Wedding Night

He looks so apoplectic, I’m almost scared.
    “Well, how long will it be now?”
    Georgios spreads his hands. “Sir, I only wish—”
    “You don’t know,” Ben interrupts tensely. “Of course you don’t know. Why would you know?”
    I have a horrible feeling he’s going to flip out in a minute and hit Georgios.
    “Anyway.” I hastily join in the conversation. “Never mind. We’ll go and amuse ourselves.”
    “Madame.” Georgios nods. “How can I assist you with this?”
    Ben scowls at him. “You can—”
    “Get me some more juice, please!” I trill, before Ben sayssomething
really
offensive. “Maybe some … some …” I hesitate. What’s the most time-consuming juice there is? “Some beet juice?”
    A flicker passes across Georgios’s otherwise impassive face. I think perhaps he’s cottoned onto my ruse.
    “Of course, madame.”
    “Great! See you later.” We head up a path lined with white walls and bougainvillea. The sun is beating down on our heads and it’s very quiet. I know Georgios is following us, but I’m not making chitchat with him. Then he’ll
never
go.
    “The beach bar’s this way,” observes Ben as we pass a sign. “We could look in.”
    “The
beach bar
?” I give him a sardonic look. “After last night?”
    “Hair of the dog. Virgin Mary. Whatever.”
    “OK.” I shrug. “We could have a quick one.”
    The beach bar is large and circular and shady, with Greek bouzouki music playing softly. Ben immediately slumps onto a bar stool.
    “Welcome.” The barman approaches us with a wide smile. “Many congratulations on your marriage.” He gives us a laminated drinks menu and moves away.
    “How did he know we were just married?” Ben regards him with narrowed eyes.
    “Saw our shiny new wedding rings, I suppose? What shall we have?” I start looking down the menu, but Ben is lost in thought.
    “That bloody woman,” he mutters. “We’d be there now. In their bed.”
    “Well. I’m sure they’ll fix the fire alarm soon,” I say unconvincingly.
    “This is our bloody
honeymoon
.”
    “I know,” I say soothingly. “Come on, let’s have a drink. A proper drink.” I feel like having one myself, to be honest.
    “Did you say it was your honeymoon?” A blond girl heralds us across the bar. She’s wearing an orange caftan with bobbles on the sleeves and has jeweled sandals with very high heels. “Of course it is!
Everyone
here is on honeymoon. When were you married?”
    “Yesterday. We just arrived last night.”
    “We were Saturday! Holy Trinity Church in Manchester. My dress was Phillipa Lepley. We had a hundred and twenty to the reception. It was a buffet. Then in the evening we had dancing to a band, and fifty additional guests attended.” She looks at us expectantly.
    “Ours was … smaller,” I say after a pause. “Quite a lot smaller. But lovely.”
    Lovelier than yours
, I add silently. I turn to Ben to back me up, but he’s swiveled away and is talking to the bartender instead.
    This is the first time I’ve noticed a trait that Ben has in common with Richard—i.e., being totally antisocial and narrow-minded about new people. The number of times I’ve struck up a conversation with some really interesting, fun person, and Richard just wouldn’t join in. Like that fascinating woman we met at Greenwich once, who he point-blank refused to be introduced to. And, OK, it turned out she was a bit of a weirdo and tried to get me to invest £10,000 in a houseboat, but he wasn’t to
know
that, was he?
    “Ring?” The girl shoves her hand forward. Her nails are orange to match her caftan, I notice. Does that mean all her caftans are orange or that she repaints her nails every night? “I’m Melissa, by the way.”
    “Lovely!” I thrust my left hand forward to match, and my platinum wedding band glints in the sunshine. It’s studded with diamonds and is really quite fancy.
    “Very nice!” Melissa raises her eyebrows, impressed. “It’s an amazing feeling, isn’t it, wearing a wedding ring?” She leans forward conspiratorially. “I catch my reflection and see the ring on my hand and I think,
Bloody hell! I’m married!
”
    “Me too!” I suddenly realize I’ve missed this: girly chat about getting married. That’s the downside of rushing off with no family or bridesmaids at your side. “And being called ‘Mrs.’ is weird too!” I add. “Mrs. Parr.”
    “I’m Mrs. Falkner.” She beams. “I just love it. Falkner.”
    “I