Wedding Night
A rubber dinghy full of children pulls near us, then bobs away again. And still Lorcan doesn’t speak. I think I’m going to have to do this for him.
“Let me guess,” I say gently. “In no particular order: You realize I was right. You find this difficult. You’d like to talk about it sometime. You’re wondering what you’re doing here, chasing after Ben, when he’s betraying everything you hold dear. You’re suddenly looking at your life in a different way and thinking that things need to change.” I pause. “And you wish you’d brought your swimming trunks.”
There’s another long silence. A tiny muscle is working in Lorcan’s cheek, and I feel apprehensive. Did I go too far?
“Close,” he says at last. “But you missed out a couple.” He takes a step through the sea, the water washing around his legs. “No one’s ever understood things like you. No one’s ever challenged me like you. You were right about Ben. You were right about my website photo. I went to have another look, and you know what I saw?” He pauses. “Who the hell are you? What are you looking at? I haven’t got time for this.”
I can’t help smiling.
“And you’re right: Dupree Sanders is not my company,” he continues, his jaw tightening. “Maybe I wish it was, but it’s not. If Ben really wants to sell, he should sell. Zhernakov will close the whole operation down within six months, but so be it. Nothing lasts forever.”
“Won’t you feel bitter if that happens?” I can’t help pushing him. “You put so much into it.”
“Maybe.” He nods seriously. “For a while. But even bitterness fades away eventually. We both have to believe that. Don’t we?” He meets my eyes, and I feel a wave of empathy for him. Emotional investment—it’s the hardest game of the lot.
“You were wrong on one thing, though,” Lorcan adds with sudden energy. “Completely wrong. I’m glad I didn’t bring my swimming trunks.”
With that, he peels off his jacket and tosses it toward the shore. It lands on the waves, and Noah dives for it joyously.
“Here!” He holds it aloft. “I got it!” He goggles in delight as Lorcan takes off one shoe, then the other, tossing them toward the shore too. “They’ve sunk! Your shoes have sunk!”
“Noah, can you dive down for Lorcan’s shoes,” I say, giggling, “and put them on the beach? I think he’s going to swim in his underpants.”
“Underpants!” yells Noah. “Underpants!”
“Underpants.” Lorcan grins at him. “It’s the only way.”
28
LOTTIE
I can see the tiny figures of swimmers bobbing around in the sea as I gaze back to shore. The late-afternoon sun is casting long shadows on the beach. Children are screaming and couples are embracing and families are playing together. And I suddenly wish with all my heart I was one of them. People on simple holidays, without complicated lives, without flaky, self-centered husbands, without disastrous decisions they have to unpick.
I hated the yacht the minute we got on board. Yachts are awful. Everything is clad in white leather and I’m terrified of making a mark, and Yuri Zhernakov just ran a glance over me as though to say, No, you won’t make the cut as my fifth wife. I was instantly banished to the company of two Russian women with plumped-up lips and boobs. They’re so puffed up with silicone they make me think of balloon animals, and they have made no conversation except “Which limited-edition designer compact are you examining your reflection in?”
Mine’s Body Shop, so that didn’t go very far.
I sip my mojito and wait for my worries to drown in it. But instead of sputtering and fading, they’re circling my brain, bigger and bigger. Everything’s a catastrophe. Everything’s terrible. I want to cry, I realize. But I can’t cry. I’m on a super-yacht. I’ve got to be sparkling and bright and somehow increase my cleavage.
I lean over the rail of the deck I’m standing on and wonder how far it is down to the sea. Could I jump?
No. I might hurt myself.
God knows where Ben is. He’s been unbearable ever since we arrived here, showing off and preening and telling Yuri Zhernakov about fifteen times how he’s planning to buy a yacht himself.
My hand steals into my pocket. There’s a thought that’s been sitting in my brain like a very patient person who isn’t going to give up. The same, simple thought. It’s been there for hours now. I could call Richard. I could call Richard. I’ve been ignoring it and ignoring it, but now I can’t remember all the reasons why it’s a bad idea. It seems like an exciting idea. A joyful idea. I could just call him. Now.