“So!” I say as brightly as I can. “You’re getting married. To someone I’ve never met.”
“You’ll meet him at the wedding. You’ll love him, Fliss.” Her eyes are shiny as she tosses the transparent basque into her basket and adds a teeny thong. “I can’t believe everything’s worked out so perfectly. I’m so happy.”
“Right. Wonderful! Me too!” I leave a tiny pause before adding, “Although—just a thought—do you need to get married so soon? Couldn’t you have a long engagement and plan everything properly?”
“There’s nothing to plan! It’s all going to be so easy. Chelsea Register Office. Lunch at some lovely place. Simple and romantic. You’re going to be bridesmaid, I hope.” She squeezes my arm, then reaches for another basque.
There’s something extra-weird about her. I survey her, trying to work out what’s different. She’s got that post-breakup manic air about her—but even more than usual. Her eyes are overbright. She’s hyper. Is Ben a dealer? Is she on something?
“So, Ben just contacted you out of the blue?”
“He got in touch and we had dinner. And it was as though we’d never been apart. We were so in tune with each other.” She sighs blissfully. “He’d been in love with me for fifteen years. Fifteen years. And I’d been in love with him too. That’s why we want to get married quickly. We’ve wasted enough time already, Fliss.” Her voice throbs dramatically, as though she’s in a TV true-life movie. “We want to get on with the rest of our life.”
What?
OK, this is bollocks. Lottie has not been in love with someone called Ben for the last fifteen years. I think I might know if she had.
“You’ve been in love with him the last fifteen years?” I can’t help challenging her. “Funny that you never mentioned him. At all.”
“I loved him inside.” She clasps a hand to her side. “Here. Maybe I didn’t tell you about it. Maybe I don’t tell you everything.” She defiantly throws a garter belt into her basket.
“Have you got a photo of him?”
“Not on me. But he’s gorgeous. I want you to give a speech, by the way,” she adds blithely. “You’re chief-bridesmaid-slash-best-woman. And Ben’s best man is his friend Lorcan. It’ll just be the four of us at the ceremony.”
I stare at her in exasperation. I was planning to be tactful and go softly, softly, but I can’t. This is all too crazy.
“Lottie.” I plant a hand on the packet of stockings she was about to pick up. “Stop. And listen a moment. I know you don’t want to hear this, but you have to.” I wait until she reluctantly turns her eyes toward me. “You split up from Richard about five minutes ago. You were about to commit to him. You’d bought him an engagement ring. You said you loved him. Now you’re rushing off with some guy you barely know? Is this really a good idea?”
“Well, it’s a good thing I did split up from Richard! A very good thing!” Lottie is suddenly bristling like a cat. “I’ve done a lot of thinking, Fliss. And I’ve realized Richard was all wrong for me. All wrong! I need someone romantic. Someone who can feel. Someone who’ll put himself out there for me, you know? Richard’s a nice guy and I thought I loved him. But now I realize the truth: he’s limited.”
She spits out “limited” as though it’s the worst insult she can come up with.
“What do you mean, ‘limited’?” I can’t help feeling a bit defensive on Richard’s behalf.
“He’s narrow. He has no style. He’d never make some huge, reckless, wonderful gesture. He’d never come and find a girl after fifteen years and tell her that life was darkness without her and now he wants to turn on the switch.” Her chin juts defiantly and I give an inward grimace. Was that Ben’s line? He wanted to turn on the switch?
I mean, I do sympathize. I had a couple of terrible, misjudged rebound flings after Daniel and I separated. But I didn’t marry one of them.
“Look, Lottie.” I try a different tack. “I do understand. I know what it’s like. You’re hurt. You’re confused. An old boyfriend comes along out of the blue—of course you’re going to fall into bed with him. It’s natural. But why do you have to get married?”
“You’re wrong,” she retorts with a triumphant look. “You are so, so wrong, Fliss. I didn’t fall into bed with him. And I’m not going to. I’m saving myself for the honeymoon.”
She …
What?
Of all the things I was expecting to hear, it wasn’t this. I stare at Lottie blankly, unable to find an answer. Where is my sister and what has this man done with her?
