Wedding Night

hand and squeeze it tight. “You’ve got me now,” I say softly. “Tell me stuff.”
    He squeezes my hand back and our eyes are locked. For a moment I feel totally connected to him. Then two waiters come to clear our canapé plates; we release hands and the spell is broken.
    “Strange honeymoon, huh?” I say wryly.
    “I don’t know. I’m starting to enjoy it.”
    “Me too.” I can’t help laughing. “I’m almost
glad
it’s been so weird. At least we won’t forget it.”
    And I mean it. If we hadn’t had all the bedroom disasters, maybe we wouldn’t have had this drink and I might never have found out these things about Ben. It’s funny how things work out. I entwine my leg around Ben’s under the table and start working my toe up his thigh in my signature maneuver, but he shakes his head vigorously.
    “No,” he says shortly. “Uh-uh. Can’t stand it. Too horny.”
    “How on earth will you survive the couple’s massage, then?” I tease him.
    “By telling them to keep it to ten minutes flat and then leave us alone in utter privacy,” he replies seriously. “I’m prepared to tip heavily.”
    “An hour to go.” I glance at my watch. “I wonder what kind of oil they use?”
    “Change the subject from oil.” He looks strained. “Give a man a break.”
    I can’t help laughing. “OK, here’s a new subject. When shall we go and visit the guest house? Tomorrow?”
    I’m half excited, half terrified about visiting the guest house. It’s where we met. It’s where the fire happened. It’s where my life changed. It’s where
everything
happened. All at one little guest house, fifteen years ago.
    “Tomorrow.” Ben nods. “You have to do cartwheels along the beach for me.”
    “I will.” I smile at him. “And you have to dive off that rock.”
    “And then we’ll find that cave we used to go in …”
    We’re both hazy-eyed and smiling, lost in memories.
    “You used to wear those tiny tie-dyed shorts,” says Ben. “They drove me wild.”
    “I brought them with me,” I confess.
    “You didn’t!” His eyes light up.
    “I’ve kept them, all this time.”
    “You
angel
.”
    I grin wickedly back at him, feeling my desire rocket. Oh God. How am I going to wait an hour? How can I fill the time?
    “I’m going to let Fliss know how we got on.” I reach for my phone and type a quick text:
    Guess what? WE WON!!!! All going brilliantly. Ben and I make a fab team. Totally happy.
    I can’t help smiling as I type. She won’t believe her eyes! In fact, I hope the news cheers her up a bit. She sounded hassled before. I wonder what’s going on. On impulse, I add to my text:
    Hope u r having a lovely day too. Everything OK?? L xxx

16

FLISS
    There’s nothing wrong with Sofia, Bulgaria. It’s a great city. I’ve been here many times before. It boasts beautiful churches and interesting museums and an outdoor book market. However, it is not where I want to be standing at six in the evening, hot, sweaty, and harassed, waiting for my baggage at the carousel,
when I should be on the Greek island of Ikonos
.
    The only plus point of the situation: I can’t blame Daniel. Not this time. This one is firmly fate/act of God. (Thanks a lot, God. Is this because of what I said in religious studies class, age eleven? I was
joking
.) Although I’d actually like to blame Daniel right now. More specifically, I’d like to kick him. Failing that, I may well kick my baggage trolley.
    The crowd around the carousel is five deep. There are people waiting for luggage from several flights, and no one is in a good mood, least of all my fellow passengers from Flight 637 to Ikonos. Not many smiles. Not a lot of jolly banter.
    Sofia, bloody Bulgaria. I
mean
.
    Years of traveling for work have made me fairly Zen about airlines and delays and cock-ups, but I must say, this cock-up is of epic proportions. We couldn’t just land, wave the poor old lady off to hospital, and then efficiently resume our journey. Oh no. Her luggage needed to be found, and then there was a problem getting a takeoff slot, and then it turned out something had gone wrong with an engine. The upshot is an unscheduled overnight stay in Sofia. We’re being put up at the City Heights Hotel. (Not bad, four stars, great rooftop bar, as I remember.)
    “That’s ours!” yells Noah for the fifty-first time. He’s tried to claim nearly every black suitcase that has appeared on the carousel, despite the fact that ours has a distinctive red