Wedding Night (10 page)

With a sudden little burst of confidence, I push open the restaurant door, to be greeted by a warm, inviting smell of garlic and seafood. There are leather booths and a massive chandelier and the right kind of hubbub. Not show-offy and obnoxious but civilized and friendly. A mixologist is shaking a cocktail at the bar and I have an instant, Pavlovian desire for a mojito.

I’m not going to get drunk, I hastily resolve. I’m not going to sleep with him
and
I’m not going to get drunk.

The maître d’ is approaching me. Here goes.

“I’m here to meet a … a friend. He reserved a table. Benedict Parr?”

“Of course.” The maître d’ leads me a winding route through the restaurant, past about ten tables at which possible men are sitting with their faces averted. Each time, my stomach heaves with apprehension. Is that him? Is that him? Please not
that
one—

Oh God! I almost squeak. Here he is, rising from his chair. Stay cool. Smile. This is so, so,
so
surreal.

My eyes are running over him, registering details at top speed, as though I’m in the Assess Your Ex Olympics. Slightly odd patterned shirt; what’s that about? He’s taller than I remember. Thinner. His face is definitely thinner, and his dark wavy hair is short now. You’d never know that he once had Greek-god locks. There’s a hole in his ear where his earring used to be.

“Well … hi there,” I greet him.

I’m satisfied at the way I sound so understated. Especially since a bubble of excitement is growing inside me now that I’ve had a proper view. Look at him! He’s gorgeous! Just like he always was, but better. More grown-up. Less gawky.

He leans in for a kiss. A grown-up, civilized double kiss. Then he draws back and surveys me.

“Lottie. You look … incredible.”

“You look pretty good yourself.”

“You haven’t aged a day!”

“Same goes!”

We’re beaming at each other in a kind of amazed joy, like someone who’s won a raffle and come up to collect a dodgy box of chocolates as a prize and found it’s actually a thousand pounds in cash. We can’t believe our luck.

I mean, let’s face it, a lot can change in a man’s twenties. Ben could have turned up looking like anything. He could have been bald. He could have been paunchy and stooped. He could have developed some kind of irritating tic.

And he’s probably looking at me, thinking,
Thank
God
she hasn’t had a trout pout put in/gone gray/gained sixty pounds
.

“So.” He gestures charmingly at my chair and I sit down. “How have the last fifteen years been?”

“Fine, thanks.” I laugh. “You?”

“Can’t complain.” He meets my eye with the same mischievous grin he always had. “OK, that’s the catch-up done. You want a drink?
Don’t
tell me you’re teetotal now.”

“Are you kidding?” I open the cocktail menu, feeling a sizzle of anticipation. This is going to be a great evening. I already know it. “Let’s see what they’ve got.”

Two hours later I’m buzzing all over. I’m exhilarated. I feel like a sportsman in the zone. I feel like a convert who’s found religion. This is it.
This is it
. Ben and I are
amazing
together.

OK, so I haven’t stuck to my resolution regarding alcohol. But that was a ridiculous, shortsighted, stupid resolution. Dinner with an ex-boyfriend is potentially quite a tense, sticky situation. This could have been awkward. As it is, with a few cocktails down me, I’m having the best evening of my life.

What’s amazing is how
connected
Ben and I are. It’s as though we’ve picked up exactly where we left off, as if the last decade and a half never happened. We’re eighteen again. We’re young and big-eyed. Sharing wild ideas and silly jokes and wanting to explore everything the world has to offer. Ben
immediately started telling me about a play he’d seen the week before, and I countered with an art exhibition in Paris (I didn’t mention that Richard took me), and our conversation has been flying since then. There’s so much to say. There are so many memories.

We haven’t done the tedious list of who-what-when. We haven’t exchanged job details, previous relationships, any of that boring crap. It’s so refreshing not to hear the words “So, what do you do?” or “Is your flat a conversion or purpose built?” or “Do you get a pension?” It’s so
liberating
.

I know he’s single. He knows I’m single. That’s the only update we needed.