“You’re saving yourself?” I echo at last. “But.… why? Is he Amish?” I suddenly fear the worst. “Is he from some kind of cult? Did he promise you enlightenment?”
Please don’t tell me she’s handed over all her money. Not again.
“Of course not!”
“So … why?”
“So I’ll have the hottest sex ever on my honeymoon night.” She grabs the stockings. “We know we’re good together, so why not save up for the moment? It’s our wedding night. It should be special. As special as it can possibly be.” She gives a sudden wriggle, as though she can’t contain herself. “And believe me, it will be. God, Fliss, he’s so hot. We can hardly keep our hands off each other. It’s like we’re eighteen again.”
I stare at her, all the pieces falling into place. Her shiny eyes make sense. The basket of underwear makes sense. She’s raring to go. This engagement is one great big session of fore-play. Why didn’t I realize this straightaway? She is drugged up—on lust. And not only lust, teenage lust. She has the same look about her as teenagers snogging at the bus stop, as though the rest of the world doesn’t exist. For a moment I feel a stab of envy. I wouldn’t mind disappearing into a bubble of teenage lust, quite frankly. But I have to stay rational here. I have to be the voice of reason.
“Lottie, listen.” I’m trying to speak slowly and clearly, to penetrate her trance. “You don’t have to get married. You could just take a hotel suite somewhere.”
“I want to get married!” Humming to herself, she chucks another expensive negligee into her basket, and I suppress a desire to scream. It’s all very well. But if she took off the lust goggles for one bloody moment, maybe she’d see how much this escapade is potentially going to end up costing her. A shed-load of underwear. A marriage. A honeymoon. A divorce. All for one epic night of shagging? Which she could have for free?
“I know what you’re thinking.” She looks up at me resentfully. “You could be happy for me.”
“I’m trying to be, I really am.” I rub my head. “But it makes no sense. You’re doing everything the wrong way round.”
“Am I?” She turns on me. “Who says so? Isn’t this the traditional way?”
“Lottie, you’re being ludicrous.” I’m starting to feel angry. “This is no way to start a marriage, OK? A marriage is a serious, legal thing—”
“I know!” She cuts me off. “And I want to make it work, and this is the way. I’m not stupid, Fliss.” She folds her arms. “I have thought about this, you know. My love life has been a disaster. It’s followed the same old pattern, with man after man. Sex. Love. No marriage. Over and over. Well, now I have a chance to do it differently! I’m reversing the strategy! Love. Marriage. Sex!”
“But it’s nuts!” I can’t help erupting. “The whole thing’s nuts! You must see that!”
“No, I don’t!” she retorts hotly. “I see a brilliant answer to the whole problem. It’s retro! It’s tried and tested! Did Queen Victoria have sex before she married Albert? And was their marriage a huge success? Did she love him desperately and build a great big memorial to him in Hyde Park? Exactly. Did Romeo and Juliet have sex before they got married?”
“But—”
“Did Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy have sex before they got married?” Her eyes flash at me as though this proves everything.
Oh, please. If she’s going to use Mr. Darcy to prop up her arguments, I give up.
“Fair enough,??
? I say at last. “You got me there. Mr. Darcy.”
I need to back off for now and come up with a different angle.
“So, who’s this Lorcan?” A new idea has come to me. “Who’s this best man of Ben’s you mentioned?”
Presumably Ben’s best friend won’t be any wilder than I am about this sudden, out-of-the-blue marriage. Maybe we can join forces.
“Dunno.” She waves vaguely. “Some old friend. Works with him.”
“Where?”
“The company’s called something like … Decree.”
“And what does Ben do, exactly?”
“Dunno.” She holds up a pair of knickers that untie at the back. “Something or other.”
I resist an urge to yell, You’re getting married to him and you don’t even know what he does?
I get out my BlackBerry and type in Ben—Lorcan—Decree?
“What’s Ben’s surname?”
“Parr. I’ll be Lottie Parr. Isn’t that lovely?”
Ben Parr.
I tap at my BlackBerry, peer at the screen, and do a fake gasp. “Oh goodness. I forgot all about that. Actually, Lottie, I’m not sure I’ve got time for lunch, after all. I’d better go. Have fun shopping.” I give her a hug. “Talk to you later. And … congratulations!”
