“So!” says Ben when at last we’re left alone. “Good day, as it turns out.”
“Very good.” I grin back.
“Two hours till our massage.” He meets my eyes, and his mouth twitches with a smile.
Two delicious hours of savoring the spectacular beach sexathon which is to come. I can cope with that. I sip my champagne and lean back, feeling the sun on my face. Life is just about perfect right now. There’s only the tiniest strain in my thoughts, which I’m trying to ignore. I can ignore it. Yes. I can.
No. I can’t.
As I sip my champagne and crunch salted almonds, I’m aware of a glitch in my mood. A weak point I keep trying to skate over. But I can’t fool myself. And I know it’s only going to worry me more, the longer I leave it.
I don’t know him. Not properly. He’s my husband and I don’t know him.
I mean, it’s fine that he votes differently from me—but the point is, I had no idea. I thought we’d covered so much ground over the last few days—but now I realize there are some gaping holes. What other surprises am I going to come across?
In recruitment, we ask the same basic question whenever we want to get to know our candidates quickly: “Where do you want to be in one year, five years, and ten years?” I’d have no idea what to put for Ben, and that can’t be right, surely?
“You’re very distant.” Ben touches my nose. “Earth to Lottie.”
“Where do you want to be in five years’ time?” I ask abruptly.
“Excellent question,” he says promptly. “Where do you want to be?”
“Don’t deflect.” I smile at him. “I want to know the Ben Parr official game plan.”
“Maybe I had an official game plan.” His eyes soften as they meet mine. “But maybe it’s changed now I’ve got you.”
I’m so disarmed by his expression that I feel my doubts melting away. He’s gazing at me with the most charming lopsided smile and a distant look to his eyes, as though he’s imagining our future together.
“I feel the same,” I can’t help blurting out. “I feel as though I’ve got a whole new future.”
“A future with you. Anywhere we like.” He spreads his hands. “What’s the dream, Lottie? Sell it to me.”
“France?” I say tentatively. “A farmhouse in France?” I’ve always fantasized about moving to France. “Maybe the Dordogne, or Provence? We could do up a house, find a real project.…”
“I love that idea.” Ben’s eyes are sparkling. “Find a wreck, turn it into something amazing, have friends to stay, long lazy meals—”
“Exactly!” My words tumble out, mingling with his. “We’d have a great big table and wonderful fresh food, and the children would help make the salad.…”
“They’d learn French too—”
“How many children do you want?”
My question halts the conversation for a moment. I’m holding my breath, I realize.
“As many as we can,” says Ben easily. “If they all look like you, I’ll have ten!”
“Maybe not ten.” I’m laughing in relief. We chime perfectly! My worries were unfounded! We’re totally on the same page when it comes to life choices. I almost want to get out my phone and start finding old French properties to drool over. “You really want to move to France?”
“If there’s one thing I want to do in the next two years, it’s settle myself down,” he says seriously. “Find a lifestyle I can love. And France is a passion of mine.”
“Do you speak French?”
He reaches for the paper dessert menu, produces a pencil, and scribbles a few lines on the back, then turns it to show me.
L’amour, c’est toi
La beaute, c’est toi
L’honneur, c’est toi
Lottie, c’est toi
I’m enchanted. No one’s ever written me a poem before. And certainly not in French.
“Thank you so much! I love it!” I read it through again, bring the paper right up to my face as though trying to inhale the words, then put it down.
“But what about your work?” I’m so desperate for this plan to come true now, I can’t help pressing him, just to make sure. “You couldn’t leave that.”
“I can dip in and out.”
I don’t even know quite what Ben’s work consists of. I mean, it’s a company which makes paper, obviously, but what does he do? I’m not sure he ever explained it properly, and it feels a bit late to ask.
“Have you got someone who could take the reins? What about Lorcan?” I remember Ben’s best friend. “He works with you, doesn’t he? Could he step in?”
“Oh, I’m sure he’d love to.” There’s a sudden bitter twist to Ben’s voice, and I take a mental step back.
Yikes. I’ve obviously touched a nerve. Not that I know the details, but Ben’s manner instantly evokes a background of tense meetings in boardrooms and slammed doors and emails regretted the following day.
“He’s your best man,” I say cautiously. “Aren’t you best friends?”
Ben is silent for a few moments, preoccupied with some thought or other.
“I don’t even know why Lorcan’s in my life,” he says at last. “That’s the truth. I turned round and there he was. Just there.”
“What do you mean?”
“His marriage broke up four years ago. He went up to Staffordshire to stay with my dad. Fair enough; they’d always been friendly, since we were at school together. But next thing, Lorcan’s advising my dad and getting a job in the company and running the whole bloody show. You should have seen him and my dad, striding around the place together, making plans, leaving me out completely.”
“That sounds awful,” I say sympathetically.
“It all came to a head two years ago.” He gulps his champagne. “I just upped and left. Went AWOL. I needed to sort myself out. It freaked them so much they contacted the police.” He spreads his hands. “I never told them where I was. After that, they behaved as though I was some sort of fragile nutcase. My dad and Lorcan were thicker than ever. Then my dad goes and dies.…”
There’s a rawness to his voice which makes my skin prickle.
“And Lorcan stayed at the company?” I venture.
“Where else would he go? He’s got a cushy number. Nice salary, cottage on the estate—he’s sorted.”
“Does he have kids?”
“No.” Ben shrugs. “I suppose they never got round to it. Or weren’t into them.”
“Well, then, why don’t you quietly get rid of him?” I’m about to suggest a legal firm I know which specializes in tactfully exiting staff, but Ben doesn’t seem to be listening.
“Lorcan thinks he knows best about everything!” The words come shooting out in a resentful stream. “What I should do with my life. What I should do with my company. What advertising agency I should employ. What I should pay my cleaners. What grade of paper is best for which … I don’t know, desk diary.” He exhales. “And I don’t know the answer. So he wins.”
“It’s not a question of winning,” I say, but I can tell Ben isn’t paying attention.
“He once confiscated my phone in public, because he thought it ‘wasn’t appropriate.’ ” Ben is burning with resentment.
“That sounds like harassment!” I say, shocked. “Do you have an effective HR head?”
“Yes.” Ben sounds sulky. “But she’s leaving. She’d never say anything to Lorcan, anyway. They all love him.”
Listening with my professional hat on, I’m aghast. This all sounds like a shambles. I want to get a piece of paper and start a five-point action plan for Ben to manage Lorcan more effectively, but that’s not exactly sexy honeymoon talk.