I stare at the diary, seething gently, then force myself to turn over a few pages. I can’t wallow in some fifteen-year-old argument. I need to skip ahead. I need to get to Ben. As I turn the pages, skimming the text, I almost feel like I’m on her gap-year journey with her: first to Paris and then to the South of France, then Italy, all in bite-size snippets. It’s kind of addictive.
… think I might move to Paris when I’m older … ate too many croissants, urgh, God, I’m fat, I’m hideous … this guy called Ted who’s at university and REALLY COOL … he’s really into existentialism … I should get into that, he said I was a natural …
… AMAZING sunset … drank too many rum-and-Cokes … really REALLY sunburned … slept with this guy called Pete, shouldn’t have … made this plan to move to the South of France when we’re all like thirty …
… I WISH I spoke Italian better. This is where I want to live, forever. It’s AMAZING … ate too many gelati, urgh, my legs are hideous … leaving for Greece tomorrow …
… this place is INCREDIBLE … amazing party atmosphere, like we all just GET each other … I could LIVE on feta … diving in these underwater caves … this guy called Ben … picnic with some of the guys and Ben … slept with Ben … AMAZING …
“Lottie?” A male voice interrupts my concentration, and I start so violently the diary flies up into the air. I make an instinctive grab for it, then realize that’s incriminating, so I draw my hand away sharply and it falls on the floor, where I kick it away, then finally lift my head.
“Richard?”
He’s standing in the doorway in a raincoat, his hair disheveled and a suitcase in his hand. His face is agitated, and he’s definitely looking more young Gordon Brown than young Pierce Brosnan.
“Where’s Lottie?” he demands.
“I’m here for security,” I mumble hurriedly, my face blazing with shame and my eyes darting to the diary. “Security.”
Richard looks at me as though I’m making no sense at all. Which, to be fair, I’m not.
“Where’s Lottie?” he demands again, more forcefully. “What’s wrong? I go to her work, no one will tell me where she is. I come here, you’re sitting on her bed. Just tell me.” He drops his suitcase. “Is she ill?”
“Ill?” I almost want to laugh hysterically. “No, not ill. Richard, what are you doing here?”
His case has an airline tag on it. He must have come straight from the airport in a dashing, romantic manner. I feel quite sad that Lottie isn’t here to see it.
“I made a mistake. A bad mistake.” He strides to the window and stares out a moment, then darts me a look. “I don’t know how much she tells you.”
“A fair amount,” I say diplomatically.
I don’t think he’ll want to hear that she’s told me absolutely everything, including his penchant for doing it blindfolded and her penchant for sexy toys, which she’s terrified the cleaner will find.
“Well, we split up,” he says heavily. “A few weeks ago.”
No kidding.
“Yes, I heard that.” I nod. “She was very upset.”
“Well, so was I!” He wheels round, breathing hard. “It came out of nowhere! I thought we were happy together. I thought she was happy.”
“She was happy! But she couldn’t see where things were heading.”
“You mean …” He hesitates for a long time. “Marriage.”
I feel a flick of irritation. I’m not such a huge fan of marriage myself, but he doesn’t need to look quite so unenthusiastic.
“It’s not such an outlandish idea,” I point out. “It is what people do when they love each other.”
“Well, I know, but …” He makes a face, as though we’re talking about some freaky hobby pursued by people on freaky reality shows. Now I’m starting to feel furious. If he’d just manned up and bloody well proposed in the first place, none of this would have happened.
“What do you want, Richard?” I ask abruptly.
“I want Lottie. I want to talk to her. I want to get things back on track. She wouldn’t return my calls or my emails. So I told my new boss I had to come back to England.” There’s a throb of pride in his voice. He clearly reckons he’s made the supreme gesture.
“And what are you going to say to her?”
“That we belong together,” he says steadily. “That I love her. That we can work things out. That maybe marriage is a possibility, down the line.”
Maybe marriage is a possibility down the line. Wow. He really knows how to woo a girl.
“Well, I’m afraid you’re too late.” I feel a sweet, sadistic pleasure at saying the words. “She’s married.”
