“It’s in half an hour,” says Lottie. “They rub you with oil and then leave you alone for some private time. Honestly, Fliss.” She lowers her voice. “Ben and I are just gagging for it.”
I’m hopping with agitation. This was not the plan. I’m stuck in bloody Sofia and she and Ben are about to conceive a baby on the beach, whom no doubt they’ll christen “Beach” and then viciously fight over in the high court when it all falls apart. As soon as I’ve said goodbye, I speed-dial Nico.
“Well?” Richard instantly questions me. “What’s the situation?”
“The situation is: I’m on top of the situation,” I say curtly as I’m put through to voicemail. “Hello, Nico, it’s Fliss. We need to talk, asap. Give me a call. Bye.”
“So what did Lottie say?” demands Richard as I end the call. “Did they win?”
“Apparently so.”
“Bastard.” He’s breathing heavily. “Bastard. What does he know about her that I don’t? What’s he got that I haven’t? Apart from, obviously, the stately home—”
“Richard, stop!” I snap in exasperation. “It’s not a competition!”
Richard stares at me as though I’m the thickest moron that ever existed. “Of course it’s a competition,” he says.
“No, it isn’t!”
“Fliss, everything in a man’s life is a competition!” He suddenly loses it. “Don’t you realize that? From the moment you’re a three-year-old boy, peeing up against the wall with your friends, all you really care about is: Am I bigger than him? Am I taller? Am I more successful? Is my wife hotter? So, the day that some smooth bastard with a private jet runs off with the girl you love: yes, it’s a competition.”
“You don’t know he’s got a private jet,” I say after a pause.
“I’m guessing.”
There’s silence. In spite of myself, I’m rating Richard against Ben in my mind. Well, Richard would win in my book—but, then, I’ve never met Ben.
“Well, OK. Suppose you’re right,” I say at last. “What counts as winning? Where’s the finish line? She’s married to someone else. So doesn’t that mean you’ve already lost?”
I don’t mean to be harsh—but these are the facts.
“When I’ve told Lottie how I really feel … and she’s still said no,” says Richard resolutely, “then I’ll have lost.”
My stomach twinges with sympathy for him. He’s putting himself on the line here. No one can say he’s taking the easy way out.
“OK.” I nod. “Well, you know which way I would vote.” I squeeze his shoulder.
“What are they doing now?” He glances at my phone. “Tell me what they’re doing. I know she’ll have told you.”
“They’ve just had champagne and lobster,” I say reluctantly. “And Ben’s written her a love poem in French.”
“In French?” Richard looks as though someone has kneed him in the stomach. “Smarmy bastard.”
“And they’re planning to go to the guest house tomorrow,” I tell him, as Lorcan joins us. He and Noah are wheeling three cases between them. “Well done, you two! That’s all the luggage.”
“High five,” says Noah solemnly to Lorcan, and smacks his proffered palm.
“The guest house?” Richard looks stricken by this piece of news. “The guest house where they met?”
“Exactly.”
His scowl deepens. “She always goes on about that place. The calamari that was unlike any calamari in the world. And the secluded beach that was better than any other beach. I took her to Kos once, and all she could say was it wasn’t as good as the guest house.”
“Oh, jeez, the guest house.” Lorcan nods in agreement. “I hate that place. If I have to hear Ben tell me one more time about how the sunset was like a mind-altering experience …”
“Lottie went on about the sunset too.” Richard nods.
“And how they all used to get up at dawn and do fucking yoga—”
“—and the people—”
“—the atmosphere—”
“And the sea was the clearest, most turquoise, most perfect sea in existence,” I chime in, rolling my eyes. “I mean, get over it.”
“Bloody place,” says Lorcan.
“I wish it had burned down,” adds Richard.
We all look at each other, immensely cheered. There’s nothing like having a common enemy.
