, at your service any time of day. I present some fresh cookies, courtesy of the management.”
“Thank you,” says Ben curtly. “Put them anywhere.” He scribbles on the pad that the butler is holding out.
“Thank you, sir.” Georgios places the silver salver on a coffee table. “My colleague will be here presently with the juice.”
“Juice?” Ben stares at him. “What juice?”
“Fresh juice, courtesy of the management,” Georgios says. “To accompany the cookies. My assistant butler, Hermes, will bring it directly. If you need more ice, you call for me.” He hands Ben a card. “Here is my number. At your service.”
Ben is breathing hard. “Listen,” he says. “We don’t want any juice. Cancel the juice. We want a little privacy. OK?”
“I understand,” says Georgios at once. “Privacy. Of course.” He nods solemnly. “This is your honeymoon and you wish for privacy. This is a special time for a man and a woman.”
“Precisely—”
Ben’s voice is cut off as an almighty banging noise starts.
“What the hell …” We both hurry into the sitting room. A guy in white overalls is standing at the door to the bedroom, having an altercation with someone in the room. Nico comes hurrying over, wringing his hands anxiously.
“Mr. and Mrs. Parr, my apologies for this dreadful noise.”
“What’s going on?” Ben’s eyes are wild and starey. “What’s that hammering sound?”
“There is a small problem with the removal of the beds,” Nico replies placatingly. “Very, very small.”
Another man in white overalls appears round the side of the door, a massive hammer in his hand. He shakes his head ominously at Nico.
“What’s that?” demands Ben. “What’s he shaking his head for? Have you switched the beds yet?”
“And can you please do something about that TV?” I chime in with a wince. “It’s unbearable.” Every time there’s a pause in the banging, the Teletubbies blare out. Is it my imagination, or are they even louder than before?
“Sir, madame, my humblest of apologies. We are working on the bed with all haste. And as for the TV …” Nico is holding a remote, which he jabs at the wall. Immediately the volume doubles.
“No!” I clap my hands to my ears. “Too loud! Wrong way!”
“Apologies!” shouts Nico over the racket. “I try again!”
He zaps the remote several times, but nothing happens. He bangs it against his head and shakes it. “It has jammed!” he says in tones of astonishment. “I call an engineer.”
“Excuse me.” Another man in a braided jacket has appeared out of nowhere. “The door was open. I have here some fresh juice courtesy of the management. Madame, where would you like me to place the juice?”
“I … I …” I’m almost gibbering. I want to scream. I want to erupt. This is supposed to be our wedding night. Our wedding night. And we’re standing in a hotel suite, surrounded by hammering workmen, butlers with salvers, and the noise of Teletubbies drilling into my brain.
“Madame,” says Nico gently. “I am mortified that we are inconveniencing you. Please may I offer you again a complimentary cocktail in the bar?”