“What?” Richard frowns blankly, clearly unable to process my words.
“She’s married.”
“What do you mean, she’s married?” He still looks baffled.
For God’s sake, what does he bloody think I mean?
“She’s married! She’s taken! In fact, she’s just flown off on her honeymoon to Ikonos.” I check my watch. “She’s in the air right now.”
“What?” A thunderous scowl buries itself in his forehead. Definitely Gordon. He’ll throw his laptop at me in a minute. “How can she be married? What the fuck are you talking about?”
“She split up with you, practically had a nervous breakdown, met up with an old flame, who proposed on the spot, and said yes because she was in shock and desperately miserable and fancies him rotten. That’s what I’m talking about.” I glare at him. “Get it?”
“But … but who is he?”
“Her gap-year boyfriend. She hadn’t seen him for fifteen years. First love, all that.”
He’s gazing at me suspiciously. I can see the cogs of his brain working, the realization dawning: this isn’t a windup. I’m telling the truth. She’s married.
“Fucking … fuck.” He bangs both fists to his forehead.
“Yup. That’s how I feel about it too.”
There’s a dejected silence. A light flurry of rain patters against the window, and I wrap my arms around myself. Now that the exhilaration of punishing Richard has ebbed away, all I can feel is sore and miserable. What a mess.
“Well.” He exhales. “I guess that’s it.”
“I guess so.” I shrug. I’m not going to share my plans with him. The last thing I need is him interfering or offering stupid suggestions. My priority is to get Lottie off the hook with Ben, for her own sake. If Richard wants to make some fresh salvo afterward, that’s up to him.
“So … what do you know about this guy?” Richard suddenly emerges from his trance. “What’s he called?”
“Ben.”
“Ben.” He repeats the word suspiciously. “I’ve never heard her talk about a Ben.”
“Well.” I shrug again.
“I mean, I know about her other old boyfriends. Jamie. And Seamus. And what’s-his-name. The accountant.”
“Julian,” I can’t help supplying.
“Exactly. But she’s never even mentioned a Ben.” Richard’s eyes rake the room, as though he’s trying to find clues, then they fall on her diary, which is lying half open on the ground. He lifts his gaze to me incredulously.
“Were you reading her diary?”
Damn. I should have known Richard would pick up on that. He always notices more than you think he will. Lottie used to say he’s like a lion half asleep under a tree, but I think he’s more like a bull: one minute peacefully grazing; the next charging, head down.
“I wasn’t exactly reading it.” I try to stay poised. “I was just doing a little research about this Ben.”
Richard’s eyes focus on me alertly. “What did you find out?”
“Nothing much. I’ve only just got to the bit where they met on Ikonos—” He makes a sudden grab for the diary. With a lightning reaction, I reach for it too and seize a corner. We’re both gripping it, trying to pull it out of the other’s grasp. He’s far stronger than I am, but I’m not letting him have her diary. There are limits.
“I can’t believe you’d read your sister’s diary,” says Richard, trying to wrench it out of my fingers.
“I can’t believe you’d read your girlfriend’s diary,” I retort breathlessly. “Give. Give.”
At last I manage to yank it away from him and cradle it protectively in my arms.
“I deserve to know.” Richard is glowering at me. “If Lottie’s chosen this guy over me, I deserve to know who he is.”
“OK,” I snap. “I’ll read you out a bit. Be patient.”
I flip through the pages again, fast-forwarding through France and Italy to Ikonos. OK. Here we are. Pages and pages full of the word “Ben.” Ben this. Ben that. Ben, Ben, Ben.
“She met him at this guest house they were all staying in.”
“The guest house on Ikonos?” Richard’s face jerks in recognition. “But she’s told me about that place a million times. The place with the steps? Where they had the fire and she saved everyone? I mean, that place changed her life. She always says it’s the place where she became the person she is today. She has a photo of it somewhere.…” He looks around the room, then jabs a finger. “Here.”
