Wedding Night

His face has twisted into a familiar disgruntled expression. I’ve already heard several rants about how Lorcan’s a control freak and how Lorcan’s a cynical user and once, randomly, how Lorcan’s a bad Ping-Pong player. I’m not wild to hear another one, so I hastily move the conversation on.

“So you’ll give up work completely?” This seems like a bad idea to me—although who cares what I think? I’m only the soon-to-be ex-wife.

“Of course I won’t give up,” says Ben, looking a little stung. “Yuri says he’ll keep me on as special adviser. We’ll start some new projects together. Play around with some ideas. Yuri’s a great guy. Want to see his yacht?”

“Of course I do.” I might as well milk the benefits of being his wife while I can. “And after that? What about you and lover-girl?” I nod sharply toward the guest house, and a look of contrition comes over Ben’s face.

“I don’t know what happened. I’m sorry.” He shakes his head ruefully. “It was like Sarah and I were suddenly eighteen again; all the memories came flooding back.…”

“It’s OK,” I say, relenting. “I know. It was the same for us, remember?”

I can’t believe how much damage has been done, just from teenage loves meeting again. People should never come into contact with their first loves, I decide. There should be some official form of quarantine. The rule should be: you break up with your teenage lover and that’s it. One of you has to emigrate.

“I don’t mind what you do with her,” I say. “Knock yourself out. Have your fun.”

He stares at me. “Seriously? But … we’re married.”

If there’s one thing I’m not, it’s a hypocrite.

“Maybe we are on paper,” I say. “Maybe we signed papers and exchanged rings. But you didn’t really commit to me, and I didn’t really commit to you. Not properly. Not thoughtfully.” I give a gusty sigh. “We never even dated properly. I don’t see how I can have any hold over you.”

“Wow.” He looks incredulous. “Lottie, you’re amazing. You’re the most generous … broad-minded … you’re awesome.”

“Whatever.” I shrug.

For a while I’m silent. I might be keeping it together in front of Ben, but inside I feel battered by everything. I want to fall on someone’s shoulder and wail. Everything I thought is upside down. My marriage is over. I started the fire. Fail, fail, fail.

I sit there, my entire body twisted in tension. I feel like my brain is a confused, whirling cloud, with only a few tiny rays of clarity. Like little nudges pushing me in a certain direction. The thing is …

Here’s the thing. Ben is very hot. And good in the sack. And I am absolutely desperate. And maybe it would help me briefly forget how I nearly killed twenty innocent students.

Ben is quiet too, staring out over the arid olive grove, and at last he turns to me with a new glint in his eye.

“Just had an idea,” he says.

“Me too, actually,” I say.

“First and final shag? For old times’ sake?”

“My thoughts exactly. But not here.” I wrinkle my nose. “The mattresses were always gross.”

“Back at the hotel?”

“Sounds good.” I nod, feeling a tingle of excitement rise through me, like a bit of comfort in this whole sorry mess. We deserve this. We need this. First, it will be closure, and, second, it will distract me from my throbbing aching heart, and, third, I’ve been wanting to do this for nearly three weeks and I am going to go mad if we don’t.

If we’d simply shagged each other senseless when we first met up, none of this would have happened. There’s a lesson there, somewhere.

“I’ll tell Sarah we’re off and say our goodbyes.” Ben heads inside the guest house.

As soon as he’s gone, I pull out my phone. Just then, as Ben was talking, I had a weird, psychic-type flash about Richard. It was as though I could sense him thinking about me, somewhere in the world. It was so vivid that I’m actually expecting to see Richard’s name in my phone. My fingers are fumbling as I press the keys, my heart thudding with sudden hope.

But of course there’s nothing. No call, no message, nothing, even after I’ve scrolled through twice. I’m being idiotic. Why would there be? Richard’s in San Francisco, busy with his new life. I may miss him, but he doesn’t miss me.

My spirits crash back down so heavily, I feel tears stinging my eyes again. Why am I even thinking about Richard? He’s gone. Gone. He’s not going to text me. He’s not going to call me. Let alone fly across the world to declare his undying love and say he wants to marry me after all (my secret, stupid, never-going-to-happen fantasy).