Ben has drunk quite a lot more than I have. He also remembers much more than I do about our time in Greece. He keeps sparking old memories which I’d buried. I’d forgotten about the poker tournament. I’d forgotten about that fishing boat sinking. I’d forgotten about the night we played table tennis with those two Australian guys. But the moment Ben reminds me, there it all is in my head again, in a vivid flash.

“Guy and …” I’m crinkling up my nose, trying to remember. “Guy and … what was his name … oh yes,
Bill
!”

“Bill!” Ben chuckles and high-fives me. “Of course. Big Bill.”

I can’t believe I haven’t given Big Bill a thought, all these years. He was like a bear. He used to sit in the corner of the terrace, drinking beers and sunning himself. He had more piercings than I’d ever seen in my life. Apparently he’d done them all himself, with a needle. He had a really cool girlfriend called Pinky, and we all watched and cheered while he pierced her navel.

“The calamari.” I close my eyes briefly. “I’ve never had calamari like that in my life.”

“And the sunsets,” chimes in Ben. “Remember the sunsets?”

“I’ll never forget.”

“And Arthur.” He grins reminiscently. “What a character.”

Arthur was the guest house owner. We all worshipped him and hung on his every word. He was the most mellow guy I’ve ever met, fiftyish or maybe older, who’d done everything from attending Harvard to founding his own company and going bust to sailing round the world and ending up on Ikonos, where he married a local girl. He would sit every night in the olive grove, getting gently stoned and telling people about the time he had lunch with Bill Clinton and turned down his job offer. He’d had so many adventures. He was so
wise
. I can remember getting drunk one night and weeping on his shoulder and him stroking me and saying some really amazing stuff. (I can’t remember exactly what now—but it was amazing.)

“Remember the steps?”

“The steps!” I groan. “How did we
do
it?”

The guest house was set on top of a cliff. To get down to or up from the beach, it was 113 steps, set into the cliff. We used to spring up and down them several times a day. No wonder I was so thin.

“Remember Sarah? Whatever happened to her?”

“Sarah? What did she look like?”

“Stunning. Amazing body. Silky skin.” He seems to inhale the memory. “She was Arthur’s daughter. You
must
remember her.”

“Oh right.” I’m not wild about hearing descriptions of other girls’ silky skin. “Not sure.”

“Maybe she went off traveling before you came.” He
shrugs, moving on. “D’you remember those old videos of
Dirk and Sally
? How many times did we watch those?”

“
Dirk and Sally
!” I exclaim. “Oh my God!”

“Partners at the altar, partners on the block,”
begins Ben, in that corny voice-over voice.

“Partners to the death!”
I join in, doing the
Dirk and Sally
arm salute.

Ben and I watched every single
Dirk and Sally
episode about five thousand times, mostly because it was the only box set of videos at the guest house, and you had to have
something
on apart from Greek news while you were eating your breakfast in the mornings. It’s a 1970s detective show about a couple who meet while they’re at police school and decide to keep their marriage secret while fighting crime as partners. Nobody knows except one serial killer, who keeps threatening to expose them. It’s
genius
.

I have a sudden memory of sitting with Ben on that ancient sofa in the dining room, our tanned legs tangled up, both wearing espadrilles, eating toast, and watching
Dirk and Sally
while everyone else was out on the terrace.

“The episode where Sally is kidnapped by the neighbor,” I say. “That was the best.”

“No, when Dirk’s brother comes to live with them, and he’s become a chef for the Mafia, and Dirk keeps asking him where he learned to cook, and then the drugs are in the peach cobbler—”

“Oh my
God
, yes!”

We both pause a moment, lost in memories.

“No one I’ve ever met has seen
Dirk and Sally
,” says Ben. “Or even heard of it.”

“Me neither,” I agree, though the truth is, I’d pretty much forgotten about
Dirk and Sally
till he mentioned it just now.

“The cove.” His thoughts have moved restlessly on again.

“The cove. Oh my God.” I meet his eyes and it all comes flooding back. I’m almost transfixed again with hot, teenage-level desire. The secret cove was where we first got it together. And then again. Every day. It was a little tiny sheltered stretch of sand round the bay. You had to get there by boat, and no one else could be bothered. Ben would sail us there, saying nothing but occasionally flicking me a meaningful look. And I would sit there, my feet up on the side of the boat, almost panting with anticipation.

