Sophie Kinsella - Wedding Night

I open my eyes and swiftly type a list of people to thank. It goes on for ten lines, but better safe than sorry. I email it to Ian, headlined Speech! Urgent! and leap up from my desk.

“Fliss!” As I leave my office, Celia pounces on me. She’s one of our most prolific freelancers and has the trademark crow’s feet of the professional spa reviewer. You’d think that the spa treatments would cancel out the sun damage, but I find it tends to be the other way around. They really should stop putting spas in Thailand. They should situate them in northern wintry countries with no daylight at all.

Hmm. Is there a piece in that?

I quickly type into my BlackBerry: Zero-daylight spa? then look up. “Everything OK?”

“The Gruffalo is here. He looks livid.” She swallows. “Maybe I should leave.”

The Gruffalo is the industry nickname for Gunter Bachmeier. He owns a chain of ten luxury hotels and lives in Switzerland and has a forty-inch waist. I knew he was invited tonight, but I assumed he wouldn’t turn up. Not after our review of his new spa — hotel in Dubai, the Palm Stellar.

“It’s fine. Don’t worry.”

“Don’t tell him it was me.” Celia’s voice is actually trembling.

“Celia.” I grip her by both shoulders. “You stand by your review, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then.” I’m willing some strength into her, but she looks terrified. It’s amazing how someone who writes such savage, excoriating, witty prose can be so gentle and sensitive in the flesh.

Hmm. Is there a piece in that?

I type: Meet our reviewers in the flesh?? Profiles??

Then I delete it. Our readers don’t want to meet the reviewers. They don’t want to know that “CBD” lives in Hackney and is an accomplished poet on the side. They simply want to know that their massive slice of cash is going to buy them all the sunshine/snow, white beach/mountains, solitude/beautiful people, Egyptian cotton/hammocks, haute cuisine/expensive club sandwiches that they require of a five-star holiday.

“No one knows who ‘CBD’ is. You’re safe.” I pat her arm. “I have to run.” I’m already striding down the corridor again. I head into the central atrium and look around. It’s a large, airy, double-height hall―the only impressive space at Pincher International―and every year our overcrowded sub-editors suggest that it’s converted into office space. But it comes into its own for the awards party. I scan the space, ticking off items in my head. Massive iced cake in shape of magazine cover, which no one will eat: check. Caterers setting out glasses: check. Table of trophies: check. Ian from IT is crouching by the podium, fiddling with the auto reader.

“All OK?” I hurry over.

“Grand.” He jumps up. “I’ve loaded the speech. Want a sound check?”

I step onto the stage, switch on the microphone, and peer at the reader.

“Good evening!” I raise my voice. “I’m Felicity Graveney, editor of Pincher Travel Review , and I would like to welcome you to our twenty-third annual awards ceremony. And what a year it’s been.”

I can see from Ian’s sardonic eyebrow that I’m going to have to sound a bit more excited than that.

“Shut up,” I say, and he grins. “I have eighteen awards to present.…”

Which is far too many. Every year we have a stand-up battle over which ones to get rid of, and then we get rid of none.

“Blah, blah … OK, fine.” I switch off the mike. “See you later.”

As I hurry back down the corridor, I see Gavin, our publisher, at the far end. He’s ushering an unmistakable forty-inch waist into the lift. As I’m watching, the Gruffalo turns and flashes a menacing anti-smile at me. He holds up four stubby fingers and is still doing so as the doors close.

I know what that means, and I’m not going to be intimidated. So his new hotel got four stars from us instead of five. He should have created a better hotel. He should have invested in slightly more sand to lay on the concrete base of his “award-winning, man-created beach” and tried hiring slightly less pretentious staff.

I head into the Ladies’, survey my reflection, and wince. Sometimes I’m genuinely shocked at the version of me in the mirror. Do I look so unlike Angelina Jolie? When did those shadows appear under my eyes? Everything about me is too dark, I abruptly decide. My hair, my brows, my sallow skin. I need to get something bleached. Or maybe everything, all at once. There must surely be a spa somewhere that has an all-in-one bleaching tank. One quick dip; keep your mouth open for the teeth-whitening option.

Hmm. Is there a piece in that? I type Bleach? into my BlackBerry, then attack everything I can with brushes. Finally I apply a generous amount of Nars Red Lizard. One thing: I can damn well wear lipstick. Perhaps they’ll put it on my grave. FELICITY GRAVENEY LIES HERE. SHE COULD DAMN WELL

WEAR LIPSTICK.

I head out, glance at my watch, and press Daniel on speed dial as I walk. He’ll know I’m phoning now, we discussed the timing, he’ll pick up, he has to pick up.… Go on, Daniel, pick up.… Where are you …?

Voicemail.

Bastard .

With Daniel, I am quite capable of going from calm to seething in 0–60.

The beep sounds and I draw breath.

“You’re not there,” I say with elaborate calmness, walking toward my office. “That’s a shame, because I have to be at this event soon, which you knew, because we discussed it. Several times.”

My voice is shaking. I cannot allow him to get to me. Let it go, Fliss. Divorce is a process and this is a process and we’re all part of the Tao. Or the Zen. Whatever. The thing in all those books I was given with the word “Divorce” on the cover above a circle or a picture of a tree.

“Anyway.” I take a deep breath. “Maybe you can let Noah listen to this message? Thank you.”

I close my eyes briefly and remind myself I’m not talking to Daniel anymore. I have to shift his repulsive face out of my mind. I’m talking to the little face that lights up my life. The face that― against pretty tall odds―keeps the world making sense. I picture his shaggy fringe, his huge gray eyes, his school socks wrinkled around his ankles. Curled up on the sofa at Daniel’s place, with Monkey under his arm.

“Sweetheart, I hope you’re having a lovely time with Daddy. I’ll see you soon, OK? I’ll try calling later, but if I don’t manage it, then night night and I love you.”

I’m nearly at my office door now. I have stuff to do. But I can’t help talking for as long as possible, till the beep tells me to go and get a life.

“Night night, sweetheart.” I press the phone up against my cheek. “Have lovely dreams, OK? Night night―”

“Night night,” answers a familiar little voice, and I nearly trip over my party Manolos.

What was that? Am I hallucinating? Has he overridden the voicemail? I peer at my phone to make sure, give it a quick bash against my palm, and listen again.

“Hello?” I say cautiously.

“Hello! Hello-hello-hello …”

Oh my God. That voice isn’t coming from the phone. It’s coming from― I hurry round the corner into my office and there he is. My seven-year-old son. Sitting on the armchair I give to visitors.

“Mummy!” he yells in delight.

“Wow.” I’m almost speechless. “Noah. You’re here. At my office. That’s just … Daniel?” I turn to my ex-husband, who is standing by the window, flicking through a past issue of the magazine. “What’s going on? I thought Noah would be having tea by now? At your place?” I add with bright emphasis.

“As we planned?”

“But I’m not,” puts in Noah triumphantly.