Wedding Night

I … It’s so painful.…” I cast around desperately. “Could we try tantric sex?”
    “
Tantric
sex?” Ben sounds contemptuous.
    “Well, it works for Sting.” I feel near tears of disappointment.
    “Is your mouth sore?” says Ben, a note of hope in his voice.
    “Yes, I got oil on my lips. They’re really smarting.” I catch his drift. “Sorry.”
    Ben unhooks his leg from mine and slumps onto the bed, his shoulders hunched. Despite everything, I can’t help feeling relieved that he’s not chafing against me anymore. It was sheer torture.
    For a while we just sit there in stony misery. My flesh is still swollen and vivid red. I must look like an overgrown glacé cherry. A tear rolls down my cheek, then another.
    He hasn’t even asked me if my allergy is dangerous. I mean, not that it is, but still. He isn’t exactly concerned, is he? The first time Richard saw me react to peanuts, he wanted to drive me to the ER right then. And he’s always scrupulous about checking menus and the boxes of ready meals. He’s really thoughtful—
    “Lottie.” Ben’s voice makes me jump a mile with guilt. How can I be thinking about my ex-boyfriend when I’m on my honeymoon?
    “Yes?” I turn quickly, in case he guessed my thoughts. “Just thinking about … nothing in particular …”
    “I’m sorry.” Ben spreads his hands in a frank gesture. “I didn’t mean it, but I’m so desperate for you.”
    “Me too.”
    “It’s just bad luck.”
    “We seem to be having more than our fair share of bad luck,” I say ruefully. “How can one couple have such a catalog of disasters?”
    “Less ‘honeymoon,’ ” he quips, “more ‘horrormoon.’ ”
    I smile at his feeble joke, feeling mollified. At least he’s making an effort.
    “Maybe it’s fate,” I say, not really meaning it, but Ben seizes on this idea.
    “Maybe you’re right. Think about it, Lottie. We’re going back to the guest house tomorrow. We’re returning to the place we first got it together. Maybe
that’s
where we’re meant to consummate our marriage.”
    “It would be pretty romantic.” This idea is growing on me. “We could find the same spot in that little cave.”
    “You still remember?”
    “I’ll always remember that night,” I say in heartfelt tones. “It’s one of my all-time great memories.”
    “Well, maybe we can top it,” says Ben, his good humor restored. “How long will you be out of action?”
    “Dunno.” I glance down at my lobster skin. “It’s a pretty bad reaction. Probably till tomorrow.”
    “OK. So we press
pause
. Agreed?”
    “Agreed,” I say gratefully. “We are hereby pressing
pause
.”
    “And tomorrow will be
play
.”
    “And then
rewind
and
play
again.” I grin wickedly at him. “And again. And again.”
    I can tell, we’re both cheered by this plan. We sit gazing out to sea, and I feel myself gradually soothed by the repetitive noise of the surf, punctuated by the cry of birds and, far away, the throb of music coming from the main beach. A band is playing there tonight. Maybe we’ll wander over in a while, drink a cocktail, and have a listen.
    It feels as if we’ve made our peace. As we’re sitting there, Ben carefully extends his arm behind me, then bends it round as though to cradle my back, without actually touching. It’slike a ghost embrace. My skin prickles mildly in response, but I don’t mind. All my resentment has faded away; in fact, I can’t think why it was there at all.
    “Tomorrow,” he says. “No peanut oil. No butlers. No harps. Just us.”
    “Just us.” I nod. Maybe Ben’s right: maybe we were supposed to do it at the guest house all along. “I love you,” I add impulsively. “Even more because of this.”
    “I feel the same way.” He gives me that lopsided smile and my heart swells. And suddenly I feel almost euphoric, despite my stinging skin and frustrated libido and a cricked ankle from climbing on the rocks. Because, after all, here we are, back on Ikonos, after all these years. And tomorrow we come full circle. Tomorrow we return to the most important place of our lives: the guest house. The place where we found love and experienced seismic events and changed our destinies forever.
    Ben holds out his hand as though to take mine, and I curl my fingers underneath without quite touching (my hands are swollen too). I don’t need to tell him how important this visit to the guest house is to me. He understands. He gets it like no one