“We’re on honeymoon too.” She brightens. “We’re at the Apollina, but my husband dragged me here to look at these ruins. I told him I needed a sit-down and I’d join him in a minute.” She gets out a bottle of water and takes a swig. “He’s like that. We went to Thailand last year; it nearly killed me. I went on strike in the end. I said, ‘Not another bloody temple. I want to lie on the beach.’ I mean, what’s wrong with lying on the beach?”
“I agree.” I nod. “We went to Italy and it was endless churches.”
“Churches!” She rolls her eyes. “Tell me about it. That was us in Venice. I said to him, ‘Do you ever go to churches in England? Why the sudden interest just because we’re on holiday?’ ”
“That’s exactly what I said to Richard!” I say eagerly.
“My husband’s called Richard too!” the woman exclaims. “Isn’t that funny? Richard what?”
She smiles at me, but I stare back, stricken. What have I been saying? Why did my thoughts instantly go to Richard, not Ben? What is wrong with me?
“Actually …” I rub my face, trying to calm my thoughts. “Actually, my husband’s not called Richard.”
“Oh.” She looks taken aback. “Sorry. I thought you said …” She peers closer in dismay. “Are you all right?”
Oh God. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Tears are streaming out of my eyes. Lots of tears. I wipe them away and try to smile.
“I’m sorry.” I swallow hard. “I’ve recently split up from my boyfriend. I haven’t really got over it.”
“Your boyfriend?” The woman stares at me, disconcerted. “I thought you said you were on your honeymoon?”
“I am,” I sob. “I am on my honeymoon!” And now I’m really crying: huge, racking, childlike sobs.
“So which one is Richard?”
“Not my husband!” My voice rises to an anguished wail. “Richard’s not my husband! He never asked me! He never asked meeeee!”
“I’ll give you some privacy,” says the woman awkwardly, and clambers down off the rock. As she disappears hastily from view, I give way to the noisiest, most abandoned crying I’ve ever indulged in.
I feel homesick. Homesick for Richard. I miss him so much. I feel as though when we split up he wrenched a bit of my heart out. For a while the adrenaline of the situation kept me going—but now I’m realizing just how wounded I am. My whole body’s throbbing with the pain, and it’s nowhere near healing.
I miss him, I miss him, I miss him.
I miss his humor and his sense. I miss the feel of him in bed. I miss catching his eye at a party and knowing we’re thinking the same thing. I miss the smell of him. He smells the way a man should. I miss his voice and his kisses and even his feet. I miss everything.
And I’m married to someone else.
I give a fresh, desperate sob. Why did I get married? What was I thinking? I know Ben is hot and fun and charming, but suddenly that all seems meaningless. It feels hollow.
So what do I do now? I bury my head in my hands, feeling my breathing gradually slow down. I’m twisting my wedding ring round and round on my finger. I’ve never felt so terrified in my life. I’ve made mistakes before, but never on this scale. Never with these repercussions.
I can’t do anything about it, my brain is telling me. I’m stuck. Trapped. It’s my own fault.
The sun is beating strongly on my head. I should really get down off the rock and move into the shade. But I can’t bring myself to. I can’t move a muscle. Not till I’ve sorted myself out. Not till I’ve made a few decisions.
It’s nearly an hour before I move. I jump down from the rock, dust myself off, and head swiftly toward the guest house. Ben didn’t bother trying to find me to see if I was all right, I note. But I don’t even care anymore.
I see them before they see me. Ben is sitting close to Sarah on the veranda, his hand curled around her shoulders and playing lightly with her strap. It’s so obvious what has been going on, I feel like screaming. But, instead, I creep toward the guest house, staying silent as a cat.
Kiss, I’m willing them. Kiss. Confirm what I secretly believe.
I stand there, hardly breathing, my eyes fixed on them. It’s like watching Ben and me when we met up in the restaurant however many days ago. They’re revisiting their teenage fling. They can’t help it. The hormones emanating from them are so strong, they’re almost visible. Sarah is laughing at something Ben is saying, and he’s playing with her hair now, and they’ve got that intense couple-y look going on and …
Houston, we have touchdown.
Their lips have fixed together. His hand is exploring inside her tank top. Before this can go any further, I march toward the veranda, feeling like a soap opera actress who’s slightly late for her cue.
“How could you?” As I yell the words, I realize there’s a genuine torment behind them. How could he bring me here, to the scene of his other teenage fling, the one which predates me and which he never mentioned? He should have known Sarah would be here. He should have known the teenage hormones would flare up again. Did he do it all on purpose? Is it a game?
At least I’ve rattled them. They leap apart, and Ben bangs his ankle on the bench and curses.
“Ben, we need to talk,” I say shortly.
“Yes.” He glowers at me as though this is my fault, and I bridle. Sarah tactfully disappears into the guest house, and I join Ben on the veranda.
“So. This isn’t working.” I stare away from him, out toward the sea, my whole body tensed miserably. “And now I see you prefer someone else, anyway.”
“For fuck’s sake,” he says irritably. “One kiss—”
“It’s our honeymoon!”
“Exactly!” he says furiously. “You just turned me down! What’s a guy supposed to do?”
“I didn’t turn you down,” I retort, immediately realizing that, yes, I did turn him down. “OK.” I backtrack. “Well, I’m sorry. I just …”
I just didn’t want to do it with you. I wanted to do it with Richard. Because he’s the man I love. Richard, my beloved Richard. But I’ll never see him again. And now I’m going to cry again.…
“It’s difficult to say this,” I manage at last, and blink back fresh tears. “But I think our marriage was too quick. I think we rushed. I think …” I exhale a shuddery breath. “I think it was … wrong. And I blame myself. I’d only recently come out of a relationship. It was too soon.” I spread my hands. “My bad. Sorry.”
“No,” says Ben at once. “My bad.”
There’s silence as I take his words in. So we both think it was a mistake. A massive sense of failure is heaving in my chest. Combined with relief. Fliss was right shoots through my brain, and I flinch. That thought is too painful to deal with right now.
“I don’t want to move to France,” says Ben abruptly. “I hate fucking France. I shouldn’t have let you think I was serious.”
“Well, I shouldn’t have pressed you on it,” I say, wanting to be fair. “And I shouldn’t have made you go in for Couples’ Quiz.”
“I shouldn’t have got drunk the first night.”
“I should have had sex with you in the guest house,” I say remorsefully. “That was rude. Sorry.”
“No worries.” Ben shrugs. “Those beds squeak, anyway.”
“So … we’re done?” I can barely say the words. “Call it quits, no hard feelings?”
“We could go for quickest divorce,” says Ben, deadpan. “We might get a world record.”
“Shall we tell Georgios to cancel the honeymoon album, then?” I give a snort of almost painful laughter.
“What about the honeymooners’ karaoke evening? Shall we still do that?”