“Was that your nostril?”
“This isn’t working,” I say, after slipping off the rocks for the third time. “I could try kneeling on the rocks if we had some padding.…”
“Or on the edge of the bed …”
“I’ll go on top.… No! Ow! Sorry,” I wince, “but that’s really painful.”
“Can you put your leg behind your head?”
“No, I can’t,” I say resentfully. “Can you?”
The atmosphere has totally disintegrated, as we try one acrobatic position after another. I keep gasping, and not in a good way. By now my skin is seriously inflamed. I need some soothing aqueous cream, urgently. But I also need to have sex. It’s unbearable. I want to weep with frustration.
“Come on!” I say to myself crossly. “I’ve had root-canal surgery. I can do this.”
“Root-canal surgery?” Ben sounds mortally offended. “Sex with me is like root-canal surgery?”
“That’s not what I meant!”
“You’ve been avoiding sex with me all holiday,” he snarls, suddenly losing his temper. “I mean, what kind of a bloody honeymoon is this?”
This is such an unfair accusation that I recoil with shock.
“I haven’t avoided sex!” I cry. “I want it as much as you do, but I … It’s so painful.…” I cast around desperately. “Could we try tantric sex?”
“Tantric sex?” Ben sounds contemptuous.
“Well, it works for Sting.” I feel near tears of disappointment.
“Is your mouth sore?” says Ben, a note of hope in his voice.
“Yes, I got oil on my lips. They’re really smarting.” I catch his drift. “Sorry.”
Ben unhooks his leg from mine and slumps onto the bed, his shoulders hunched. Despite everything, I can’t help feeling relieved that he’s not chafing against me anymore. It was sheer torture.
For a while we just sit there in stony misery. My flesh is still swollen and vivid red. I must look like an overgrown glacé cherry. A tear rolls down my cheek, then another.
He hasn’t even asked me if my allergy is dangerous. I mean, not that it is, but still. He isn’t exactly concerned, is he? The first time Richard saw me react to peanuts, he wanted to drive me to the ER right then. And he’s always scrupulous about checking menus and the boxes of ready meals. He’s really thoughtful—
“Lottie.” Ben’s voice makes me jump a mile with guilt. How can I be thinking about my ex-boyfriend when I’m on my honeymoon?
“Yes?” I turn quickly, in case he guessed my thoughts. “Just thinking about … nothing in particular …”
“I’m sorry.” Ben spreads his hands in a frank gesture. “I didn’t mean it, but I’m so desperate for you.”
“Me too.”
“It’s just bad luck.”
“We seem to be having more than our fair share of bad luck,” I say ruefully. “How can one couple have such a catalog of disasters?”
“Less ‘honeymoon,’ ” he quips, “more ‘horrormoon.’ ”
I smile at his feeble joke, feeling mollified. At least he’s making an effort.
“Maybe it’s fate,” I say, not really meaning it, but Ben seizes on this idea.
“Maybe you’re right. Think about it, Lottie. We’re going back to the guest house tomorrow. We’re returning to the place we first got it together. Maybe that’s where we’re meant to consummate our marriage.”
“It would be pretty romantic.” This idea is growing on me. “We could find the same spot in that little cave.”
“You still remember?”
“I’ll always remember that night,” I say in heartfelt tones. “It’s one of my all-time great memories.”
“Well, maybe we can top it,” says Ben, his good humor restored. “How long will you be out of action?”
“Dunno.” I glance down at my lobster skin. “It’s a pretty bad reaction. Probably till tomorrow.”
“OK. So we press pause. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” I say gratefully. “We are hereby pressing pause.”
“And tomorrow will be play.”
“And then rewind and play again.” I grin wickedly at him. “And again. And again.”
I can tell, we’re both cheered by this plan. We sit gazing out to sea, and I feel myself gradually soothed by the repetitive noise of the surf, punctuated by the cry of birds and, far away, the throb of music coming from the main beach. A band is playing there tonight. Maybe we’ll wander over in a while, drink a cocktail, and have a listen.
It feels as if we’ve made our peace. As we’re sitting there, Ben carefully extends his arm behind me, then bends it round as though to cradle my back, without actually touching. It’s like a ghost embrace. My skin prickles mildly in response, but I don’t mind. All my resentment has faded away; in fact, I can’t think why it was there at all.
“Tomorrow,” he says. “No peanut oil. No butlers. No harps. Just us.”
“Just us.” I nod. Maybe Ben’s right: maybe we were supposed to do it at the guest house all along. “I love you,” I add impulsively. “Even more because of this.”
“I feel the same way.” He gives me that lopsided smile and my heart swells. And suddenly I feel almost euphoric, despite my stinging skin and frustrated libido and a cricked ankle from climbing on the rocks. Because, after all, here we are, back on Ikonos, after all these years. And tomorrow we come full circle. Tomorrow we return to the most important place of our lives: the guest house. The place where we found love and experienced seismic events and changed our destinies forever.
Ben holds out his hand as though to take mine, and I curl my fingers underneath without quite touching (my hands are swollen too). I don’t need to tell him how important this visit to the guest house is to me. He understands. He gets it like no one else does. And that’s why we’re meant to be together.
18
FLISS
No. Nooo! What is this drivel?
Ben understands me at a profound level. He thinks it’s Destiny and I do too. We’ve made so many plans for our future. He wants to do all the same things that I do. We’ll probably end up living in France in a gîte.…
I click briskly through the next three texts with mounting dismay.
… amazing atmosphere with white curtains next to the sea, and, OK, it didn’t work out, but that’s not important …
… We weren’t touching but I could FEEL him, it’s like a psychic connection, you know what I mean.…
… happiest I’ve ever been …
They haven’t shagged, yet she’s the happiest she’s ever been. Well, if I was trying to drive them apart, I’ve squarely failed. I’ve driven them together instead. Good work, Fliss. Marvelous.
“Everything OK?” says Lorcan, observing my expression.
“Everything’s dandy,” I almost snarl back, and flip viciously through the leather-bound cocktail menu.
My spirits have not exactly been high since the touchdown in Sofia. Now they’re plummeting to rock bottom. Everything has backfired and I’m bone weary and my minibar was lacking tonic water and now I’m surrounded by Bulgarian prostitutes.
OK, they may not all be Bulgarian prostitutes, I allow, as I do another sweep of the hotel rooftop bar. Some may be Bulgarian glamour models. Some may even be business types. The light in here is dim, but it’s glinting off all the diamonds and teeth and Louis Vuitton buckles on show. Hardly the most understated place, the City Heights. Although, to their credit, they knew my name and I didn’t even need to ask for an upgrade. I’m in the most bling suite I’ve stayed in for a while, complete with two massive bedrooms, a sitting room with cinema screen, and a vast mirrored art-deco-style bathroom. I may be compelled to show it off to Lorcan later on.
I feel an anticipatory squeeze inside. Not quite sure where things are with Lorcan and me. Maybe after a few drinks I’ll find out.