Wedding Night

more significant than mine (unrecorded, lost to the mists of time. History will weep, obviously).
    I’ve never read Lottie’s diaries before. I’m a moral person.Also: I can’t be bothered. But I have to know a little about this Ben guy, and this is the only source I can think of. No one will ever know what I did.
    Noah’s safely watching
Ben 10
in the kitchen. I sit down on her bed, and Lottie-scent wafts up from the duvet cover: floral, sweet, and clean. When she was eighteen she wore Eternity, and I can catch a whiff of that too, coming from the pages of the diary.
    Right. Let’s dive in, quick. I feel very tense and guilty sitting here, even though I’m Lottie’s key holder and have a perfect right to be in her flat and she’s on a plane, miles away, and, anyway, if someone
did
walk in I would thrust the diary very quickly under a pillow and say,
Just here for security reasons
.
    I open the diary at random.
    Fliss is such a bitch
.
    What?
    “Fuck off!” I automatically respond.
    OK, that was needless and immature. I shouldn’t jump to conclusions. There’ll be some explanation. I look more closely at the entry. Apparently I wouldn’t lend her my denim jacket to take on her gap-year trip.
    Oh, really? I’m a bitch because I wouldn’t just hand over
my
jacket which I paid for? I’m so outraged I feel like phoning her up right now and having this out. And, by the way, where has she written about how I
did
give her about six pairs of flip-flops and never saw them back
and
my Chanel sunglasses because she begged and begged?
    I stare at the diary, seething gently, then force myself to turn over a few pages. I can’t wallow in some fifteen-year-oldargument. I need to skip ahead. I need to get to Ben. As I turn the pages, skimming the text, I almost feel like I’m on her gap-year journey with her: first to Paris and then to the South of France, then Italy, all in bite-size snippets. It’s kind of addictive.
     … think I might move to Paris when I’m older … ate too many croissants, urgh, God, I’m fat, I’m hideous … this guy called Ted who’s at university and REALLY COOL … he’s really into existentialism … I should get into that, he said I was a natural …
     … AMAZING sunset … drank too many rum-and-Cokes … really REALLY sunburned … slept with this guy called Pete, shouldn’t have … made this plan to move to the South of France when we’re all like thirty …
     … I WISH I spoke Italian better. This is where I want to live, forever. It’s AMAZING … ate too many gelati, urgh, my legs are hideous … leaving for Greece tomorrow …
     … this place is INCREDIBLE … amazing party atmosphere, like we all just GET each other … I could LIVE on feta … diving in these underwater caves … this guy called Ben … picnic with some of the guys and Ben … slept with Ben … AMAZING …
    “Lottie?” A male voice interrupts my concentration, and I start so violently the diary flies up into the air. I make an instinctive grab for it, then realize that’s incriminating, so I draw my hand away sharply and it falls on the floor, where I kick it away, then finally lift my head.
    “Richard?”
    He’s standing in the doorway in a raincoat, his hair disheveled and a suitcase in his hand. His face is agitated, and he’s definitely looking more young Gordon Brown than young Pierce Brosnan.
    “Where’s Lottie?” he demands.
    “I’m here for security,” I mumble hurriedly, my face blazing with shame and my eyes darting to the diary. “Security.”
    Richard looks at me as though I’m making no sense at all. Which, to be fair, I’m not.
    “Where’s Lottie?” he demands again, more forcefully. “What’s wrong? I go to her work, no one will tell me where she is. I come here, you’re sitting on her bed. Just tell me.” He drops his suitcase. “Is she ill?”
    “Ill?” I almost want to laugh hysterically. “No, not ill. Richard, what are you
doing
here?”
    His case has an airline tag on it. He must have come straight from the airport in a dashing, romantic manner. I feel quite sad that Lottie isn’t here to see it.
    “I made a mistake. A bad mistake.” He strides to the window and stares out a moment, then darts me a look. “I don’t know how much she tells you.”
    “A fair amount,” I say diplomatically.
    I don’t think he’ll want to hear that she’s told me absolutely
everything
, including his penchant for