Wedding Night

  Wedding Night is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2013 by Madhen Mediaworks LLP

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by The Dial Press, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  DIAL PRESS is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

  Published simultaneously in the United Kingdom by Bantam Press, an imprint of Transworld Publishers, a division of The Random House Group, Ltd.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Kinsella, Sophie.

  Wedding night: a novel / Sophie Kinsella.

  pages cm

  eISBN: 978-0-8129-9385-1

  1. Single women—Fiction. 2. Marriage—Fiction

  3. Love stories. I. Title.

  PR6073.I246W43 2013

  823′.914—dc23 2012047618

  www.dialpress.com

  Title-page art: © iStockphoto.com

  Jacket design: Shasti O’Leary Soudant

  Jacket illustration: Anne Keenan Higgins

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Other Books by This Author

  About the Author

  Prologue

  ARTHUR

  Young people! With their hurrying and their worrying and their wanting all the answers now. They wear me out, the poor, harried things.

  Don’t come back, I always tell them. Don’t come back.

  Youth is still where you left it, and that’s where it should stay. Anything that was worth taking on life’s journey, you’ll already have taken with you.

  Twenty years I’ve been saying this, but do they listen? Do they, hell. Here comes another of them now. Panting and puffing as he reaches the top of the cliff. Late thirties, I’d guess. Attractive enough, against the blue sky. Looks a bit like a politician. Do I mean that? Maybe a movie star.

  I don’t remember his face from the old days. Not that that means anything. These days I barely even recall my own face when I glimpse it in the mirror. I can see this chap’s gaze raking the surroundings, taking in me sitting in my chair under my favorite olive tree.

  “Are you Arthur?” he says abruptly.

  “Guilty.”

  I scan him adroitly. Looks well off. Wearing one of those expensive-logo polo shirts. Probably good for a few double Scotches.

  “You must want a drink,” I say pleasantly. Always useful to steer the conversation in the direction of the bar early on.

  “I don’t want a drink,” he says. “I want to know what happened.”

  I can’t help stifling a yawn. So predictable. He wants to know what happened. Another merchant banker having a midlife crisis, returning to the scene of his youth. The scene of the crime. Leave it where it was, I want to answer. Turn round. Return to your adult, problematic life, because you won’t solve it here.

  But he wouldn’t believe me. They never do.

  “Dear boy,” I say gently. “You grew up. That’s what happened.”

  “No,” he says impatiently, and rubs his sweaty brow. “You don’t understand. I’m here for a reason. Listen to me.” He comes forward a few paces, an impressive height and figure against the sun, intentness of purpose on his handsome face. “I’m here for a reason,” he repeats. “I wasn’t going to get involved—but I can’t help it. I have to do this. I want to know what exactly happened.…”

  Twenty Days Earlier

  1

  LOTTIE

  I’ve bought him an engagement ring. Was that a mistake?

  I mean, it’s not a girly ring. It’s a plain band with a tiny diamond in it, which the guy in the shop talked me into. If Richard doesn’t like the diamond, he can always turn it round.

  Or not wear it at all. Keep it on his nightstand or in a box or whatever.

  Or I could take it back and never mention it. Actually, I’m losing confidence in this ring by the minute, but I just felt bad that he wouldn’t have anything. Men don’t get the greatest deal out of a proposal. They have to set up the occasion, they have to get down on one knee, they have to ask the question, and they have to buy a ring. And what do we have to do? Say “yes.”

  Or “no,” obviously.

  I wonder what proportion of marriage proposals end in a “yes” and what proportion end in a “no”? I open my mouth automatically to share this thought with Richard—then hastily close it again. Idiot.

  “Sorry?” Richard glances up.

  “Nothing!” I beam. “Just … great menu!”

  I wonder if he’s bought a ring already. I don’t mind, either way. On the one hand, it’s fabulously romantic if he has. On the other hand, it’s fabulously romantic to choose one together.

  It’s a win-win.

  I sip my water and smile lovingly at Richard. We’re sitting at a corner table overlooking the river. It’s a new restaurant on the Strand, just up from the Savoy. All black-and-white marble and vintage chandeliers and button-back chairs in pale gray. It’s elegant but not showy. The perfect place for a lunchtime proposal. I’m wearing an understated bride-to-be white shirt, a print skirt, and have splashed out on stay-up stockings, just in case we decide to cement the engagement later on. I’ve never worn stay-up stockings before. But, then, I’ve never been proposed to before.

  Ooh, maybe he’s booked a room at the Savoy.

  No. Richard’s not flash like that. He’d never make a ridiculous, out-of-proportion gesture. Nice lunch, yes; overpriced hotel room, no. Which I respect.

  He’s looking nervous. He’s fiddling with his cuffs and checking his phone and swirling the water round in his glass. As he sees me watching him, he smiles too.

  “So.”

  “So.”

  It’s as though we’re speaking in code, skirting around the real issue. I fiddle with my napkin and adjust my chair. This waiting is unbearable. Why doesn’t he get it over with?

