The Perfect Girlfriend(54)

There is a sharp rap at the door. I open it. A waiter pushes in a table on wheels, upon which rests an ice bucket and several silver domes.

‘Hi. Do you mind leaving this right here?’ I say, blocking him from entering the room any further.

I guess they’ve seen all sorts, but pride prevents me from letting him think that I’m going to drink and scoff my way through this lot whilst Nate is asleep. The waiter takes his time lifting each dome lid, offering an unnecessary description, then pops the champagne cork.

‘Don’t pour,’ I say. ‘We can do it.’

He hands me the bill to sign. I help myself to some dollars from Nate’s wallet. It’s time he contributed. As the waiter opens the door to leave, a porter is standing there with the wedding memento package. I dip into Nate’s wallet again.

With our wedding ceremony playing on my laptop in the background, I pour the champagne down the basin and tip the empty bottle upside down in the ice bucket. I break up some of the salmon and caper canapés, scrape oysters from their shells and squish them into a napkin. I retch. All this is a huge waste, I know that. But the more memory gaps that Nate has, the more he will rely on me to fill them in. And if he has any doubts that he was any less than a one hundred per cent willing participant, then all this physical evidence will prove to him that he was as swept along in the moment as I was.

We are both to blame.

I brush my teeth, but leave my make-up on. I attempt to brush Nate’s, but it is messy and futile. I pull off his clothes and scatter them on the floor. On the desk, I leave out a large photo of us and our marriage certificate. If we get up early enough tomorrow, we could go ring shopping.

He could also call his family and announce the good news. I’m in, I’m finally in! However, I do feel a twist of nerves at the thought of Bella’s reaction, but even if she does have anything negative to say, it will be too little, too late.

I undress and slide into bed, falling into a well-earned sleep next to my husband.

I deliberately left the curtains open. I want the sun to stream in. It doesn’t disappoint, marking the first day of our honeymoon.

Nate is still asleep.

I slip out of bed. The air conditioning blasts out. I shiver and turn it down. I clean my teeth and return to bed, reliving last night.

Nate stirs. I nearly scream as his eyes open suddenly and he stares at me.

Silence.

‘Morning, sleepyhead. It’s early afternoon. Coffee?’

He continues to stare, but his eyes don’t look fully open.

I kiss him. ‘I’ll make one. Just how you like it. I intend to start this new life as I mean to go on.’

He sits up and in the mirror opposite I can see he is still staring. He doesn’t seem to clock our wedding photo or any of the other clues showing indisputable evidence of our love. I push the filter button on the coffee machine and watch as the liquid bubbles into the glass jug, splashes of black dirtying the sides. I look up and smile at Nate in the mirror. He gives a weak one back. I fill two mugs, add plenty of creamer to Nate’s and stroll back to the bed, handing him his. He pushes himself up with his left hand and accepts it with his right. I climb in beside him and take a sip. It is delicious; the perfect strength.

‘So, it was quite a night?’ he finally speaks in a hoarse voice.

I laugh. ‘You’re so funny, babe. That’s the understatement of the year. You really surprised me; I had no idea that your feelings for me were still so strong. My only concern is how I’m going to break the news to Matt. He’ll be gutted.’

‘I feel dreadful. You have my word that I won’t cause problems for you. There’s no point in hurting someone for nothing. I guess we both overdid the drink?’ He smiles.

The bastard actually smiles at me. As though his behaviour is reasonable.

I smile back. ‘Wouldn’t that be a bit deceitful?’

I lean over and leave my mug on the side. I take his cup, stretch over him and leave his on the side too. I run my hand over his chest, then I kiss him. He tastes of stale alcohol, despite my attempts to brush his teeth last night. At first he hesitates, but I persist. I know him. I know him too well, and my knowledge is his weakness.

It is over in minutes, but I don’t care. The final hurdle is over. I cuddle into him.

After a few seconds, he moves my arm and pulls himself into an upright seated position. ‘Lily. This has been great. But—’

‘But what?’

‘But . . .’ He stares ahead.

I know what he thinks he’s going to say. But he can’t.

He will need a little time to accept the sudden change in his life. I get that. I developed a little theory recently, which I named my ‘Olive Stone Theory’. Whenever I bite into an olive, I expect a stone. I am prepared. I am not like Nate – or pampered people like him, who expect to bite into their bloody olives, pitted, soft and perfect – I anticipate problems and mentally deal with them in advance.

My husband frowns. He holds up his left hand, then his eyes explore the room, resting on our wedding photo. He leaps up, looking around.

I watch.

‘Lily? What on earth?’

‘Don’t you mean Mrs Goldsmith? This is our honeymoon, darling. Come back to bed. It’s call-time in a few hours. We’re going back home. Remember? I’m moving back in until we choose a place together.’