Wedding Night Read online

  After she’d gone out, we would intone the phrase to each other like some kind of religion. I thought it was a general toast like “Down the hatch,” and shocked a school friend many years later, at a family lunch, by raising my glass and saying, “Well, drown the pain, everyone.”

  Now we use it as a shorthand for “getting totally trashed in an embarrassing manner.”

  “I will not be drowning the pain, thank you,” retorts Lottie, sounding offended. “And, anyway, you should talk, Fliss.”

  I may have drunk a few too many vodkas after Daniel and I split up, and I may have made a long speech to an audience of curry-house diners. It’s a fair point.

  “Yes, well.” I sigh. “Talk soon.”

  I put the phone down, close my eyes, and give my brain about ten seconds to reboot and focus. I have to forget Lottie’s love life. I have to concentrate on the awards ceremony. I have to finish my speech. Now. Go.

  I open my eyes and swiftly type a list of people to thank. It goes on for ten lines, but better safe than sorry. I email it to Ian, headlined Speech! Urgent! and leap up from my desk.

  “Fliss!” As I leave my office, Celia pounces on me. She’s one of our most prolific freelancers and has the trademark crow’s feet of the professional spa reviewer. You’d think that the spa treatments would cancel out the sun damage, but I find it tends to be the other way around. They really should stop putting spas in Thailand. They should situate them in northern wintry countries with no daylight at all.

  Hmm. Is there a piece in that?

  I quickly type into my BlackBerry: Zero-daylight spa? then look up. “Everything OK?”

  “The Gruffalo is here. He looks livid.” She swallows. “Maybe I should leave.”

  The Gruffalo is the industry nickname for Gunter Bachmeier. He owns a chain of ten luxury hotels and lives in Switzerland and has a forty-inch waist. I knew he was invited tonight, but I assumed he wouldn’t turn up. Not after our review of his new spa–hotel in Dubai, the Palm Stellar.

  “It’s fine. Don’t worry.”

  “Don’t tell him it was me.” Celia’s voice is actually trembling.

  “Celia.” I grip her by both shoulders. “You stand by your review, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, then.” I’m willing some strength into her, but she looks terrified. It’s amazing how someone who writes such savage, excoriating, witty prose can be so gentle and sensitive in the flesh.

  Hmm. Is there a piece in that?

  I type: Meet our reviewers in the flesh?? Profiles??

  Then I delete it. Our readers don’t want to meet the reviewers. They don’t want to know that “CBD” lives in Hackney and is an accomplished poet on the side. They simply want to know that their massive slice of cash is going to buy them all the sunshine/snow, white beach/mountains, solitude/beautiful people, Egyptian cotton/hammocks, haute cuisine/expensive club sandwiches that they require of a five-star holiday.

  “No one knows who ‘CBD’ is. You’re safe.” I pat her arm. “I have to run.” I’m already striding down the corridor again. I head into the central atrium and look around. It’s a large, airy, double-height hall—the only impressive space at Pincher International—and every year our overcrowded sub-editors suggest that it’s converted into office space. But it comes into its own for the awards party. I scan the space, ticking off items in my head. Massive iced cake in shape of magazine cover, which no one will eat: check. Caterers setting out glasses: check. Table of trophies: check. Ian from IT is crouching by the podium, fiddling with the auto reader.

  “All OK?” I hurry over.

  “Grand.” He jumps up. “I’ve loaded the speech. Want a sound check?”

  I step onto the stage, switch on the microphone, and peer at the reader.

  “Good evening!” I raise my voice. “I’m Felicity Graveney, editor of Pincher Travel Review, and I would like to welcome you to our twenty-third annual awards ceremony. And what a year it’s been.”

  I can see from Ian’s sardonic eyebrow that I’m going to have to sound a bit more excited than that.

  “Shut up,” I say, and he grins. “I have eighteen awards to present.…”

  Which is far too many. Every year we have a stand-up battle over which ones to get rid of, and then we get rid of none.

  “Blah, blah … OK, fine.” I switch off the mike. “See you later.”