We both survey the framed picture of Lottie in a swing seat, dressed in a tiny frilly white skirt and a bikini top, with a flower behind her ear. She looks thin and young and radiant.
“She’s never said anything about a guy called Ben,” says Richard slowly. “Not once.”
“Ah.” I bite my lip. “Well, perhaps she was being selective.”
“I see.” He falls into her desk chair, his face moody. “Go on, then.”
I survey Lottie’s handwriting again. “Basically, they checked each other out on the beach … then there was a party and they got it together—”
“Read it,” he interrupts. “Don’t summarize.”
“Are you sure?” I raise my eyebrows at Richard. “You’re sure you want to hear this?”
“Read it.”
“OK. Here goes.” I draw a breath and choose a paragraph at random.
Watched Ben waterskiing this morning. God, he’s cool. He plays the harmonica and he’s so brown. Had sex all afternoon on the boat, no tan lines, ha-ha. Bought more scented candles and massage oil for tonight. All I want is to be with Ben and have sex with Ben forever. I will never love anyone else like this. NEVER.
I fall into silence, feeling uncomfortable. “She’d kill me if she knew I’d read you that.”
Richard doesn’t reply. He looks stricken.
“It was fifteen years ago,” I say awkwardly. “She was eighteen. That’s what you write in your diary when you’re eighteen.”
“D’you think …” He pauses. “D’you think she’s ever written anything like that about me?”
Alarm bells start clanging in my head. Uh-oh. No way. Not going there.
“I have no idea!” I clap the book shut briskly. “It’s different. Everything’s different when you grow up. Sex is different, love is different, cellulite is very different.” I’m trying to lighten the atmosphere, but Richard doesn’t even seem to hear. He’s staring at the photo of Lottie, his brow furrowed so deeply I think it might cave in. The sudden sound of the doorbell makes us both start, and as we meet eyes I can tell we’ve both had the same crazy thought: Lottie?
Richard strides into the narrow hall, and I follow, my heart pounding. He throws open the door and I peer in disappointment at a thin, elderly man.
“Ah, Mr. Finch,” he says in querulous tones. “Is Charlotte at home? Because, despite her promises, she has done no work on the roof terrace at all. It’s still an absolute mess.”
The roof terrace. Even I know about the roof terrace. Lottie rang me up to tell me she was totally getting into gardening and had ordered loads of cute gardening accessories, and she was going to design an urban potager.
“Now, I’m a reasonable man,” the man is saying, “but a promise is a promise, and we have all contributed to the plant fund, and I really feel this is—”
“She’ll do it, OK?” Richard pushes forward, his voice thundering so loudly that the light fittings practically tremble. “She’s planning a great project. She’s creative. These things take time. So back off!”
The elderly man recoils in alarm, and I raise my eyebrows at Richard. Wow. I wouldn’t mind someone fighting in my corner like that once in a while.
Also: I was right. He’s definitely a bull, not a lion. If he were a lion, he would even now be stalking Ben with stealthy patience through the undergrowth. Richard’s too straightforward to do that. He’d rather charge furiously at the nearest target, even if it means a thousand teacups broken in the process. So to speak.
The door closes and we look at each other uncertainly, as though the interruption has changed the air.
“I should go,” says Richard abruptly, and buttons up his raincoat.
“You’re going back to San Francisco?” I say in dismay. “Just like that?”
“Of course.”
“But what about Lottie?”
“What about her? She’s married and I wish her every happiness.”
“Richard …” I wince, not knowing what to say.
“They were Romeo and Juliet and now they’ve found each other again. Makes total sense. Good luck to them.”
He’s upset, I realize. Really upset. His jaw is taut and his gaze is distant. Oh God, I feel terrible now. I shouldn’t have read her diary out. I simply wanted to shock him out of his complacency.
“They aren’t Romeo and Juliet,” I say firmly. “Look, Richard, if you really want to know, they’re both having complete fuckwit meltdowns. Lottie hasn’t been thinking straight since you and she split up, and apparently this Ben is having his own midlife crisis.… Richard, listen. Please.” I put a hand on his arm and wait till he gives me his attention. “The marriage won’t last. I’m pretty sure of that.”
