Wedding Night

super-king mattress propped upagainst the wall. Apparently it’s the “wrong kind of bed.” What does that even mean?
    “How hard can it be to swap a couple of beds?” says Ben with a furious scowl, as we head toward the beach. “Are they morons?”
    “That’s just what I was thinking.”
    “It’s ridiculous.”
    “Ludicrous.”
    We pause by the entrance to the beach. It’s quite something. Blue sea, golden sand, rows of the plushiest sun beds I’ve ever seen, white umbrellas billowing in the breeze, and waiters hurrying around with drinks on trays. Any other day, I’d be salivating at the sight.
    But there’s only one thing I want right now. And it’s not a suntan.
    “They should have given us another room,” says Ben for the hundredth time. “We should be suing.”
    As soon as they asked us to leave, Ben requested a substitute room, and for one heavenly moment I thought everything was going to work out after all. We could disappear into a spare room, have a wonderful morning together, emerge in time for lunch.… But, no, Nico wrung his hands and said he was devastated and mortified but the hotel was fully booked, could he offer sir a complimentary hot-air-balloon ride instead?
    A complimentary bloody hot-air-balloon ride. I thought Ben was going to throttle him.
    As we’re pausing by the towel stand, I become aware of a presence lurking. It’s Georgios. Where did he appear from? Has he been following us? Is this all part of the service? I nudge Ben, and he raises his eyebrows.
    “Madame,” says Georgios gravely. “May I help you with your towels?”
    “Oh. Um, thanks,” I say awkwardly. I don’t really need help, but it would be rude to tell him to go away.
    Georgios collects two towels and we follow a beach attendant to a pair of sun beds facing the sea. Lots of guests are already ensconced, and there’s a smell of sun cream in the air. Waves are washing gently onto the beach. This is fairly blissful, I have to admit.
    Between them, the beach attendant and Georgios are laying out our towels with military precision.
    “Bottled water.” Georgios sets a chiller on our table. “Should I open the cap for madame?”
    “Don’t worry. Maybe I’ll have some later. Thanks so much, Georgios. That will be all for now. Thank you.” I sit down on a bed, and Ben takes the other. I kick off my flip-flops, peel off my caftan top, lean back, and close my eyes, hoping this will give the message to Georgios. A moment later a shadow crosses my eyelids and I open them. To my disbelief, Georgios is neatly straightening my flip-flops and folding up my caftan.
    Is he planning to hang around with us all bloody
day
? I glance at Ben, who is clearly thinking the same thing.
    As he catches me sitting up, Georgios leaps to attention.
    “Madame wishes to swim? Madame wishes to cross the hot sand?” He proffers the flip-flops.
    What?
    OK, this is just stupid. These five-star hotels have gone way, way too far. Yes, I’m on holiday; yes, it’s nice to have some personal service. But that doesn’t make me suddenly incapable of laying out a towel or unscrewing a bottle cap or putting on my own flip-flops.
    “No, thanks. What I’d really like is …” I try to think of some time-consuming challenge. “I’d like a freshly squeezed orange juice with honey drizzled in it. And some M&M’s. The brown ones only. Thank you so much, Georgios.”
    “Madame.” To my relief, he bows and walks away.
    “Brown M&M’s?” says Ben incredulously. “You diva.”
    “I was trying to get rid of him!” I retort in an undertone. “Is he going to stalk us all day? Is that what a personal butler does?”
    “God knows.” Ben seems distracted. He keeps eyeing my bikini top. Or, rather, the contents of my bikini top.
    “Let me rub your sun cream in,” he says. “I’m not giving that job to the butler.”
    “OK. Thanks.” I hand him the bottle and he squeezes a big dollop of cream onto his palm. As he starts to apply it, I hear him inhale sharply.
    “Let me know if I’m too rough,” he murmurs. “Or not rough enough.”
    “Er … Ben,” I whisper. “I meant my back. I don’t actually need help applying it to my cleavage.”
    I don’t think Ben can hear, because he doesn’t stop. A nearby woman is giving us an odd look. Now Ben takes another dollop of sun cream and starts rubbing it
under
my bikini top. With both hands. He’s breathing very heavily. And now several people are