  As I hurry back down the corridor, I see Gavin, our publisher, at the far end. He’s ushering an unmistakable forty-inch waist into the lift. As I’m watching, the Gruffalo turns and flashes a menacing anti-smile at me. He holds up four stubby fingers and is still doing so as the doors close.

  I know what that means, and I’m not going to be intimidated. So his new hotel got four stars from us instead of five. He should have created a better hotel. He should have invested in slightly more sand to lay on the concrete base of his “award-winning, man-created beach” and tried hiring slightly less pretentious staff.

  I head into the Ladies’, survey my reflection, and wince. Sometimes I’m genuinely shocked at the version of me in the mirror. Do I look so unlike Angelina Jolie? When did those shadows appear under my eyes? Everything about me is too dark, I abruptly decide. My hair, my brows, my sallow skin. I need to get something bleached. Or maybe everything, all at once. There must surely be a spa somewhere that has an all-in-one bleaching tank. One quick dip; keep your mouth open for the teeth-whitening option.

  Hmm. Is there a piece in that? I type Bleach? into my BlackBerry, then attack everything I can with brushes. Finally I apply a generous amount of Nars Red Lizard. One thing: I can damn well wear lipstick. Perhaps they’ll put it on my grave. FELICITY GRAVENEY LIES HERE. SHE COULD DAMN WELL WEAR LIPSTICK.

  I head out, glance at my watch, and press Daniel on speed dial as I walk. He’ll know I’m phoning now, we discussed the timing, he’ll pick up, he has to pick up.… Go on, Daniel, pick up.… Where are you …?

  Voicemail.

  Bastard.

  With Daniel, I am quite capable of going from calm to seething in 0–60.

  The beep sounds and I draw breath.

  “You’re not there,” I say with elaborate calmness, walking toward my office. “That’s a shame, because I have to be at this event soon, which you knew, because we discussed it. Several times.”

  My voice is shaking. I cannot allow him to get to me. Let it go, Fliss. Divorce is a process and this is a process and we’re all part of the Tao. Or the Zen. Whatever. The thing in all those books I was given with the word “Divorce” on the cover above a circle or a picture of a tree.

  “Anyway.” I take a deep breath. “Maybe you can let Noah listen to this message? Thank you.”

  I close my eyes briefly and remind myself I’m not talking to Daniel anymore. I have to shift his repulsive face out of my mind. I’m talking to the little face that lights up my life. The face that—against pretty tall odds—keeps the world making sense. I picture his shaggy fringe, his huge gray eyes, his school socks wrinkled around his ankles. Curled up on the sofa at Daniel’s place, with Monkey under his arm.

  “Sweetheart, I hope you’re having a lovely time with Daddy. I’ll see you soon, OK? I’ll try calling later, but if I don’t manage it, then night night and I love you.”

  I’m nearly at my office door now. I have stuff to do. But I can’t help talking for as long as possible, till the beep tells me to go and get a life.

  “Night night, sweetheart.” I press the phone up against my cheek. “Have lovely dreams, OK? Night night—”

  “Night night,” answers a familiar little voice, and I nearly trip over my party Manolos.

  What was that? Am I hallucinating? Has he overridden the voicemail? I peer at my phone to make sure, give it a quick bash against my palm, and listen again.

  “Hello?” I say cautiously.

  “Hello! Hello-hello-hello …”

  Oh my God. That voice isn’t coming from the phone. It’s coming from—

  I hurry ro
und the corner into my office and there he is. My seven-year-old son. Sitting on the armchair I give to visitors.

  “Mummy!” he yells in delight.

  “Wow.” I’m almost speechless. “Noah. You’re here. At my office. That’s just … Daniel?” I turn to my ex-husband, who is standing by the window, flicking through a past issue of the magazine. “What’s going on? I thought Noah would be having tea by now? At your place?” I add with bright emphasis. “As we planned?”

  “But I’m not,” puts in Noah triumphantly.

  “Yes! I can see that, darling! So … Daniel?” My smile has spread right across my face. Generally the rule is: the more I smile at Daniel, the more I’m feeling like stabbing him.

  I can’t help surveying his features with a critical eye, even though he has nothing to do with me anymore. He’s gained a couple of pounds. New fine-stripe shirt. No hair product. That’s a mistake; his hair looks too floppy and wispy now. Maybe Trudy likes it that way.

