Wedding Night
Page 67
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“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!”
He’s ushering us through the large glass doors into a massive domed lobby. It has a marble floor and a sunken pool in which are floating little candles. Low music is playing and there’s a wonderful musky scent in the air.
“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!”
He’s ushering us through the large glass doors into a massive domed lobby. It has a marble floor and a sunken pool in which are floating little candles. Low music is playing and there’s a wonderful musky scent in the air.
