I wasn’t going to say as much as that, but I think he needs a shot of confidence in the arm.
“You don’t know that,” he growls.
“I do! What you don’t know is, there’s a history here. Every time Lottie breaks up with someone, she does this.”
“She gets married?” Richard looks scandalized. “Every time?”
“No!” I want to laugh at his expression. “I just mean she does something rash and idiotic. And then she comes to. I’ll probably get off the plane and find a text waiting for me, saying, Fliss, I made a huge mistake! Help!”
I can see Richard digesting this idea. “You really think so?”
“Believe me, I’ve been here before. I call them her Unfortunate Choices. Sometimes she joins a cult, sometimes she gets a tattoo.… Think of this marriage as an extreme piercing. Right this minute, they’re doing a Couples’ Quiz,” I add to encourage him. “I mean, what a joke! They haven’t got a clue about each other. Lottie will see that, and she’ll start to think straight, and then she’ll realize.”
“Couples’ Quiz?” says Richard after a pause. “You mean like that TV game?”
“Exactly. Like, ‘What is your partner’s favorite meal that you cook for her?’ That kind of thing.”
“Spaghetti carbonara,” says Richard, without missing a beat.
“There you go.” I squeeze his hand. “If you guys did it, you’d win. Ben and Lottie are going to tank. Then she’ll come to her senses. You wait and see.”
15
LOTTIE
It’s a game. Just a game. It doesn’t mean anything.
Even so, I’m feeling more irritable by the second. Why can’t I remember this stuff? And, more to the point, why can’t Ben? Isn’t he interested in the details of my life?
We’re sitting in the hotel garden with ten minutes to go before Couples’ Quiz starts, and I’ve never felt less prepared for a test in my life. Ben is lying in a hammock, drinking beer and playing some new rap song on his iPad, which really isn’t improving my mood.
“Let’s go again,” I say. “And, this time, concentrate. What shampoo do I use?”
“L’Oréal.”
“No!”
“Head and Shoulders, extra strong for monster dandruff.” He smirks.
“No!” I kick him. “I told you. Kerastase. And you use Paul Mitchell.”
“Do I?” he says blankly.
I feel instant rage boiling up inside me. “What do you mean, ‘do I’? You told me you use Paul Mitchell! We have to be on the same page for this, Ben. If you say Paul Mitchell once, you have to stick to Paul Mitchell!”
“Jesus.” Ben takes a sip of beer. “Lighten up.” He turns up the volume on his iPad, and I flinch. Does he really like that music?
“Let’s do another.” I try to control my impatience. “What’s my favorite alcoholic drink?”
“Smirnoff Ice.” He grins.
“Funny,” I say politely.
No wonder he didn’t make it as a comedian. The bitchy thought comes from nowhere. Oops. I clench my lips together, praying my expression isn’t readable. I didn’t mean it, of course I didn’t.…
Richard would have made an effort. The even bigger thought flashes through my head like a powerful bird in flight, leaving me breathless in its wake. I blink at my piece of paper, feeling hot about the face. I’m not going to think about Richard. No. Absolutely not.
Richard would have thought Couples’ Quiz was ridiculous too, but, the difference is, he’d have made an effort, because if it mattered to me it would matter to him—
Stop it.
Like the time he did charades at my office party and everyone loved him—
LISTEN UP, STUPID BRAIN. Richard is OUT of my life. Right now he’s probably fast asleep on the other side of the world in some glossy San Francisco apartment block, having forgotten all about me, and I’m with my husband—repeat, husband—
“The Jeweled Path? Are you serious?”
I’ve been wrangling so hard with my thoughts, I didn’t notice Ben pick up the crib sheet I prepared for him earlier. Now he’s staring at it incredulously.
“What?”
“The Jeweled Path can’t be your favorite book.” He looks up from the paper. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
“I’m not joking,” I say, nettled. “Have you read it? It’s brilliant.”
“I wasted thirty valuable seconds of my life downloading it and skimming the first chapter.” He pulls a face. “I want those thirty seconds back.”
“You obviously missed the point,” I say, offended. “It’s really insightful if you read it carefully.”
“It’s a pile of new-age shit.”
“Not according to eighty million readers.” I’m glaring at him.
“Eighty million morons.”
“Well, what’s your favorite book, then?” I grab the piece of paper to see, but my gaze is halted. I clap a hand over my mouth in shock and raise my eyes to his. “That’s not how you vote?”
“Don’t you?”
“No!”
We’re staring at each other as though we’ve discovered we’re aliens. I swallow twice, then look at the sheet again.
“OK! Right.” I’m trying not to give away how disconcerted I feel. “So … so obviously we need to recap on a few basics. Voting preference we’ve covered … favorite pasta?”
“Depends on the sauce,” he says promptly. “Stupid question.”
“Well, I like tagliatelle. You say tagliatelle too. Favorite TV show?”
“Dirk and Sally.”
“Dirk and Sally, definitely.” He grins, and the atmosphere lifts a shade.
“Favorite episode?” I can’t help asking.
“Let me think.” His face lights up. “The one with the lobsters. Classic.”
“No, the wedding,” I object. “It has to be the wedding. ‘With this Smith and Wesson 59, I thee wed.’ ”
I watched that episode about ninety-five times. It was Dirk and Sally’s second wedding (after they’d divorced and left the force and been recruited back in season four), and it was the best TV wedding ever.
“No, the kidnap double bill.” Ben has sat up in his hammock and is hugging his knees. “That was epic. Hey, listen. Listen.” His face brightens. “We’ll do it as Dirk and Sally.”
“What?” I stare at him, puzzled. “Do what?”
“The quiz! I can’t remember any of this shit.” He waves my crib sheet at me. “But I know what Sally likes and you know what Dirk likes. We’ll be them, not us.”
He can’t be serious. Is he serious? A giggle rises out of me before I can help myself.
“I mean, we can’t do any worse, can we?” Ben adds. “I know everything about Sally. Test me.”
“OK, what shampoo does she use?” I challenge him.
Ben screws up his face to think. “I know this.… It’s Silvikrin. It’s in the opening sequence. What’s Dirk’s favorite drink?”
“Bourbon straight up,” I say without missing a beat. “Easy. When’s Sally’s birthday?”
“June twelfth, and Dirk always gets her white roses. When’s yours?” he asks, looking alarmed. “It’s not soon, is it?”
He’s right. We know the marriage of a fictional TV detective couple better than we know our own. It’s so ridiculous I can’t help grinning at him.
“OK, Dirk, it’s a deal.” I look up to see Nico approaching, flanked by Georgios and Hermes. The Three Stooges, as Ben’s started calling them. We’re in the most secluded, hidden spot in the garden, but even so, they managed to track us down. They’ve been hovering round us endlessly all afternoon, offering drinks, snacks, and even appearing with the most unflattering Ikonos-branded sun hats in case we were getting overheated.