  “Daniel?” I try again.

  Daniel says nothing, just shrugs easily, as though everything is obvious and words are superfluous. That shrug of his is new. It’s a post-me shrug. When we were together, his shoulders were permanently hunched. Now he shrugs. He wears a Kabbalah bracelet under his suit. He bounces confrontation back like he’s made of rubber. His sense of humor has been replaced by a sense of righteousness. He doesn’t joke anymore: he pronounces.

  I can’t believe we used to have sex. I can’t believe we produced Noah together. Maybe I’m in The Matrix and I’ll wake up to something which makes far more sense, like all this time I’ve been lying in a tank attached to electrodes.

  “Daniel?” My smile is fixed.

  “We agreed Noah would spend tonight with you.” He shrugs again.

  “What?” I stare at him, dumbfounded. “No, we didn’t. It’s your night.”

  “I have to go to Frankfurt tonight. I sent you an email.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “I did.”

  “You didn’t! You did not send me any email.”

  “We agreed I’d drop Noah here.”

  He’s totally calm, as only Daniel can be. I, on the other hand, am about to have a nervous breakdown.

  “Daniel.” My voice is trembling with the effort of not smashing his head in. “Why would I have agreed to have Noah here tonight when I’m hosting an awards ceremony? Why would I have done that?”

  Daniel shrugs again. “I’m about to go to the airport. He’s had something to eat. Here’s his overnight bag.” He dumps Noah’s rucksack on the floor. “All right, Noah? Mummy’s going to have you tonight, lucky thing.”

  There is no way out of this.

  “Great!” I smile at Noah, who is eyeing the two of us anxiously. It breaks my heart to see worry in his huge eyes. No child of his age should ever worry about anything. “What a treat for me!” I ruffle his hair reassuringly. “Excuse me, I’ll just be a moment.…”

  I walk along the corridor to the Ladies’. It’s empty, which is a good thing, because I cannot contain myself any longer.

  “HE DID NOT SEND ME A FUCKING EMAIL!” My voice rockets round the cubicles. I’m panting as I meet my own eyes in the mirror. I feel about ten percent better. Enough to get through the evening.

  I walk calmly back to the office, to see Daniel shrugging on his coat.

  “Well, have a good trip or whatever.” I sit down, unscrew my fountain pen, and write Congratulations! on the card for the bouquet which will be presented to the overall winner (that new spa–resort in Marrakesh). With best wishes from Felicity Graveney and all the team.

  Daniel is still in my office. I can sense him lurking. He has something to say.

  “You still here?” I lift my eyes.

  “Just one other thing.” He surveys me with that righteous expression again. “I’ve got a couple more points to raise over the settlement.”

  For a moment I’m so stunned I can’t react.

  “Wha-at?” I manage to utter at last.

  He cannot raise more points. We’ve finished raising points. We’re about to sign off. It’s done. After a court case and two appeals and a million lawyers’ letters. It’s finished.

  “I was talking it over with Trudy.” He does his hand-spreading again. “She raised some interesting issues.”

  No way. I want to thwack him. He does not get to talk about our divorce with Trudy. It’s ours. If Trudy wants a divorce, she can marry him first. See how she likes that.

  “Just a couple of points.” He puts a wad of papers down on the desk. “Have a read.”

  Have a read. As though he’s recommending a good whodunit.

  “Daniel.” I feel like a kettle coming to the boil. “You can’t start laying new stuff on me now. The divorce is done. We’ve thrashed everything out already.”

  “Surely it’s more important to get it right?”

  He sounds reproving, as though I’m suggesting we go for a shoddy, ill-prepared divorce. One with no workmanship in it. Botched together with a glue gun instead of hand-sewn.

  “I’m happy with what we’ve agreed,” I say tightly, although “happy” is hardly the right word. “Happy” would have been not finding his draft love letters to another woman stuffed in his briefcase, where anyone searching for chewing gum might stumble on them.

