Another round of margaritas. This fellow can certainly hold his drink. N
Nico’s been keeping me updated all evening with every development. His latest four texts have been reports on all the complimentary cocktails that Lottie and Ben have consumed. It’s an eye-watering amount. They started drinking at ten, local time. It’s midnight there now. Lottie has to be blotto.
But what about Ben? I pause a moment, tapping my phone thoughtfully against my palm. Something Lorcan said about Ben is coming back to me: He’s a natural gambler but he lacks judgment.
A natural gambler. Hmm. I fire a text back to Nico:
He likes to gamble.…
I’ll leave it at that. Nico will know what to do with the information.
I press send, then briskly shut my suitcase, trying to calm my unsettled mind. But conflicting thoughts are shooting back and forth like arrows, each landing with a piercing little stab:
I’m sabotaging my sister’s honeymoon. I’m a horrible person.
But it’s only because I care about her happiness.
Exactly.
Exactly!
I mean, what if I decided not to interfere and she got pregnant and they split up and she regretted the whole thing? What then? Wouldn’t I regret NOT doing something? Would I be like the people who kept their heads down and pretended not to see when the Nazis invaded?
Not that Ben is a Nazi. As far as I know.
I feel bad about the whole Teletubbies thing. That was cruel. Lottie’s almost phobic about that program.
I wheel my suitcase out to the hall and put it next to Noah’s. He’s asleep in his room, clasping Monkey and breathing peacefully, and I pop in for a moment to watch him. He took the news of our trip with utter calmness and went straightaway to pack his little case, asking only how many pairs of pants he needed. He’s going to run the world one day, Noah.
I head into the bathroom and run a bath, sloshing in one of the many duty-free bath fragrances cluttering my bathroom. I shop almost exclusively at airports, I’ve realized. I try on clothes before boarding and pick them up on my return. I pick up Clarins sets on the plane. I have enough cured Spanish sausage and hunks of Parmesan to last me a year. And Toblerones.
I hesitate. I have Toblerone on my mind now. A Toblerone in the bath, with a glass of wine …
After only a millisecond’s internal debate, I head to the treats cupboard in the kitchen. Six outsize Toblerones are nestling next to a ridiculously large duty-free box of Ferrero Rocher chocolates, which I give to Noah three at a time, every Saturday. He thinks they come in threes. It has never occurred to him that they might be available in quantities larger than three.
I’m just cracking off a chunk of Toblerone when my phone rings and I pick it up, wondering if it might be Nico. But the display reads: Lottie.
Lottie? I’m so shocked, I drop the Toblerone on the floor. I’m staring at the phone, my heart suddenly thumping, my thumb hesitating over the answer button. I don’t want to answer. Anyway, I’ve left it too late: it’s gone to voicemail. I put my phone down on the counter in relief, but almost at once it starts ringing again. Lottie.
I swallow hard. I’m going to have to do this. Otherwise I’ll only have to call her back, which might be worse. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and press answer.
“Lottie! You’re supposed to be on honeymoon!” I aim for a bright, innocent tone. “What are you doing, ringing me?”
“Fliiissss?”
I perform an instant analysis on her voice. She’s drunk. Well, I knew that. But she’s tearful too. Most important, she has no idea I am involved in anything untoward, or it wouldn’t be “Fliiissss?” with a question mark.
“What’s up?” I say lightly.
“Fliss, I don’t know what to do!” she wails. “Ben’s totally drunk. Like, almost passed out. How do I sober him up? What do I do? Haven’t you got some magic cure?”
I do in fact have a tried and tested formula, involving black coffee, ice cubes, and deodorant squirted in the nostrils. But I’m not sharing that with her right now.
“Gosh,” I say sympathetically. “Poor you. I … I don’t know what to suggest. Maybe some coffee?”
“He can’t even sit up! He drank all these stupid cocktails, and I had to help him up to our room, and then he just crashed out on the bed and it’s supposed to be our wedding night.”
“Oh no!” I try to sound shocked. “So haven’t you even—”
“No! We haven’t!”
I can’t help exhaling with relief. I was worried they might have slipped in a quick one without anyone knowing.
“We haven’t done anything,” Lottie wails in distress. “And I know you recommended this hotel, Fliss, but, quite frankly, it’s awful! I’m going to complain! They’ve ruined our honeymoon. We’ve got single beds! They say they can’t move them! I’m sitting on a single bed right now!” Her voice shrills higher. “Single beds! In a honeymoon suite!”