She lifted her gaze, just in time to see Bella pretending to snog the sculpture.
No. She may feel shame, but she didn’t do ridicule. Not by her. ‘I can see you think the sculpture is too much. Perhaps it is. I don’t go on hen weekends. I don’t know what the unwritten rules are. I’ve never known the rules. I simply thought it would be nice. I wanted to do something nice for Lexi.’
Bella’s laughter vanished. She set down the sculpture, looking sheepish. ‘Sorry. That was rude of me. The sculpture is amazing, Eleanor. Really. I was only messing around because it’s a bit … intense.’
There was a long pause. ‘I suppose it’s lucky I didn’t give Lexi the naked version.’
Bella stared at her. And then she laughed. They all did.
Eleanor had remembered one of the rules after all: humour.
12
Lexi
Lexi couldn’t sleep. Somewhere close to her face, a mosquito whined. It was hot and pitch-black in the room – so dark she couldn’t be sure whether her eyes were open or shut. Beside her, she could hear the slow draw of Robyn’s breath.
She could never sleep when she arrived in a new place. She’d read an article about it once. The first-night effect, it was called. Some evolutionary throwback to do with the left hemisphere of the brain remaining active so it could be alert to threats or potential danger.
Lexi swung her legs out of bed, pressing her feet into the cool tiles. Her skin felt clammy, her chest tight. She plucked Ed’s T-shirt away from her skin, eager to feel a breeze. She caught the scent of his aftershave, a deep citrus note married with something smoked. Saliva pooled at the back of her throat.
She got to her feet, moving silently through the darkness, fingers splayed like antennae. She reached the shutters, pushing them open. The moon was cloaked in cloud and the night stretched endlessly, nothing to interrupt the black apart from the eerie glow of the swimming pool.
She twisted her engagement ring, missing the lights of London and its comforting orchestra of traffic. Here, there was only the drone of insects, the distant wash of the sea. No streetlights; no houses; no phone signal.
Just them.
She turned away. Her heart was racing. Hadn’t settled all day. She tiptoed out of the bedroom door and downstairs, heading for the kitchen.
Opening the fridge, she blinked into the bright interior light, enjoying the blast of chilled air. She removed a bottle of mineral water and poured a tall glass. She sipped it slowly, a hip against the kitchen counter, letting her breathing settle.
Strange to be here. Greece. Celebrating her hen party. It was the pressure that was making her uneasy, she decided. Everyone coming here for her.
Or perhaps it was the wedding. A few years ago, she’d been at a friend’s wedding reception and found herself sitting beneath a huge oak tree, the moon glimmering between its branches, Bella beside her tipping back a bottle of free wine she’d grabbed from their table.
‘Promise me we’ll never do that,’ Lexi had said.
Bella looked across to the open-sided marquee where a middle-aged woman was dancing hopelessly offbeat, her skirt hitched around her thighs. ‘What, dance badly in an M&S two-piece to Lionel Richie? I won’t make a promise I can’t keep.’
Lexi grinned. ‘I mean, promise me we won’t get married.’
‘Hell yes. That’s a promise I can keep. We’re not doing marriage. We’re doing partying and adventuring and skipping off to a festival on a moment’s notice. These suckers with their mortgages and pension plans, they can read in bed with the same person for the next four decades. I’ll keep my credit arrangement with Agent Provocateur, thanks.’
Lexi had rested her head on Bella’s shoulder. ‘I love you.’
‘Course you do.’
Yet now, here she was, four weeks away from saying I do to a man who kept reading glasses in his bedside drawer and had a subscription to the Financial Times. Yet, she found that maybe she did want it, after all. Maybe she liked going to bed sober, early, with him and a book. Maybe she liked living in his house, where there was always good food in the fridge and clean towels in the bathroom. Maybe she wanted in on that dream of a home, a husband, a family.
But what if the appeal was no more than the trick of novelty? What about a year from now? Three? Five? Still in that same bed. That same man.
She set down her glass, pressing her cold fingertips against her brow.
Her parents’ marriage was no blueprint for happiness. Growing up, Lexi’s father was often away racing cars and, during those periods, her mother would fall into a slump, wearing the same clothes for days on end, forgetting to food-shop or pack Lexi lunch for school. The bins overflowed with take-away containers and wine bottles, the windows were kept shut, dishes cluttered the side. Then, the day before her father was due back, the house would be frantically cleaned, the windows pushed wide so that fresh air blasted through every room. Her mother would have her hair coloured and her nails manicured. A new outfit would appear. The fridge would be restocked, and she’d cook an elaborate meal that made the house smell like a home once again. Lexi would be made to wear a pretty dress and have her hair brushed, hard bristles scratching her scalp, leaving it pinkened and sore.