“I agree.” I nod. “We went to Italy and it was endless churches.”
“Churches!” She rolls her eyes. “Tell me about it. That was us in Venice. I said to him, ‘Do you ever go to churches in England? Why the sudden interest just because we’re on holiday?’ ”
“That’s exactly what I said to Richard!” I say eagerly.
“My husband’s called Richard too!” the woman exclaims. “Isn’t that funny? Richard what?”
She smiles at me, but I stare back, stricken. What have I been saying? Why did my thoughts instantly go to Richard, not Ben? What is wrong with me?
“Actually …” I rub my face, trying to calm my thoughts. “Actually, my husband’s not called Richard.”
“Oh.” She looks taken aback. “Sorry. I thought you said …” She peers closer in dismay. “Are you all right?”
Oh God. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Tears are streaming out of my eyes. Lots of tears. I wipe them away and try to smile.
“I’m sorry.” I swallow hard. “I’ve recently split up from my boyfriend. I haven’t really got over it.”
“Your boyfriend?” The woman stares at me, disconcerted. “I thought you said you were on your honeymoon?”
“I am,” I sob. “I am on my honeymoon!” And now I’m really crying: huge, racking, childlike sobs.
“So which one is Richard?”
“Not my husband!” My voice rises to an anguished wail. “Richard’s not my husband! He never asked me! He never asked meeeee!”
“I’ll give you some privacy,” says the woman awkwardly, and clambers down off the rock. As she disappears hastily from view, I give way to the noisiest, most abandoned crying I’ve ever indulged in.
I feel homesick. Homesick for Richard. I miss him so much. I feel as though when we split up he wrenched a bit of my heart out. For a while the adrenaline of the situation kept me going—but now I’m realizing just how wounded I am. My whole body’s throbbing with the pain, and it’s nowhere near healing.
I miss him, I miss him, I miss him.
I miss his humor and his sense. I miss the feel of him in bed. I miss catching his eye at a party and knowing we’re thinking the same thing. I miss the smell of him. He smells the way a man should. I miss his voice and his kisses and even his feet. I miss everything.
And I’m married to someone else.
I give a fresh, desperate sob. Why did I get married? What was I thinking? I know Ben is hot and fun and charming, but suddenly that all seems meaningless. It feels hollow.
So what do I do now? I bury my head in my hands, feeling my breathing gradually slow down. I’m twisting my wedding ring round and round on my finger. I’ve never felt so terrified in my life. I’ve made mistakes before, but never on this scale. Never with these repercussions.
I can’t do anything about it, my brain is telling me. I’m stuck. Trapped. It’s my own fault.
The sun is beating strongly on my head. I should really get down off the rock and move into the shade. But I can’t bring myself to. I can’t move a muscle. Not till I’ve sorted myself out. Not till I’ve made a few decisions.
It’s nearly an hour before I move. I jump down from the rock, dust myself off, and head swiftly toward the guest house. Ben didn’t bother trying to find me to see if I was all right, I note. But I don’t even care anymore.
I see them before they see me. Ben is sitting close to Sarah on the veranda, his hand curled around her shoulders and playing lightly with her strap. It’s so obvious what has been going on, I feel like screaming. But, instead, I creep toward the guest house, staying silent as a cat.
Kiss, I’m willing them. Kiss. Confirm what I secretly believe.
I stand there, hardly breathing, my eyes fixed on them. It’s like watching Ben and me when we met up in the restaurant however many days ago. They’re revisiting their teenage fling. They can’t help it. The hormones emanating from them are so strong, they’re almost visible. Sarah is laughing at something Ben is saying, and he’s playing with her hair now, and they’ve got that intense couple-y look going on and …
Houston, we have touchdown.
Their lips have fixed together. His hand is exploring inside her tank top. Before this can go any further, I march toward the veranda, feeling like a soap opera actress who’s slightly late for her cue.
“How could you?” As I yell the words, I realize there’s a genuine torment behind them. How could he bring me here, to the scene of his other teenage fling, the one which predates me and which he never mentioned? He should have known Sarah would be here. He should have known the teenage hormones would flare up again. Did he do it all on purpose? Is it a game?