  Love letters. I mean, love letters! I still can’t believe he wrote love letters to another woman and not to his own wife. I can’t believe he wrote explicit sexual poetry, illustrated by cartoons. I was genuinely shocked. If he’d written those poems to me, maybe everything would have been different. Maybe I would have realized what a self-obsessed weirdo he was before we got married.

  “Well.” He shrugs again. “Perhaps I have more of a long-term view. Maybe you’re too close.”

  Too close? How can I be too close to my own divorce? Who is this rubber-faced, emotionally stunted idiot, and how did he get into my life? I’m breathing so fast with frustration, I feel like if I rose from my desk now, I could give Usain Bolt a run for his money.

  And then it happens. I don’t exactly mean for it to happen. My wrist moves sharply and it’s done, and there are six little ink spots in a trail on his shirt and a bubble of happiness inside my chest.

  “What was that?” Daniel looks down at his shirt and then up, his face aghast. “Is that ink? Did you just flick your pen at me?”

  I glance at Noah to see if he witnessed his mother’s descent into infantile behavior. But he’s lost in the far more mature world of Captain Underpants.

  “It slipped,” I say innocently.

  “It slipped. Are you five years old?” His face crumples into a scowl and he dabs at his shirt, smearing one of the ink spots. “I could call my lawyer about this.”

  “You could discuss parental responsibility, your favorite subject.”

  “Funny.”

  “It’s not.” My mood suddenly sobers. I’m tired of playing tit for tat. “It’s really not.” I look at our son, who is bent over his book, shaking with laughter at something. His shorts are rucked up, and on his knee is a face drawn in ballpoint pen with an arrow pointing to it and I AM A SUPERHERO printed in wobbly letters. How can Daniel bail out on him like this? He hasn’t seen him for a fortnight; he never calls to chat with him. It’s as if Noah is a hobby that he bought all the equipment for and reached an elementary level—but then decided he’s just not that into after all and maybe he should have gone for wall-climbing instead.

  “It’s really not,” I repeat. “I think you should go.”

  I don’t even look up as he departs. I draw his stupid pile of papers to me, flick through them, too angry to read a word, then open a document on my computer and type furiously:

  D arrives at office, leaving N with me with no notice, contravening agreement. Unhelpful manner. Wishes to raise more points regarding divorce settlement. Refuses to discuss reasonably.

  I unclip my memory stick from its place on a chain round my neck and save the updated file t
o it. My memory stick is my comfort blanket. The whole dossier is on there: the whole sorry Daniel story. I replace it round my neck, then speed-dial Barnaby, my lawyer.

  “Barnaby, you won’t believe it,” I say as soon as his voicemail answers. “Daniel wants to revisit the settlement again. Can you call me back?”

  Then I glance anxiously at Noah to see if he heard me. But he’s chortling over something in his book. I’ll have to hand him over to my PA; she’s helped me out with emergency child-care before.

  “Come on.” I stand up and ruffle his hair. “Let’s find Elise.”

  The thing about avoiding people at parties is, it’s quite easy if you’re hosting. You always have an excuse to move away from the conversation just as you see a forty-inch pink-striped shirt bearing down on you. (So sorry, I must greet the marketing manager of the Mandarin Oriental, back in a moment.…)

  The party has been going for half an hour and I’ve managed to avoid the Gruffalo completely. It helps that he’s so massive and the atrium is so crowded. I’ve made it appear totally natural that every time he gets within three feet I’m striding away in the opposite direction, or out of the room completely, or, in desperation, into the Ladies’….

  Damn. As I emerge from the Ladies’, he’s waiting for me. Gunter Bachmeier is actually standing in the corridor, staking out the door of the Ladies’.

  “Oh, hello, Gunter,” I say smoothly. “How delightful to see you. I’ve been meaning to catch up with you—”

  “You hef been avoiding me,” he says in severe guttural tones.

  “Nonsense! Are you enjoying the party?” I force myself to put a hand on his meaty forearm.

  “You hef traduced my new hotel.”

  He pronounces “traduced” with a rich, rolling sound. “Trrrraduced.” I’m quite impressed that he knows the word. I certainly wouldn’t know the equivalent for “traduced” in German. My German extends to “Taxi, bitte?”