Wedding Night

it would not be this.
    It would not be this
.
    I always imagined my new husband and me nestled in a huge white cottony bed, like in a soap-powder ad. Birds singing outside. Sunlight gently passing over our faces as we turn to each other and kiss, remembering our fabulous time last night, and murmuring sweet nothings to each other before moving seamlessly into spectacular morning sex.
    Not
waking up on a single bed, with a cricked neck, un-brushed teeth, the smell of last night’s room-service pizza, and the sound of Ben groaning on the opposite bed.
    “Are you OK?” I try to sound sympathetic, even though I want to kick him.
    “I think so.” He lifts his head with what appears to be a huge effort. He looks pretty green and he’s still wearing his suit. “What
happened
?”
    “You won a bet,” I say shortly. “Well done, you.”
    Ben’s gaze is distant and his eyes are moving back and forth. He’s clearly trying to piece it all together.
    “I fucked up, didn’t I?” he says at last.
    “Just a bit.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    “Yeah. Whatever.”
    “No, I’m sorry.”
    “Got it.”
    “No, I’m really,
really
sorry.” He swings his legs round and gets to his feet, swaying theatrically for a moment. “Mrs. Parr, my greatest, humblest apologies. How will I make this up to you?” He bows low, nearly falling over, and I stifle a smile. I can’t stay cross. Ben always was a charmer.
    “I can’t think.” I pout at him.
    “Any room in that bed?”
    “Might be …”
    I shuffle up, pulling open the duvet invitingly for him to snuggle in. It’s luxury goose down. We also have the choice of a pillow menu, with twenty different varieties. I read them all last night, over my pizza. But right now I couldn’t care less whether the pillow is buckwheat, hypoallergenic, or silk-covered. My husband is in bed with me. Awake. This is what matters.
    “Mmmm.” He buries his face in my neck. “You’re all cozy. Yum.”
    “You’re all hangover-y.” I wrinkle my nose. “Get your suit off.”
    “With pleasure.” He pulls his jacket and shirt off together in one movement, over his head, then straddles me, bare-chested, and grins down. “Hello, wife.”
    “Hello, idiot.”
    “Like I said, I’ll make it up to you.” He runs a finger downmy cheek, down my neck, and under the duvet, fingering the top of my incredibly expensive cami. “We have all morning.”
    “All day.” I reach up to pull him down for a kiss.
    “We’ve earned this,” he murmurs. “Oh God. Oh Jesus.” His hands are tugging off my cami-knickers. “Lottie. I remember you.”
    “I remember you,” I manage, my voice heavy with lust. His clothes are all off now. He’s as hot as I remember; he’s as hard as I remember. This is just as good as I remember; it’s going to be amazing.…
    “Madame?” The grave voice of Georgios hits my ear. For a moment I think it’s Ben, fooling around with an impression. Then I realize it’s not Ben. Which means it’s the butler. Which means—
    I sit bolt upright, clasping the duvet round me, my heart pumping.
    The butler’s in the
suite
?
    “Good morning!” I call in a strangled voice.
    “Is madame ready for breakfast?”
    What the
fuck
? I pull an agonized face at Ben, who looks as though he wants to hit someone.
    “Didn’t you put on the D O N OT D ISTURB sign?” he whispers.
    “I thought I did!”
    “Then what—”
    “I don’t know!”
    “Good morning.” Georgios appears at the door to the bedroom. “Sir, madame, I have taken the liberty of ordering you a very special treat. Most highly recommended by all our VIP honeymoon guests. Our Champagne Breakfast with Music.”
    I stare back at him, speechless. Music? What does he mean? What on earth—
    No
way
. I nearly convulse with shock as a girl appears at the door. She’s got long blond hair and is wearing a white Grecian tunic, and she’s wheeling along a massive harp.
    I exchange looks wildly with Ben. How do we stop this? What do we do?
    “Mr. and Mrs. Parr. Congratulations on your marriage! Today I will be playing for you a selection of love tunes, to accompany your breakfast,” the girl says, and takes a seat on a fold-up stool. Next moment she’s plucking away briskly at the harp and Georgios plus his assistant are bringing trays on stands to the bed and pouring out glasses of champagne and peeling fruit and offering us little finger bowls to refresh our hands in.
    I haven’t managed to utter a word. This is too