Wedding Night

Otherwise it’s a change at Athens, which ends up taking forever.”
    “I know. Get me on the next direct flight you can. Thanks, Clarissa.”
    “Haven’t you just reviewed the Amba?” She sounds surprised. “A few months ago?”
    “I’m doing a follow-up,” I lie smoothly. “Sudden decision. It’s a new feature idea we’ve had,” I add, to cement my story. “Spot checks on hotels.”
    This is the plus of being editor. No one questions me. Also: that
is
a good idea. I open my BlackBerry and type in:
Spot checks??
    “OK! Well, I’ll let you know. Hopefully we can get you on the flight tomorrow.”
    “Thanks.”
    I ring off and drum my fingers, still tense. Even at my quickest, I won’t get out there for a good twenty-four hours. Lottie is already on her way to the airport. She’ll be on today’s afternoon flight. She’ll get to the hotel by this evening. The Oyster Suite will be there, waiting, with its super-king bed and sunken Jacuzzi and champagne.
    How many people conceive a baby on their wedding night? Could I find this out from Google? I type in
conceive baby first night honeymoon
, then restlessly cancel it. Google isn’t the point. Lottie’s the point. If only I could stop them. If only I could get in there before they … What’s the word? Consummate it.
    “Consummate.” The word provokes a vague memory. What was it again? I blink, trying to recall. Oh yes, Barnaby telling me about annulments. I can hear his voice again:
It means the contract is null and void. The marriage never existed
.
    The marriage never existed!
    This is it.
This
is the answer. Annulment! The loveliest word in the English language. The solution to everything. No divorce. No legal tussle. Just blink and it’s over. It never happened.
    I need to do this for Lottie. I need to get her an opt-out. But how on earth can I achieve it? What can I— How can I— How does one—
    And then a new idea zings across my brain.
    I feel almost breathless as I consider it. I can’t believe I’m thinking this. It’s even more heinous and extreme than gatecrashing a honeymoon, but it would solve everything.
    No. I can’t. I mean, I
can’t
. On every level. It’s impossible. And wrong. Anyone who did this to her own sister would be some kind of monster.
    OK. So I’m a monster.
    My fingers are actually trembling as I pick up the phone. I’m not sure if it’s with trepidation or determination.
    “Amba Hotel, VIP Services, how may I help you?”
    “Hi,” I say, my voice a bit jumpy. “Could I please speak to Nico Demetriou? Tell him it’s Fliss Graveney from
Pincher Travel Review
. Tell him … it’s important.”
    As I’m put on hold, I picture Nico, all five foot three of him, his suit straining against his stomach. I knew Nico at the Mandarin Oriental in Athens and before that at Sandals in Barbados. He’s been in hotels all his life, working his way up from bellboy, and he’s now VIP concierge at the Amba. I can see him now, bustling across the marble floor of the lobby in his patent shoes, his eyes always sharply darting around.
    His specialty is “Guest Experience.” Whether it’s a personalized cocktail, a helicopter trip, swimming with dolphins, or a troupe of belly dancers in your room, he’ll fix it. If I could have any partner in crime, it would be Nico.
    “Fliss!” His voice booms happily down the phone. “I have heard this very minute that you are planning to pay us a visit?”
    “Yes. I’ll arrive tomorrow night, I hope.”
    “We are honored to see you again so soon! Can I assist you with anything in particular? Or perhaps this is a personal visit?”
    I can hear the question in his voice. A hint of suspicion. Why am I coming back? What’s up?
    “It’s kind of personal.” I pause, marshaling my words. “Nico, I have a favor to ask. My sister is heading out to the Amba today. She’s just got married. She’s on honeymoon.”
    “Wonderful!” His voice almost blasts me away. “Your sister will have the holiday of her lifetime. I will appoint my most trusted butler for her benefit. We will meet her on arrival, and over a glass of champagne we will tailor-make her experience. Perhaps an upgrade, perhaps a special dinner—”
    “Nico, no. You don’t understand. I mean, that sounds wonderful. But I have a different favor to ask you.” I twist my fingers together. “It’s … unusual.”
    “I have been in this job for many years,” says Nico kindly. “Nothing is unusual for me,