My Fake Wedding(121)

That night, all much more relaxed, we eat dinner under the stars, which have finally come out now the rain has stopped. At eleven thirty, Janice goes to bed, giving me another ginormous kick under the table. At twelve, after two more ports each, George and David say it’s time to hit the sack too. Sam and I are left alone.

And I’m completely tongue-tied. But I have to tell him how I feel. Janice is right. If I don’t, it might be too late. And I only have tonight and tomorrow night before we have to go home. And back in London, with the pressures of work and the horrible weather, it just won’t be the same.

When we get back to our room, Sam takes both my hands, pulls me to my feet and gives me an enormous bear hug.

‘Do you like your surprise?’

‘I love it,’ I say truthfully, almost adding, ‘If only it could include bonking you.’

I do love it. Our room has French windows, leading out to our very own deck. A jacuzzi bubbles away outside, and beside it are two steamer chairs covered in clouds of fluffy white towels. The complimentary bottles of citrussy bubble bath and lavender water in my marble bathroom are litre, rather than trial sized. As are the bottles of gin and vodka on the sideboard.

Plus, the fridge is stuffed with Belgian chocolates and Veuve Cliquot champagne.

Heaven.

I could get very used to this.

‘You deserve a bit of luxury.’ He shrugs. ‘I’m glad you like it.’ I hug him.

‘Consider it a wedding present,’ he chuckles.

We luxuriate in the hot tub for a while, enjoying the warmer air and drinking the bottle of bubbly we find in the fridge (the label round the neck says ‘Congratulations on your honeymoon’, but we decide to drink it anyway). I find it almost impossible to be so close to him without telling him how I feel. But I just daren’t. What if I have to face rejection?

But our legs are so close together, almost touching, that it’s torture not to reach out and touch his thigh, which is already tanned a deep Mediterranean brown from goodness knows when. Next to him, I feel as British as beef dripping.

I chicken out of saying anything, of course, and we stay on separate sides of the big double bed. But I can’t sleep.

Neither, it seems, can Sam.

‘How do you feel about this wedding thing now?’ he asks me suddenly.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, you’re getting married in a few weeks and you and Jake are back together again. I just thought…’

‘I have to be with someone, don’t I?’ I laugh. ‘And I can’t very well bonk my fiancé. Not with him preferring the old back door delivery.’

‘I did offer to sleep with you,’ Sam says. ‘If you remember.’

‘You did?’ I don’t remember that. ‘When?’

‘Your birthday. But you said you’d rather shag Neil Kinnock.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘It wasn’t Nicholas Witchell?’

‘No.’

‘I’m joking.’

And I am. But one thought goes round and round in my head.

He could at least have the courtesy to bonk me now.

Well, couldn’t he?

Most blokes would surely have had a go by now. What with us being on holiday and all. In the same room. And we’ve had loads to drink, so he can’t be shy.

And, every nerve in my body is screaming. It must be fucking obvious I fancy the pants off him.

But somehow, at some point, we both must have passed out. Because when I wake in the morning I’m not aware of anything having happened. And I wasn’t that pissed.

Over a delicious breakfast of mango and watermelon, which we eat by the swimming pool, I bemoan my fate to Janice.

‘It’s up to you,’ she says. ‘You have to make the first move.’

‘Why?’

‘He still thinks you’re with Jake, remember? And Nick. He can’t make the first move. It wouldn’t be proper. He’s too much of a gent.’

‘Is he?’ I ask, surprised. Thinking back, I suppose he is. I’ve just never thought of him like that before. I mean, he was prepared to stand by Pussy when he thought he’d got her pregnant, wasn’t he? When he didn’t even love her. I mean, how gentlemanly is that? Pure bloody Jane Austen.

God. Come to think of it, he’s bloody lovely.

Why the hell would he be interested in me?

‘I’ll tell him tonight,’ I say.

‘Good.’ Janice gets back to her mango and asks the waiter if they’ve got any pickled onions to go with.

‘You’re rank,’ I tell her.



I spend all day with Sam. George and David are both trying to windsurf and Janice prefers to flobber around in the shallows eating Soleros, so we both stretch out by the pool and read our books. And still I chicken out from saying anything. I’m cursing myself later that night. I’ve got one evening left. How the hell am I going to do it?