“Tell me,” I say instead, my voice gentle and coaxing. “Where did you go when you went AWOL?”
“You really want to know?” Ben gives me a curious, wry smile. “Not my finest moment.”
“Tell me.”
“I went to have lessons in comedy from Malcolm Robinson.”
“Malcolm Robinson?” I stare at him. “For real?”
I love Malcolm Robinson. He’s hilarious. He used to have this brilliant sketch show, and once I saw him live at Edinburgh.
“I bought them anonymously at a charity auction. It was originally a weekend, but I persuaded him to extend it to a week. Cost me a fortune. At the end of the week, I asked him to tell me, straight up, if I had any talent.”
There’s silence. I’m already cringing inside at his expression.
“What—” I say at last, and clear my throat. “What did he—”
“He said no.” Ben cuts me off, almost tonelessly. “He was blunt. Told me to give it up. Did me a favor, really. I haven’t cracked a joke since.”
I wince. “That must have been devastating.”
“It hurt my pride, yes.”
“How long had you been …?” I trail off awkwardly. I don’t know quite how to phrase it. Luckily, Ben gets the gist.
“Seven years.”
“And you just gave up?”
“Yup.”
“And you didn’t tell anybody? Your dad? Lorcan?”
“I thought they might notice I’d stopped doing gigs and ask why. They didn’t.” The hurt in his voice is unmistakable. “I didn’t have anyone else to … you know. Tell stuff.”
Spontaneously, I reach for his hand and squeeze it tight. “You’ve got me now,” I say softly. “Tell me stuff.”
He squeezes my hand back and our eyes are locked. For a moment I feel totally connected to him. Then two waiters come to clear our canapé plates; we release hands and the spell is broken.
“Strange honeymoon, huh?” I say wryly.
“I don’t know. I’m starting to enjoy it.”
“Me too.” I can’t help laughing. “I’m almost glad it’s been so weird. At least we won’t forget it.”
And I mean it. If we hadn’t had all the bedroom disasters, maybe we wouldn’t have had this drink and I might never have found out these things about Ben. It’s funny how things work out. I entwine my leg around Ben’s under the table and start working my toe up his thigh in my signature maneuver, but he shakes his head vigorously.
“No,” he says shortly. “Uh-uh. Can’t stand it. Too horny.”
“How on earth will you survive the couple’s massage, then?” I tease him.
“By telling them to keep it to ten minutes flat and then leave us alone in utter privacy,” he replies seriously. “I’m prepared to tip heavily.”
“An hour to go.” I glance at my watch. “I wonder what kind of oil they use?”
“Change the subject from oil.” He looks strained. “Give a man a break.”
I can’t help laughing. “OK, here’s a new subject. When shall we go and visit the guest house? Tomorrow?”
I’m half excited, half terrified about visiting the guest house. It’s where we met. It’s where the fire happened. It’s where my life changed. It’s where everything happened. All at one little guest house, fifteen years ago.
“Tomorrow.” Ben nods. “You have to do cartwheels along the beach for me.”
“I will.” I smile at him. “And you have to dive off that rock.”
“And then we’ll find that cave we used to go in …”
We’re both hazy-eyed and smiling, lost in memories.
“You used to wear those tiny tie-dyed shorts,” says Ben. “They drove me wild.”
“I brought them with me,” I confess.
“You didn’t!” His eyes light up.
“I’ve kept them, all this time.”
“You angel.”
I grin wickedly back at him, feeling my desire rocket. Oh God. How am I going to wait an hour? How can I fill the time?
“I’m going to let Fliss know how we got on.” I reach for my phone and type a quick text:
Guess what? WE WON!!!! All going brilliantly. Ben and I make a fab team. Totally happy.
I can’t help smiling as I type. She won’t believe her eyes! In fact, I hope the news cheers her up a bit. She sounded hassled before. I wonder what’s going on. On impulse, I add to my text:
Hope u r having a lovely day too. Everything OK?? L xxx
16
FLISS
There’s nothing wrong with Sofia, Bulgaria. It’s a great city. I’ve been here many times before. It boasts beautiful churches and interesting museums and an outdoor book market. However, it is not where I want to be standing at six in the evening, hot, sweaty, and harassed, waiting for my baggage at the carousel, when I should be on the Greek island of Ikonos.
The only plus point of the situation: I can’t blame Daniel. Not this time. This one is firmly fate/act of God. (Thanks a lot, God. Is this because of what I said in religious studies class, age eleven? I was joking.) Although I’d actually like to blame Daniel right now. More specifically, I’d like to kick him. Failing that, I may well kick my baggage trolley.
The crowd around the carousel is five deep. There are people waiting for luggage from several flights, and no one is in a good mood, least of all my fellow passengers from Flight 637 to Ikonos. Not many smiles. Not a lot of jolly banter.
Sofia, bloody Bulgaria. I mean.
Years of traveling for work have made me fairly Zen about airlines and delays and cock-ups, but I must say, this cock-up is of epic proportions. We couldn’t just land, wave the poor old lady off to hospital, and then efficiently resume our journey. Oh no. Her luggage needed to be found, and then there was a problem getting a takeoff slot, and then it turned out something had gone wrong with an engine. The upshot is an unscheduled overnight stay in Sofia. We’re being put up at the City Heights Hotel. (Not bad, four stars, great rooftop bar, as I remember.)
“That’s ours!” yells Noah for the fifty-first time. He’s tried to claim nearly every black suitcase that has appeared on the carousel, despite the fact that ours has a distinctive red strap and is probably on its way to Belgrade right now.
“It’s not, Noah,” I say patiently. “Keep looking.” A woman steps heavily on my toe, and I’m trying to remember any curse words I know in Bulgarian when my phone beeps with a text and I pull it out of my pocket.
Guess what? WE WON!!!! All going brilliantly. Ben and I make a fab team. Totally happy.
I’m so shocked I can’t move for a moment. They won? How the hell did they win?
“Who’s that from?” Richard has seen me reading my phone. “Is that from Lottie?”
“Er, yes.” I’m too slow off the mark to lie.
“What does she say? Has she realized she’s made a mistake?” His face is so eager that I cringe inside. “Presumably they did terribly at the quiz?”
“Actually …” I hesitate. How do I break this to him? “Actually, they won.”
His face drops and he stares at me, aghast. “They won?”
“Apparently.”
“But I thought they didn’t know anything about each other.”
“They don’t!”
“You said they would tank.” Richard becomes accusing.
“I know!” I say, feeling rattled. “Look, I’m sure there’s some explanation. I must have got my wires crossed. I’ll give her a ring.” I speed-dial Lottie’s number and turn away.
“Fliss?” Even from that one syllable I can hear how ebullient she is.