My bright smile lasts all the way out of the underwear department. Before I’ve even got to the lifts, I’m on Google, typing Ben Parr. Ben Parr, my potential new brother-in-law. Who the hell is he?
By the time I get back to my office, I’ve Googled Ben Parr as extensively as I can manage on my phone, but I haven’t found any company called Decree, only a bunch of entries about a Ben Parr who does stand-up comedy. Badly, according to the reviews. Is that him?
Great. A failed stand-up. My favorite kind of brother-in-law.
At last I find an entry which mentions a Ben Parr in a news item about a paper company called Dupree Sanders. He has some made-up title like Strategic Overview Consultant. I type in Ben Parr Dupree Sanders, and a million new entries appear. Dupree Sanders is clearly a thing. A big company. Here’s the home page … and sure enough, a page pops up with his picture and a little bio, which I scan. Having worked with his father as a young man, Ben Parr was delighted to rejoin Dupree Sanders in 2011, in a strategic role … genuine passion for the business … Since his father’s death, he is even more dedicated to the future of the company.
I lean toward the screen and scan the photo intently, trying to get a sense of this man who is zooming like a torpedo toward being related to me. He’s good-looking, I’ll have to agree. Boyish-looking. Slim. Affable. Not sure about his mouth. It looks kind of weak.
After a bit, the pixels start to dance in front of my eyes, so I sit back and type in Lorcan Dupree Sanders.
A moment later another page pops up, with a photo of a very different-looking man. Dark, thrusting hair, black eyebrows, and a frown. Strong, slightly beaky nose. He looks fairly forbidding. Underneath the picture it says, Lorcan Adamson. Extension 310. Lorcan Adamson practiced law in London before joining Dupree Sanders in 2008 … responsible for many initiatives … developed the luxury stationery brand Papermaker … worked with the National Trust to expand the visitor center … committed to sustainable, responsible industry …
A lawyer. Let’s hope he’s the rational, reasonable type, not the arrogant asshole type. I dial the number, simultaneously clicking on my emails.
“Lorcan Adamson.” The voice that answers is so deep and gravelly, I drop my mouse in surprise. Surely that’s not a real voice. It sounds made up.
“Hello?” he says again, and I stifle a giggle. This guy has a film-trailer voice. It’s that deep-down rumbly, subwoofer voice you hear as you’re scarfing down popcorn, waiting for your movie to begin.
We thought the world was safe. We thought the universe was ours. Till THEY came.
“Hello?” The gravelly voice comes again.
In a desperate fight against time, one girl must break the code—
“Hi. Er … hi.” I try to assemble my thoughts. “Is this Lorcan Adamson?”
“It’s he.”
From Academy Award–winning director—
No. Stop, Fliss. Concentrate.
“Right. Right. Yes.” I hastily compose myself. “Well, I think we need to speak. My name is Felicity Graveney. My sister is called Lottie.”
“Ah.” There’s a sudden animation to his voice. “Well, excuse my French, but what the fuck is going on here? Ben just called me. Apparently he and your sister are getting married?”
Two things I pick up straightaway. First: he has a faint Scottish accent. Second: he’s not keen on the whole marriage idea either. Thank God. Another voice of reason.
“Exactly!” I say. “And you’re best man? I have no idea how this came about, but I was thinking maybe we could get together and—”
“And what? Plan the table decorations?” He talks right over me. “I have no idea how your sister talked Ben into this ridiculous plan, but I’m afraid I’m going to do everything I can to stop it, whether you and your sister like it or not.”
I stare at the phone. What did he say?
“I work with Ben, and this is a crucial time for him,” Lorcan presses on. “He can’t just zoom off on some ludicrous, spur-of-the-moment honeymoon. He has responsibilities. He has commitments. Now, I don’t know your sister’s motivation—”
“What?” I’m so outraged, I don’t know where to start.
“Excuse me?” He sounds puzzled that I’ve dared to interrupt. Oh, he’s one of those.
