Wedding Night(105)
Author: Sophie Kinsella

They haven’t shagged, yet she’s the happiest she’s ever been. Well, if I was trying to drive them apart, I’ve squarely failed. I’ve driven them together instead. Good work, Fliss. Marvelous.

“Everything OK?” says Lorcan, observing my expression.

“Everything’s dandy,” I almost snarl back, and flip viciously through the leather-bound cocktail menu.

My spirits have not exactly been high since the touchdown in Sofia. Now they’re plummeting to rock bottom. Everything has backfired and I’m bone weary and my minibar was lacking tonic water and now I’m surrounded by Bulgarian prostitutes.

OK, they may not all be Bulgarian prostitutes, I allow, as I do another sweep of the hotel rooftop bar. Some may be Bulgarian glamour models. Some may even be business types. The light in here is dim, but it’s glinting off all the diamonds and teeth and Louis Vuitton buckles on show. Hardly the most understated place, the City Heights. Although, to their credit, they knew my name and I didn’t even need to ask for an upgrade. I’m in the most bling suite I’ve stayed in for a while, complete with two massive bedrooms, a sitting room with cinema screen, and a vast mirrored art-deco-style bathroom. I may be compelled to show it off to Lorcan later on.

I feel an anticipatory squeeze inside. Not quite sure where things are with Lorcan and me. Maybe after a few drinks I’ll find out.

This bar is fairly bling too, with glass floor-to-ceiling windows and a narrow wraparound swimming pool tiled in black, which all the beautiful people/glamour models/business types are regarding with disdain. Unlike Noah, who is hopping up and down, demanding to be allowed in.

“Your swimsuit is all packed away,” I say for the fifth time.

“Let him swim in his underpants,” says Lorcan. “Why not?”

“Yes!” crows Noah, enchanted by this idea. “Underpants! Underpants!” He’s jumping up and down, totally hyper after the flight. Maybe a swim is a good idea after all.

“OK.” I relent. “You can go in in your underpants. But quietly. Don’t splash anyone.”

Eagerly, Noah starts to strip off, discarding his clothes with abandon.

“Look after my wallet, please,” he says with grown-up precision, and hands me the airline wallet he was given on the flight. “I want some credit cards to go in it,” he adds.

“You’re not quite old enough for credit cards,” I say, folding up his trousers and putting them neatly on a velvet-upholstered banquette.

“Here’s one,” says Lorcan, and hands him a Starbucks card. “Expired,” he adds to me.

“Cool!” says Noah in delight, and carefully slots it into his wallet. “I want it to be full like Daddy’s.”

I’m about to make a barbed comment about Daddy’s bulging wallet—but rein myself back just in time. That would be bitter. And I’m not doing bitter. I’m doing sweetness and light.

“Daddy works hard for his money,” I say in sugary tones. “We should be proud of him, Noah.”

“Geronimo!” Noah is running up to the pool. A moment later he lands in a bomb with the most almighty splash. Water showers onto a nearby blonde in a minidress, who recoils in horror and brushes the drops off her legs.

“So sorry,” I call over cheerfully. “Occupational hazard of drinking next to a swimming pool!”

Noah has begun his extremely splashy version of the front crawl and is drawing looks of consternation from beautiful people and beautiful waitstaff alike.

“What’s the betting that Noah is the first person ever to swim in this pool?” says Lorcan in amusement.

As we’re watching, Richard enters the bar, along with a group of travelers I recognize from the plane. He looks wearier than he did earlier on, and I feel a twinge of sympathy for him.

“Hi,” he greets us, and sinks onto the banquette. “Heard from Lottie again?”

“Yes, and the good news is they still haven’t got it together!” I say, to cheer him up.

“Still?” Lorcan sets down his glass with an incredulous crash. “What is wrong with them?”

“Allergic mishap.” I shrug carelessly. “They used peanut oil or something on Lottie and she swelled up.”

“Peanut oil?” Richard looks up suddenly, concerned. “Well, is she OK? Did they call a doctor?”

“I think she’s fine. Really.”

“Because those reactions can be dangerous. Why did they use peanut oil, for God’s sake? Didn’t she warn them?”

“I … don’t know,” I say evasively. “What’s that?” I add, to change the subject, and nod at the piece of paper Richard is holding.