Then maybe you shouldn’t have married each other! I want to yell.
“Could you maybe … talk to each other?” I suggest at last.
“Yes! Yes, that’s it,” says Lottie, as though I’ve cracked some fiendish code. “We’ll learn it all. Give me a list of the stuff I need to know.” She sounds determined. “Toothpaste, name of mother, favorite meals … Can you text all the questions to me?”
“No, I can’t,” I say firmly. “I’m busy. Lottie, why on earth are you doing this? Why aren’t you lying on the beach?”
“I got talked into it. And now we can’t back out, or we’ll look like we’re not a happy couple. Fliss, this place is mad. It’s Honeymoon Central.”
I shrug. “You knew it would be, didn’t you?”
“I suppose.…” She hesitates. “But I didn’t realize it would be this honeymoon-y. They have loved-up couples everywhere, and you can’t take a step without someone saying ‘Congratulations’ or chucking confetti over you. That bridezilla girl is renewing her vows already, can you believe? She was trying to talk me into doing it too.”
For a moment I’ve forgotten where I am and the whole situation. I’m just chatting with Lottie.
“Sounds like it’s become totally gimmicky.”
“It is a bit.”
“So don’t do the Couples’ Quiz.”
“I have to.” She sounds resolute. “I’m not backing out now. So, should I know where Ben went to high school, all that kind of stuff? What about hobbies?”
My frustration returns in a flash. This is ridiculous. She sounds like someone mugging up, trying to fool an immigration officer. For an instant I consider saying all this to her right now.
But, at the same time, my deeper instincts tell me not to try anything by phone. All that will happen is we’ll have a steaming row and she’ll ring off and get Ben to impregnate her right then and there, probably on the beach in full view of everyone, just to show me.
I need to get out there. Pretend that I simply wanted to surprise her. I’ll assess the territory, let her relax. Then I’ll draw her aside and we’ll have a chat. A frank chat. A long, relentless chat, from which I will not let her escape till she’s seen the whole picture. Really seen it.
This Couples’ Quiz has played into my hands, I realize. She’s going to fall flat on her face in quite a public way. And then she’ll be ripe to hear the voice of reason.
A flight is being announced, and Lottie immediately demands, “What’s that? Where are you?”
“Station,” I lie smoothly. “Better go. Good luck!”
I switch off my phone and look around for Noah. I left him sitting on a plastic chair two feet away, but he’s made his way to the desk and is deep in conversation with an air hostess, who is crouching down and listening intently to him.
“Noah!” I call, and both their heads turn. The air hostess raises a hand in acknowledgment, stands up, and leads him back to me. She’s very curvy and tanned, with huge blue eyes and hair in a bun, and as she approaches I catch a waft of perfume.
“Sorry about that.” I smile at her. “Noah, stay here. No wandering.”
The air hostess is gazing at me, transfixed, and I put my hand to my mouth, wondering if I have a crumb on my lip.
“I just want to say,” she says in a rush, “that I heard about your little boy’s ordeal, and I think you’re all really brave.”
For a moment I can’t find a reply. What the hell did Noah say?
“And I think that paramedic should get a medal,” she adds, her voice trembling.
I look daggers at Noah, who returns my gaze, serene and untroubled. What do I do? If I explain that my son is a complete fantasist, we all look stupid. Maybe it’s easier to go along with it. We’ll be boarding in a minute; we’ll never see her again.
“It wasn’t that big a deal,” I say at last. “Thank you so much—”
“Not a big deal?” she echoes incredulously. “But it was all so dramatic!”
“Er … yes.” I swallow. “Noah, let’s buy some water.”
I hurry him off to a nearby drinks machine, before this conversation can go any further. “Noah,” I say as soon as we’re out of earshot, “what did you say to the lady?”
“I said I want to be in the Olympics when I grow up,” he replies promptly. “I want to do the long jump. Like this.” He breaks free of my grasp and leaps across the airport carpet. “Can I be in the Olympics?”
I give up. We’ll have to have a big chat at some time—but not now.
“Of course you can.” I ruffle his hair. “But, listen. No more chatting to strangers. You know that.”
“That lady wasn’t a stranger,” he points out reasonably. “She had a badge, so I knew her name. It was Cheryl.”
Sometimes the logic of a seven-year-old is undefeatable. We return to our seats and I sit him firmly down next to me.
“Look at your sticker book and do not move.” I take out my BlackBerry and polish off a few quick emails. I’ve just agreed to an entire supplement on Arctic holidays when I pause, frowning. Something has attracted my attention. The top of a head, behind a newspaper. A dark crest of hair. Long-fingered, bony hands turning a page.
No way.
I stare, riveted, until he turns another page and I catch a glimpse of cheekbone. It’s him. Sitting five yards away, a small travel bag at his feet. What the fuck is he doing here?
Don’t tell me he’s had the same idea as me.
As he turns yet another page, looking calm and unruffled, I start to feel a burning anger. This is all his fault. I’ve had to disrupt my life, take my son out of school, and stress out all night, simply because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. He was the one who went blundering in. He caused all this. And now here he is, looking as cool and relaxed as though he’s off on holiday.
His phone rings, and he puts down his paper to answer.
“Sure,” I can hear him saying. “I’ll do that. We’ll discuss all those issues. Yes, I know there’s a time factor.” Strain appears in his face. “I know this is not ideal. I’m doing the best I can in tricky circumstances, OK?” There’s a pause as he listens, then replies, “No, I’d say not. Need to know only. We don’t want to start the rumor mill.… OK. Right. Talk to you when I get there.”
He puts his phone away and resumes reading the paper, while I watch with growing resentment. That’s right. Lean back. Smile at a joke. Have a good time. Why not?
I’m glaring at him so hard, I feel I might start burning holes in the paper. An elderly lady sitting next to him picks up on my glare and eyes me nervously. I smile at her quickly, to indicate that it’s not her I’m livid with—but this seems to freak her out even more.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “But … is something wrong?”
“Wrong?” says Lorcan, misunderstanding and turning to her. “No, nothing’s wrong—” He catches sight of me and starts in surprise. “Oh. Hello.”
I wait for him to add a fulsome, groveling apology, but he seems to feel this greeting is enough. His dark eyes meet mine, and with no warning I have a flashback: a blurred moment of skin and lips from the middle of that night. His hot breath on my neck. My hands clutching his hair. The color comes to my cheeks and I glare at him even more venomously.
“Hello?” I echo. “Is that all you can say? ‘Hello’?”
“I guess we’re headed to the same place?” He puts his newspaper down and leans forward, his face suddenly intent. “Are you in touch with them? Because I have to talk to Ben, urgently. I have documents for him to sign. I need him to be at the hotel when I arrive. But he won’t pick up when I call. He’s avoiding me. He’s avoiding everything.”