“OK, mister.” Instantly I feel stupid for saying “mister.” But too late now. Better plow on. “First of all, my sister didn’t talk anybody into anything. I think you’ll find your friend arrived out of the blue and bamboozled her into getting married. And, second, if you think I phoned you up to ‘plan the table decorations,’ you’re very much mistaken. I’m intending to put a stop to this marriage myself. With or without your help.”
“I see.” He sounds skeptical.
“Is Ben saying that Lottie talked him into it?” I demand. “Because if so, he’s lying.”
“Not as such,” says Lorcan after a pause. “But Ben can be … what shall we say? Easily swayed.”
“Easily swayed?” I retort furiously. “If anyone was doing any swaying, he was. My sister is at a low point, she’s very vulnerable, and she doesn’t need some chancer coming along.” I’m still half-expecting this Ben character to belong to some weirdo cult or time-share pyramid scheme. “I mean, what’s his job? I don’t know anything about him.”
“You don’t know his background.” Again he sounds skeptical. God, this guy is pissing me off.
“I know nothing except he met my sister on her gap year and they had a teenage shag-fest and now he says he’s always loved her and they’re planning to get married tomorrow and resume the teenage shag-fest. And he works for Dupree Sanders.”
“He owns Dupree Sanders,” Lorcan corrects me.
“What?” I say stupidly.
I don’t even know what Dupree Sanders is, exactly. I didn’t stop to check it out.
“As of his father’s death a year ago, Ben is the major shareholder in Dupree Sanders, a paper-manufacturing company worth thirty million pounds. And, for what it’s worth, his life has been complicated and he’s also pretty vulnerable.”
As I digest his words, a boiling hot fury starts to rise within me.
“You think my sister’s a gold digger?” I erupt. “That’s what you think?”
I have never been so insulted in all my life. The arrogant … conceited … shit. I’m breathing faster and faster, staring daggers at his screen face.
“I didn’t say that,” he counters calmly.
“Just listen to me, Mr. Adamson,” I say in my iciest tones. “Let’s look at the facts, shall we? Your precious friend talked my sister into a ridiculous, rushed marriage. Not the other way round. How do you know she isn’t an heiress worth even more? How do you know we’re no
t related to the … the Gettys?”
“Touché,” says Lorcan after a pause. “Are you?”
“Of course we’re not,” I say impatiently. “The point is, you jumped to conclusions. Surprising, for a lawyer.”
There’s another silence. I get the feeling I’ve needled him. Well, good.
“OK,” he says finally. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to imply anything about your sister. Maybe she and Ben are a match made in heaven. But that doesn’t change the fact that we have some very big stuff happening at the company. Ben needs to be available in the UK now. If he wants to go on honeymoon, he’ll have to do it later.”
“Or never,” I put in.
“Or never. Indeed.” Lorcan sounds amused. “You’re not a fan of Ben, then?”
“I’ve never even met him. But this has been a useful chat. It’s all I needed to know. Leave it with me. I’ll deal with it.”
“I’ll deal with it,” he contradicts me. “I’ll talk to Ben.”
God, this guy is winding me up. Who says he should be in charge?
“I’ll talk to Lottie,” I counter as authoritatively as I can. “I’ll fix it.”
“I’m sure that won’t be necessary.” He talks straight across me. “I’ll speak to Ben. The whole thing will be forgotten.”
“I’ll talk to Lottie,” I repeat, ignoring him. “And I’ll let you know when I’ve sorted everything out.”
There’s silence. Neither of us is going to concede, I can tell.
“Right,” says Lorcan at last. “Well, goodbye.”
“Goodbye.”
I put down the receiver, then grab my mobile and dial Lottie’s mobile. No more Ms. Nice Sister. I am stopping this marriage. Right here, right now.
6
FLISS
I can’t believe she’s ignored me for a full twenty-four hours. She’s got some nerve.
It’s the following afternoon, the wedding is due to start in an hour, and I still haven’t spoken to Lottie. She’s sidestepped my every call (approximately one hundred of them). But at the same time she’s managed to leave a whole series of messages on my phone, about the registry office and the restaurant and meeting for pre-wedding drinks at Bluebird. A purple satin bridesmaid’s dress arrived at my office at lunchtime by bike. A poem arrived by email, along with a request for me to read it aloud during the ceremony: It will make our day so special!