  No, I don’t mean “get it over with.” Of course I don’t. It’s not a vaccination. It’s … Well, what is it? It’s a beginning. A first step. The pair of us embarking on a great adventure together. Because we want to take on life as a team. Because we can’t think of anyone else we’d rather share that journey with. Because I love him and he loves me.

  I’m getting misty-eyed already. This is hopeless. I’ve been like this for days, ever since I realized what he was driving at.

  He’s quite heavy-handed, Richard. I mean, in
a good, lovable way. He’s direct and to the point and doesn’t play games. (Thank God.) Nor does he land massive surprises on you out of the blue. On my last birthday, he hinted for ages that his present was going to be a surprise trip, which was ideal because I knew to get down my overnight bag and pack a few things.

  Although, in the end, he did catch me out, because it wasn’t a weekend away, as I’d predicted. It was a train ticket to Stroud, which he had biked to my desk with no warning, on my midweek birthday. It turned out he’d secretly arranged with my boss for me to have two days off, and when I finally arrived at Stroud, a car whisked me to the most adorable Cotswold cottage, where he was waiting with a fire burning and a sheepskin rug laid out in front of the flames. (Mmm. Let’s just say that sex in front of a roaring fire is the best thing ever. Except when that stupid spark flew out and burned my thigh. But never mind. Tiny detail.)

  So this time, when he began dropping hints, again they weren’t exactly subtle indications. They were more like massive signposts plonked in the road: I will be proposing to you soon. First he set up this date and called it a “special lunch.” Then he referred to a “big question” he had to ask me and half-winked (to which I feigned ignorance, of course). Then he started teasing me by asking if I like his surname, Finch. (As it happens, I do like it. I don’t mean I won’t miss being Lottie Graveney, but I’ll be very happy to be Mrs. Lottie Finch.)

  I almost wish he’d been more roundabout and this was going to be more of a surprise. But, there again, at least I knew to get a manicure.

  “So, Lottie, have you decided yet?” Richard looks up at me with that warm smile of his, and my stomach swoops. Just for an instant I thought he was being super-clever and that was his proposal.

  “Um …” I look down to hide my confusion.

  Of course the answer will be “yes.” A big, joyful “yes.” I can still hardly believe we’ve arrived at this place. Marriage. I mean, marriage! In the three years Richard and I have been together, I’ve deliberately avoided the question of marriage, commitment, and all associated subjects (children, houses, sofas, herbs in pots). We sort of live together at his place, but I still have my own flat. We’re a couple, but at Christmas we go home to our own families. We’re in that place.

  After about a year, I knew we were good together. I knew I loved him. I’d seen him at his best (the surprise birthday trip, tied with the time I drove over his foot by mistake and he didn’t shout at me) and his worst (obstinately refusing to ask for directions, all the way to Norfolk, with broken sat nav. It took six hours). And I still wanted to be with him. I got him. He’s not the show-offy kind, Richard. He’s measured and deliberate. Sometimes you think he’s not even listening—but then he’ll come to life so suddenly, you realize he was alert the whole time. Like a lion, half asleep under the tree but ready for the kill. Whereas I’m a bit more of a gazelle, leaping around. We complement each other. It’s Nature.

  (Not in a food-chain sense, obviously. In a metaphorical sense.)

  So I knew, after a year, he was The One. But I also knew what would happen if I put a foot wrong. In my experience, the word “marriage” is like an enzyme. It causes all kinds of reactions in a relationship, mostly of the breaking-down kind.

  Look at what happened with Jamie, my first long-term boyfriend. We’d been happily together for four years and I just happened to mention that my parents got married at the same age we were (twenty-six and twenty-three). That was it. One mention. Whereupon he freaked out and said we had to take “a break.” A break from what? Until that moment we’d been fine. So clearly what he needed a break from was the risk of hearing the word “marriage” again. Clearly this was such a major worry that he couldn’t even face seeing me, for fear that my mouth might start to form the word again.

  Before the “break” was over, he was with that red-haired girl. I didn’t mind, because by then I’d met Seamus. Seamus, with his sexy Irish lilting voice. And I don’t even know what went wrong with him. We were besotted for about a year—crazy all-night-sex nothing-else-in-life-matters besotted—until all of a sudden we were arguing every night instead. We went from exhilarating to exhausting in about twenty-four hours. It was toxic. Too many state-of-the-nation summits about “Where are we heading?” and “What do we want from this relationship?” and it wore us both out. We limped on for another year, and when I look back, it’s as though that second year is a big black miserable blot in my life.

  Then there was Julian. That lasted two years too, but it never really took. It was like a skeleton of a relationship. I suppose both of us were working far too hard. I’d recently moved to Blay Pharmaceuticals and was traveling all over the country. He was trying to get partnership at his accountancy firm. I’m not sure we ever even broke up properly—we just drifted apart. We meet up occasionally, as friends, and it’s the same for both of us—we’re not quite sure where it all went wrong. He even asked me out on a date a year or so ago, but I had to tell him I was with someone now and really happy. And that was Richard. The guy I really do love. The guy sitting opposite me with a ring in his pocket (maybe).