I look at him now, across the table. Ben’s thinking exactly the same as me, I can tell. He’s back there. He looks as intoxicated as I feel.

“The way you nursed me through the flu,” he says slowly. “I’ve never forgotten that.”

The
flu
? I don’t remember nursing him through the flu. But, then, my memories are so fuzzy. I’m sure I did, if he says I did. And I don’t want to interrupt or contradict him, because it would ruin the mood. So I just nod gently.

“You cradled my head. You sang me to sleep. I was delirious, but I could hear your voice, getting me through the night.” He takes another swig of wine. “You were my guardian angel, Lottie. Maybe I went off the rails because I didn’t have you in my life.”

His guardian angel
. That’s so romantic. I’m quite interested to know how he went off the rails—but to ask him would spoil the moment. And who cares? Everyone goes off the rails. Then they come back on the rails. It doesn’t matter what they were doing meanwhile.

Now he glances at my left hand. “How come you haven’t been snapped up, anyway?”

“Haven’t met the right guy,” I say casually.

“A gorgeous girl like you? Should be fighting them off.”

“Well, maybe I have been.” I laugh, but for the first time this evening my composure slips a little. And all of a sudden—I can’t help it—I have a flashback to the first time I met Richard. It was at the opera, which is weird, because I never go to the opera normally, and nor does he. We were both there as a favor to friends. It was a charity gala of
Tosca
and he was in black tie, looking tall and distinguished, and the moment I saw him with some blond woman on his arm I felt a pang of jealousy. I hadn’t even met him and I was thinking,
Lucky her
. He was laughing and handing out champagne, and then he turned to me and said, “I’m sorry, we haven’t been introduced,” and I nearly fell into his gorgeous dark eyes.

And that was it. It felt magical. He wasn’t with the blond woman after all, and after the intermission he switched seats to be next to me. We went back to the opera on our first anniversary, and I thought we’d do it every year for the rest of our lives.

So much for that. So much for telling the story at the wedding reception and everybody saying,
Ahh …

“Oh God.” Ben is peering at me. “I’m sorry. I’ve said something. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing!” I smile hastily and blink. “Just … everything. You know. Life.”

“Exactly.
Exactly
.” He nods fervently as though I’ve solved some massive problem he was wrestling with. “Lotts, do you feel as fucked up by life as I do?”

“Yes.” I take a deep slug of wine. “Yes, I do. Even more so.”

“When I was eighteen, when we were out there, I knew what I was about.” Ben is staring moodily into space. “I had
clarity
. But you start out in life and somehow it all gets … 
corroded. Corrupted. Everything closes in on you, you know what I mean? There’s no escape. There’s no way to say, ‘Just stop a fucking moment. Let me work out what
I
want.’ ”

“Totally.” I nod earnestly.

“That was the highest point of my life. Greece. You. The whole deal.” He looks gripped by the memory. “Just the two of us, together. Everything was
simple
. There was no
shit
. Is it the same for you? Was that the best time of your life?”

My mind does a hazy rewind over the last fifteen years. OK, there have been a few high points here and there, but in general I have to agree. We were eighteen. We were hot. We could drink all night with no hangover. When has life ever been that good?

I nod slowly. “Best time ever.”

“
Why
didn’t we stay together, Lottie?
Why
didn’t we keep in touch?”

“Edinburgh–Bath.” I shrug. “Bath–Edinburgh. Impossible geography.”

“I know. But that was a crap reason.” He looks angry. “We were idiots.”

We had the “impossible geography” conversation many, many times on the island. He was going to Edinburgh University. I was going to Bath. It was only a matter of time before it ended. There was no point trying to keep things going beyond the summer.

The days after the fire were weird, anyway. Everything started to fall apart. We were all billeted in different guest houses, all over the island. People’s parents swooped in. Some actually arrived on the next boat, with money and clothes and replacement passports. I remember seeing Pinky sitting disconsolately at the taverna with two very smart-looking parents. It felt like the party was over.

“Weren’t we planning to meet once in London?” It comes back to me in a flash. “But then you had to go to Normandy with your family.”