There’s a pause—then Ben swivels to meet my gaze, eyebrows raised. I stare back in slight shock. Is he actually asking me? I shake my head violently, mouthing, “No, no, no.”
“Not today,” says Ben, in what sound like genuinely regretful tones. “Another time.”
“No worries.” The Russian guy claps him on the shoulder, and Ben comes back over to his sun bed. He slides onto it and stares savagely out to sea.
“Well, so much for that bright idea. Bloody frigid cow.”
I lean over and poke him hard in the chest. “Hey, what was that? Did you want to take him up on his offer? That Russian?”
“At least it would have been something.”
Something? I stare at him incredulously, till he looks up.
“What?” he says defensively. “It would have been something.”
“Well, excuse me for not wanting to share my wedding night with a gorilla and a girl with rubber boobs,” I say sarcastically. “Sorry to spoil your fun.”
“Not rubber,” says Ben.
“You’ve looked, have you?”
“Silicone.”
I can’t help snorting. Meanwhile, Ben is deftly flinging a couple of towels up over our parasol. What’s he doing?
“Just creating a bit of privacy,” he says with a wink, and squeezes next to me on my sun bed, his hands all over me like an octopus. “God, you’re hot. You haven’t got a crotchless bikini on, have you?”
Is he serious?
Actually, a crotchless bikini would have been handy.
“I don’t think they even exist—” I suddenly notice two children watching us in curiosity. “Stop!” I hiss, and drag Ben’s hand out of my bikini bottoms. “We’re not doing it on a sun bed! We’ll get arrested!”
“Shaved ice, madame? Lemon flavor?” We both jump about a million miles as Hermes ducks his head under the towels and proffers a tray bearing two cones. I am honestly going to have a heart attack before I leave this place.
For a while we sit in silence, slurping at our shaved ice and listening to the low hum of beach chatter and waves lapping the sand.
“Look,” I say at last. “It’s a shit situation, but there’s nothing we can do about it. Either we sit here, boiling with frustration and getting ratty with each other, or we go and do something till the room’s ready.”
“Like what?”
“You know.” I try to sound optimistic. “Fun holiday activities. Tennis, sailing, canoeing. Ping-Pong. Whatever they’ve got.”
“Sounds riveting,” says Ben moodily.
“Let’s go for a walk, anyway, and see what we can find.”
I want to get away from this beach. Everyone keeps turning to look at us while they whisper behind their paperbacks, and the Russian guy keeps winking at me.
Ben finishes his shaved ice and leans over to kiss me, his icy lips parting mine with a delicious lemony, salty taste.
“We can’t,” I say as his hand automatically finds my bikini top. “Look, stop.” I wrench his hand away. “It makes it too hard. No touching. Not till our room’s ready.”
“No touching?” He stares at me incredulously.
“No touching.” I nod resolutely. “Come on. Let’s walk through the hotel and whatever activity we find first, we’ll do. Yes? Deal?”
I wait for Ben to get to his feet and slip into his flip-flops. Georgios is heading toward us down the path from the hotel, and to my disbelief he’s actually holding a salver bearing a glass of orange juice and a dish of brown M&M’s.
“Madame.”
“Wow!” I drain the orange juice in one gulp and crunch a couple of M&M’s. “That’s wonderful.”
“Is our room ready yet?” demands Ben abruptly. “It must be.”
“I believe not, sir.” Georgios’s gloomy expression descends yet further. “I believe a problem has arisen with the fire alarm.”
“The fire alarm?” Ben echoes incredulously. “What do you mean, the fire alarm?”
“A sensor was knocked as the beds were moved. Unfortunately, this must be fixed before we can allow you back into the room. It is for your own safety. My deepest apologies, sir.”
Ben has both his hands to his head. He looks so apoplectic, I’m almost scared.
“Well, how long will it be now?”
Georgios spreads his hands. “Sir, I only wish—”
“You don’t know,” Ben interrupts tensely. “Of course you don’t know. Why would you know?”
I have a horrible feeling he’s going to flip out in a minute and hit Georgios.
“Anyway.” I hastily join in the conversation. “Never mind. We’ll go and amuse ourselves.”
“Madame.” Georgios nods. “How can I assist you with this?”
Ben scowls at him. “You can—”
“Get me some more juice, please!” I trill, before Ben says something really offensive. “Maybe some … some …” I hesitate. What’s the most time-consuming juice there is? “Some beet juice?”
A flicker passes across Georgios’s otherwise impassive face. I think perhaps he’s cottoned onto my ruse.
“Of course, madame.”
“Great! See you later.” We head up a path lined with white walls and bougainvillea. The sun is beating down on our heads and it’s very quiet. I know Georgios is following us, but I’m not making chitchat with him. Then he’ll never go.
“The beach bar’s this way,” observes Ben as we pass a sign. “We could look in.”
“The beach bar?” I give him a sardonic look. “After last night?”
“Hair of the dog. Virgin Mary. Whatever.”
“OK.” I shrug. “We could have a quick one.”
The beach bar is large and circular and shady, with Greek bouzouki music playing softly. Ben immediately slumps onto a bar stool.
“Welcome.” The barman approaches us with a wide smile. “Many congratulations on your marriage.” He gives us a laminated drinks menu and moves away.
“How did he know we were just married?” Ben regards him with narrowed eyes.
“Saw our shiny new wedding rings, I suppose? What shall we have?” I start looking down the menu, but Ben is lost in thought.
“That bloody woman,” he mutters. “We’d be there now. In their bed.”
“Well. I’m sure they’ll fix the fire alarm soon,” I say unconvincingly.
“This is our bloody honeymoon.”
“I know,” I say soothingly. “Come on, let’s have a drink. A proper drink.” I feel like having one myself, to be honest.
“Did you say it was your honeymoon?” A blond girl heralds us across the bar. She’s wearing an orange caftan with bobbles on the sleeves and has jeweled sandals with very high heels. “Of course it is! Everyone here is on honeymoon. When were you married?”
“Yesterday. We just arrived last night.”
“We were Saturday! Holy Trinity Church in Manchester. My dress was Phillipa Lepley. We had a hundred and twenty to the reception. It was a buffet. Then in the evening we had dancing to a band, and fifty additional guests attended.” She looks at us expectantly.
“Ours was … smaller,” I say after a pause. “Quite a lot smaller. But lovely.”
Lovelier than yours, I add silently. I turn to Ben to back me up, but he’s swiveled away and is talking to the bartender instead.
This is the first time I’ve noticed a trait that Ben has in common with Richard—i.e., being totally antisocial and narrow-minded about new people. The number of times I’ve struck up a conversation with some really interesting, fun person, and Richard just wouldn’t join in. Like that fascinating woman we met at Greenwich once, who he point-blank refused to be introduced to. And, OK, it turned out she was a bit of a weirdo and tried to get me to invest £10,000 in a houseboat, but he wasn’t to know that, was he?
“Ring?” The girl shoves her hand forward. Her nails are orange to match her caftan, I notice. Does that mean all her caftans are orange or that she repaints her nails every night? “I’m Melissa, by the way.”