  Richard is definitely better-looking than any of my other boyfriends. (Maybe I’m biased, but I think he’s gorgeous.) He works hard as a media analyst, but he’s not obsessed. He’s not as rich as Julian, but who cares? He’s energetic and funny and has an uproarious laugh that makes my spirits lift, whatever mood I’m in. He calls me “Daisy,” ever since we went on a picnic where I made him a daisy chain. He can lose his temper with people—but that’s OK. No one’s perfect. When I look back over our relationship, I don’t see a black blot, like with Seamus, or a blank space, like with Julian. I see a cheesy music video. A montage, with blue skies and smiles. Happy times. Closeness. Laughter.

  And now we’re getting to the climax of the montage. The bit where he kneels down, takes a deep breath …

  I’m feeling so nervous for him. I want this to go beautifully. I want to be able to tell our children that I fell in love with their father all over again, the day he proposed.

  Our children. Our home. Our life.

  As I let my mind roll around the images, I feel a release inside me. I’m ready for this. I’m thirty-three years old and I’m ready. All my grown-up life, I’ve steered away from the subject of marriage. My friends are the same. It’s as though there’s been a crime-scene cordon around the whole area: NO ENTRY. You just don’t go there, because if you do, you’ve jinxed it and your boyfriend chucks you.

  But now there’s nothing to jinx. I can feel the love flowing between us, over the table. I want to grab Richard’s hands. I want to envelop him in my arms. He is such a wonderful, wonderful man. I’m so lucky. In forty years when we’re both wrinkled and gray, perhaps we’ll walk up the Strand hand in hand and remember today and thank God we found each other. I mean, what were the chances, in this teeming world of strangers? Love is so random. So random. It’s a miracle, really.…

  Oh God, I’m blinking.…

  “Lottie?” Richard has noticed my damp eyes. “Hey, Daisy-doo. Are you OK? What’s up?”

  Even though I’ve been more honest with Richard than I have with any other boyfriend, it’s probably not a good idea to reveal my entire thought process to him. Fliss, my big sister, says I think in Hollywood Technicolor and I have to remember that other people can’t hear the swooping violins.

  “Sorry!” I dab at my eyes. “Nothing. I just wish you didn’t have to go.”

  Richard is flying off tonight to an assignment in San Francisco. It’s three months—could be worse—but I’ll miss him terribly. In fact, it’s only the thought that I’ll have a wedding to plan which is distracting me.

  “Sweetheart, don’t cry. I can’t bear it.” He reaches out to take my hands. “We’ll Skype every day.”

  “I know.” I squeeze his hands back. “I’ll be ready.”

  “Although you might want to remember that, if I’m in my office, everyone can hear what you’re saying. Including my boss.”
<
br />   Only a tiny flicker of his eyes gives away the fact that he’s teasing me. The last time he was away and we Skyped, I started giving him advice on how to manage his nightmare boss, forgetting that Richard was in an open-plan office and the nightmare boss was liable to walk past at any minute. (Luckily, he didn’t.)

  “Thanks for that tip.” I shrug, equally deadpan.

  “Also, they can see you. So you might not want to be totally naked.”

  “Not totally,” I agree. “Maybe just a transparent bra and panties. Keep it simple.”

  Richard grins and grasps my hands more tightly. “I love you.” His voice is low and warm and melting. I will never, ever get sick of him saying that.

  “Me too.”

  “In fact, Lottie …” He clears his throat. “I have something to ask you.…”

  My insides feel as if they’re going to explode. My face is a rictus of anticipation while my thoughts are spinning wildly. Oh God … he’s doing it.… My whole life changes here.… Concentrate, Lottie … savor the moment.… Shit! What’s wrong with my leg?

  I stare down at it in horror.

  Whoever made these “stay-up stockings” is a liar and will go to hell, because one of them hasn’t bloody well stayed up. It’s collapsed around my knee and there’s a really gross plastic “adhesive” strip flapping around my calf. This is hideous.

  I can’t be proposed to like this. I can’t spend the rest of my life looking back and thinking, It was such a romantic moment; shame about the stocking.

  “Sorry, Richard.” I cut him off. “Just wait a sec.…”

  Surreptitiously, I reach down and yank the stocking up—but the flimsy fabric tears in my hand. Great. Now I have both flapping plastic and shreds of nylon decorating my leg. I cannot believe my marriage proposal is being wrecked by hosiery. I should have gone for bare legs.

  “Everything OK?” Richard looks a little baffled as I emerge from under the table.

  “I have to go to the Ladies’,” I mutter. “I’m sorry. Sorry. Can we put things on pause? Just for a nanosecond?”

  “Are you OK?”

  “I’m fine.” I’m red with embarrassment. “I’ve had a … a garment mishap. I don’t want you to see. Will you look away?”