Wedding Night

Think of this marriage as an extreme piercing. Right this minute, they’re doing a Couples’ Quiz,” I add to encourage him. “I mean, what a joke! They haven’t got a clue about each other. Lottie will see that, and she’ll start to think straight, and then she’ll realize.”
    “Couples’ Quiz?” says Richard after a pause. “You mean like that TV game?”
    “Exactly. Like, ‘What is your partner’s favorite meal that you cook for her?’ That kind of thing.”
    “Spaghetti carbonara,” says Richard, without missing a beat.
    “There you go.” I squeeze his hand. “If you guys did it, you’d win. Ben and Lottie are going to tank. Then she’ll come to her senses. You wait and see.”

15

LOTTIE
    It’s a game. Just a game. It doesn’t mean
anything
.
    Even so, I’m feeling more irritable by the second. Why can’t I remember this stuff? And, more to the point, why can’t Ben? Isn’t he
interested
in the details of my life?
    We’re sitting in the hotel garden with ten minutes to go before Couples’ Quiz starts, and I’ve never felt less prepared for a test in my life. Ben is lying in a hammock, drinking beer and playing some new rap song on his iPad, which really isn’t improving my mood.
    “Let’s go again,” I say. “And, this time, concentrate. What shampoo do I use?”
    “L’Oréal.”
    “No!”
    “Head and Shoulders, extra strong for monster dandruff.” He smirks.
    “No!” I kick him. “I
told
you. Kerastase. And you use Paul Mitchell.”
    “Do I?” he says blankly.
    I feel instant rage boiling up inside me. “What do youmean, ‘do I’? You told me you use Paul Mitchell! We have to be on the same page for this, Ben. If you say Paul Mitchell once, you have to
stick
to Paul Mitchell!”
    “Jesus.” Ben takes a sip of beer. “Lighten up.” He turns up the volume on his iPad, and I flinch. Does he really like that music?
    “Let’s do another.” I try to control my impatience. “What’s my favorite alcoholic drink?”
    “Smirnoff Ice.” He grins.
    “Funny,” I say politely.
    No wonder he didn’t make it as a comedian
. The bitchy thought comes from nowhere. Oops. I clench my lips together, praying my expression isn’t readable. I didn’t mean it, of course I didn’t.…
    Richard would have made an effort
. The even bigger thought flashes through my head like a powerful bird in flight, leaving me breathless in its wake. I blink at my piece of paper, feeling hot about the face. I’m not going to think about Richard. No. Absolutely not.
    Richard would have thought Couples’ Quiz was ridiculous too, but, the difference is, he’d have made an effort, because if it mattered to me it would matter to him—
    Stop it.
    Like the time he did charades at my office party and everyone loved him—
    LISTEN UP, STUPID BRAIN. Richard is OUT of my life. Right now he’s probably fast asleep on the other side of the world in some glossy San Francisco apartment block, having forgotten all about me, and I’m with my husband—repeat, husband—
    “
The Jeweled Path
? Are you serious?”
    I’ve been wrangling so hard with my thoughts, I didn’tnotice Ben pick up the crib sheet I prepared for him earlier. Now he’s staring at it incredulously.
    “What?”
    “The
Jeweled Path
can’t be your favorite book.” He looks up from the paper. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
    “I’m not joking,” I say, nettled. “Have you read it? It’s brilliant.”
    “I wasted thirty valuable seconds of my life downloading it and skimming the first chapter.” He pulls a face. “I want those thirty seconds back.”
    “You obviously missed the point,” I say, offended. “It’s really insightful if you read it carefully.”
    “It’s a pile of new-age shit.”
    “Not according to eighty million readers.” I’m glaring at him.
    “Eighty million morons.”
    “Well, what’s your favorite book, then?” I grab the piece of paper to see, but my gaze is halted. I clap a hand over my mouth in shock and raise my eyes to his. “That’s
not
how you vote?”
    “Don’t you?”
    “No!”
    We’re staring at each other as though we’ve discovered we’re aliens. I swallow twice, then look at the sheet again.
    “OK! Right.” I’m trying not to give away how disconcerted I feel. “So … so obviously we need to recap on a few basics. Voting preference we’ve covered … favorite pasta?”
    “Depends on the sauce,” he says promptly. “Stupid question.”
    “Well, I