“How can you be pretty sure?” He scowls as though he hates me for even raising his hopes.
“I just have a feeling,” I say mysteriously. “Call it sisterly intuition.”
“Well, whatever.” He shrugs. “That’ll be a way down the line.” He heads back into the bedroom and picks up his suitcase.
“No, it won’t!” I hurry after him and grab his shoulder to make him stop. “I mean … it might be sooner than you think. Much sooner. The point is, if I were you, I wouldn’t give up. I’d hang fire and see.”
Richard is silent a few moments, clearly fighting his own hopes. “When exactly did they get married?” he asks suddenly.
“This morning.” I wince inwardly as I realize how crap his timing was. If only he’d arrived one day earlier …
“So tonight’s their—” He breaks off as though he can’t bear to say it.
“Wedding night. Yes. Yes, I suppose it is.” I pause and examine my nails, my face carefully blank, my demeanor innocent. “Well. Who knows how that will go?”
10
LOTTIE
I can’t stand it. I can’t stand it any longer. I’m going to be the first person who ever died from sexual frustration.
I can remember long, unbearable waits as a child. Waiting for pocket money. Waiting for my birthday. Waiting for Christmas. But I’ve never had a wait as nightmarish as this. It’s been absolute torture. Five hours, four hours, three hours to go … All through the plane journey and the car ride from the airport, I’ve been silently chanting, Soon … soon … soon … It’s the only way to keep sane. Ben keeps fondling my leg. He’s staring straight ahead, breathing evenly. I can tell he’s as pent up as I am.
And now it’s just minutes to go. The hotel is half a kilometer away. The driver is turning off the main road. The closer we get, the less I can bear it. These last moments of delay are killing me. All I want is Ben.
I’m trying to look around and show an interest in our surroundings, but it’s only road and scrubby hills and garish billboards for Greek drinks with unfamiliar names. The airport is on the other side of the island from the guest house we stayed at
all those years ago. I probably never even came here. So I’m not having any reminiscences or recognizing anything. I’m just feeling desperate.
Soon … soon … soon … We’ll be in our massive honeymoon suite bed, and our clothes will be lying on the floor, and we’ll be facing each other, skin-to-skin, nothing to stop us, and finally, finally …
“The Amba Hotel,” the driver announces with a proud flourish, and leaps out to open our doors.
As I get out of the car, the warm Greek air seems to bathe my shoulders. I look around, taking in a huge white-pillared entrance, four marble lions, and a series of fountains crashing into an ornamental pond. Bougainvillea is falling in vivid pink cascades from balconies to the left and right. Candles are flickering in massive hurricane lanterns. I can hear the chirp of evening crickets as well as the distant strains of a string quartet. This place is spectacular.
As we head up the shallow marble steps, I feel a sudden wave of euphoria. This is going to be perfect. The perfect, perfect honeymoon. I squeeze Ben’s arm.
“Isn’t this amazing?”
“Stunning.” He slides a hand around my waist and up under my top to my bra catch.
“Don’t! This is a posh hotel!” I jerk away, even though my whole body is longing for him to keep going. “We have to wait.”
“I can’t wait.” His darkened eyes meet mine.
“Nor can I.” I swallow. “I’m dying.”
“I’m dying more.” His fingers move down to the waistband of my skirt. “Don’t tell me you’re wearing anything under that.”
“Not a stitch,” I murmur.
“Jesus.” He makes a low, growling noise. “OK, we’re going to get our room key, and we’re going to lock the door, and—”
“Mr. and Mrs. Parr?” A voice interrupts us and I look up to see a short, dark man in a suit approaching us swiftly down the steps. His shoes are very shiny, and as he gets nearer I see a badge that reads NICO DEMETRIOU, VIP MANAGER. In one hand is a massive bouquet of flowers, which he proffers to me. “Madame. Welcome to the Amba Hotel. We are delighted to welcome you. You are on honeymoon, I understand!”