“Oh, jeez, the guest house.” Lorcan nods in agreement. “I hate that place. If I have to hear Ben tell me one more time about how the sunset was like a mind-altering experience …”
“Lottie went on about the sunset too.” Richard nods.
“And how they all used to get up at dawn and do fucking yoga—”
“—and the people—”
“—the atmosphere—”
“And the sea was the clearest, most turquoise, most perfect sea in existence,” I chime in, rolling my eyes. “I mean, get over it.”
“Bloody place,” says Lorcan.
“I wish it had burned down,” adds Richard.
We all look at each other, immensely cheered. There’s nothing like having a common enemy.
“So, we should go,” says Lorcan. He proffers the handle of my wheelie case and I’m about to take it when my phone rings. I check the ID: it’s Nico. At last.
“Nico! Where have you been!”
“Fliss! I know what you are thinking, and I am mortified—” As he launches into some long, rambling apology, I cut him off.
“We haven’t got time for all that. They’re about to get it together on the beach. You need to move fast. Listen.”
17
LOTTIE
This is the perfect setting for a wedding night. I mean, our own private beach! How cool is that?
We’re in a secluded little cove that you reach from the main beach over stepping stones and there’s a DO NOT DISTURB sign placed on a rock. Our two massage therapists led us here in a little procession, followed by Georgios and Hermes carrying champagne and oysters, which are waiting for us on ice. Now we’re lying on a huge double massage bed, while the two massage therapists, Angelina and Carissa, rub oil into our bodies. Billowing all around us are white curtains, so we’re totally private in our enclosure. The sky is that intense blue you only get at a certain point in the early evening, and scented candles planted in the sand are giving off a sweet aroma. Birds are swooping and calling. I can hear the tiny splash of waves on the sand, and the air has a salty tang. It’s all so scenic, I feel as though I’m in some arty pop video.
Ben reaches out his hand to take mine, and I squeeze it back, wincing as Carissa tackles a particularly stubborn knot in my neck. Mmm. Ben and me and a canopied bed on the beach, which we’ll have to ourselves for two hours afterward. The therapists have stressed that several times. “Two hours,” Angelina kept saying. “Plenty of private time. You will be relaxed as a couple.… All the senses will be stimulated.… No one will disturb you, this is guaranteed.…”
She didn’t quite wink, but she might as well have. Obviously this is the open-air shagging service, which they’re too coy to spell out in the brochure.
Carissa has finished with my neck. She and Angelina move to the head end of the bed and in synchronization begin a head massage. I’m relaxing more and more—in fact, I’d probably fall asleep if it weren’t that I’m also absolutely hopping with lust. Just the sight of Ben slick with oil and naked beside me was enough. We are going to use every minute of that two hours, I vow. We have earned this sex. He’ll only have to touch me and I’ll explode—
Ting!
I’m jolted out of my reverie. From nowhere, Angelina and Carissa have produced matching little bells, which they’ve struck above our heads in a kind of ritual.
“Finish,” whispers Carissa, and tucks my sheet around me. “Now relax. Take it easy.”
Yes! It’s over! Sexy private time, here we come. I watch through semi-closed eyes as Angelina and Carissa withdraw from our curtained enclosure. There’s no sound at all except for the cotton curtains, flapping gently in the breeze. I stare up at the blue, unable to speak, I’m so overcome by torpor and lust. I think this is the most blissful state I’ve ever been in. Post-massage; pre-sex.
“So.” Ben’s hand squeezes mine again. “At last.”
“At last.” I’m about to lean over and kiss him, but he’s too fast. Before I know it, he’s straddling me, holding a small bottle of oil. He must have brought it along secretly. He thinks of everything!
“I don’t like anyone massaging you but me.” He pours oil onto my shoulders. It smells musky and sensual and gorgeous. I inhale pleasurably as he covers me all over with it, using firm, sweeping gestures which make me shiver.
“You know, you’re very talented, Mr. Parr,” I say, my voice jerky with lust. “You could set up a spa.”
“I want only one client.” He starts to rub the oil into my nipples, over my stomach, lower down.… At once I’m whimpering with desire. I have so, so wanted him.…
“You like this?” His eyes are intent.
“I’m tingling all over. It’s unbearable.”
“So am I.” He leans in to kiss me, his hands moving down with purpose, between my thighs.…
“Oh God.” I’m breathless. “I really am tingling.”
“Me too.”
“Ow!” I can’t help wincing.
“I know you like it a bit rough.” He chuckles, but I’m not sure I can join in. I’m tingling too much. Something’s wrong.
“Can we stop a moment?” I push him away. My skin feels like it’s crawling with insects. “I’m a little sore.”
“Sore?” His eyes glint with amusement. “Babe, we haven’t even started.”
“It’s not funny! It’s painful!” I stare agitatedly at my arm. It’s turned red. Why is it red? Ben moves in on me again, and I try my hardest to moan with appreciation as his lips nuzzle their way down my neck. But, truthfully, they’re moans of pain.
“Stop!” I say at last, in desperation. “Time out! I feel like I’m on fire!”
“So do I,” pants Ben.
“Really! I can’t do this! Look at me!”
At last Ben moves back and surveys me, his eyes cloudy with desire. “You look great,” he says briefly. “You look awesome.”
“No, I don’t! I’m all red.” I survey my arms with mounting alarm. “And I’m swelling up! Look!”
“These are swelling up, all right.” Ben cups one of my breasts appreciatively. Isn’t he listening?
“Ow!” I wrench his arm away. “This is serious. I think I’ve had an allergic reaction. What’s in that oil? Not peanut oil? You know I’m allergic to peanuts.”
“It’s just oil.” Ben seems evasive. “I don’t know what’s in it.”
“You must! You must have looked at the label when you bought it.” There’s a short silence. Ben looks a bit sulky, as though I’ve caught him out.
“I didn’t buy it,” he says at last. “Nico gave it to me, compliments of the hotel. It’s their signature blend or something.”
“Oh.” I can’t help feeling disappointed. “And you didn’t check? Even though you know I’m allergic?”
“I’d forgotten, OK?” Ben sounds thrown. “I can’t remember every tiny little thing!”
“I hardly think your wife’s allergy is ‘every tiny little thing’!” I say furiously, feeling an uncharacteristic urge to hit him. It was all going so brilliantly. Why did he have to slather me with evil peanut oil?
“Look, maybe if we get the right angle it won’t hurt you so much.” Ben looks around desperately and pushes aside the curtains. “Try standing on those rocks.”
“OK.” I’m as eager as he is to make this work. If we minimize actual contact … I clamber onto the rocks, trying not to flinch too much. “Ow—”
“Not like that—”
“Ouch! Stop!”
“Try the other way.…”
“If you could rotate a bit … Oof!”