6. Lavender
The flight wassmooth and the jet luxe, all cream leather and polished wood. And the destination, as it turns out, is Gibraltar.
I’m a first-time visitor, and the things I know about Gibraltar wouldn’t fill the back of a postage stamp. I know it’s a tiny bit of Spain that technically isn’t Spanish but a British overseas territory. I was still oddly amused to see an old-fashioned red telephone box as we whizzed by in our chauffeur-driven Mercedes. If I’d been here with Tod, we would’ve snapped a few pics for Instagram.
Anyway, I know the place has a rock and monkeys, and as of a few hours ago, I also know you can get married here in a hurry.
I arch my back and stretch as I keep my eyes on the vista, ignoring the voices jabbering behind me. Raif, his lawyer, and the two older men who were already at the villa when we arrived speak a language I don’t understand.
It sounds vaguely Spanish, but it isn’t Spanish. I studied the language for a couple of years at high school, not that I remember much more than tengo dieciséisa?os; I am sixteen years old, which I’m obviously not anymore.
But I’m sure I’ll remind my family of that girl when I waltz back with a new husband.
Reckless. Wild. No impulse control—that girl will get herself into trouble!
I’m pretty sure some of them still see me that way.
Just think of the money, I tell myself.
Ignoring the tense-sounding conversation, I leave the cool of the villa and cross the brilliant white-tiled terrace. I wish I’d worn something other than these heavy Doc Marten boots because the glass-edged infinity pool is calling to my sweaty little toesies.
When I’d pressed Raif on where we were actually going, he’d muttered something about sunshine. So I’d shoved very few clothes and my toiletries into my rucksack before pulling on a pair of slouchy socks and my trusty boots. It had felt like a statement rather than a good choice for the climate.
These boots are made for kicking butt! Though it’s mostly bravado.
The money, my mind whispers again. Don’t look at your handsome husband because you know what happens to your body when you do.
But it happens, of course. My gaze slides his way, setting off a wave of knicker flutters.
Si dondeestamitequila? The phrase floats into my mind. Where is my tequila? Before university, I spent a month working in a bar in Marbella, living off sun, sand, and sundowners. It’s probably the tequila’s fault I don’t remember much of the language.
I shudder with a visceral remembrance, forcibly moving my attention from the past and onto the view. The azure Mediterranean glitters under a white-hot sun, the rocky point of the peninsula jutting out to the right. I find myself wondering how long it’d take to walk from one end of the country to the other. Not that I’m going to, obviously.
Not in these boots.But you are about to get married in them.
My stomach turns over, and I’m almost certain it wasn’t from terror.
This heat. I really want to take my boots off, but it would probably look a bit weird. It’s midmorning here, and it’s already quite humid. It’s not helping my tiredness, but after drooling and snorting myself awake in his car, I wasn’t about to do the same on his jet. It wouldn’t have been hard, not after I’d insisted on reading through the prenup his lawyer handed to me.
I’m not a lawyer myself, but it all seemed pretty plain. If we separate, at my instigation, before the twelve months are up, I get nothing. At his instigation, before or at the twelve-month period, I get a cool million.
“You’re twenty-four?”
I turn to Raif’s voice. He looks angry as I nod. “Is there a problem with that?”
“I thought you were older.”
I arch my brow, though I’m not sure he can see me over my sunglasses. “You thought wrong, then.” I stare at him, expecting him to say more. When he doesn’t, I add, “My sister Heather is older. Maybe you confused me with her. Sadly for you, she’s already got a husband.”
He clears his throat. His smile is brief and stiff looking as he adds, “Excuse my fiancée, gentlemen. I do love her little jokes.”
Joke’s on him if he thinks I’m any kind of funny.
Huh.Maybe I remember more Spanish than I thought as I hear the rounder of the two men say el vestido. I think that’s the Spanish word for dress. He seems agitated, which isn’t helped by Raif’s dismissive retort. The conversation bounces back and forth before Raif catches my eye.
“We’re almost ready,” he says in English, obviously for my benefit.
My heart gallops.
“To do the deed? Get spliced,” I add when he doesn’t reply. “Yoked, hitched. Do the two becoming one thing,” I add, crossing the terrace as I bring my index fingers together. It seems my Spice Girls reference goes over my Raif’s head.
They were more Heather’s thing, anyway.
“Do you have your phone?”
I absently pat my back pockets. “No. Have you seen it?”
Raif reaches for my backpack, tugging it to the edge of the vast dining table. I pull open the leather toggle, widening the opening.
“I don’t suppose you have a dress in there,” he asks quietly.
“Yeah. It has a six-foot train and lacy mutton sleeves. Of course I—why would I have a dress?”
“This is proving a little trickier than I expected,” he mutters.
“What is?”
“S?nor Moreno—the one with the pink bow tie? He’s a commissioner for oaths.”
“Right.”
“He’s here because of the paperwork. And to collect his not inconsiderable fee,” he mutters unhappily. “Apparently, his sense of propriety is offended at the ramshackle style of our wedding.”
“Civil ceremony.”
Amusement flickers in his expression.
“You can laugh, but I feel the difference matters.”
“Maybe to you.”
I’ve never thought about the difference, to be honest. But that’s not to say I wouldn’t have spun him a whole tale about my belief in the sacrament of a church wedding over a mere civil ceremony if I thought it might hit a nerve.
“I bet we wouldn’t have had this trouble in Vegas,” I mutter.
“It would’ve taken less greasing of palms, too. But the distance and the time didn’t suit either of us.”
It makes me wonder what he has to be back in London for.
“So who’s the other one?” My eyes dart over his shoulder to where the taller of the two men is now enjoying the view on the terrace.
“S?nor Martin. He’s the registrar.”
My stomach flips. The one who’ll marry us.
“Well, I don’t have a dress.” I look up again from the depths of my backpack. “Maybe we’ll have to come back another day?” That sounded entirely too hopeful.
“Try again.”
How strange. And such confliction. Do I want to marry him? Not really. I don’t particularly want to marry anyone. But do I want a million in my bank? Absolutely, I do. And then there’s this tiny part of me that wouldn’t mind another go with his tongue. Not that I will in a marriage that’s strictly business.
He made that clear enough.
In the depths of the black canvas, my fingers fold around a wad of delicate fabric. “The best I have is a beach cover-up.”
“What, like a blanket?”
“Who takes a blanket to cover up at the beach?” I give my head an exasperated shake. “This.” I pull a little of the white crocheted garment out of my bag. “This is what you put on over a bikini.”
“You brought a bikini?”
“Is that a problem?”
“No, I’m just confused by your processing.”
“You said ‘sunny climate,’ so I packed accordingly.”
But he’s still frowning.
“I didn’t think I’d need a wedding dress,” I whisper hiss.
“Not even with a train and mutton sleeves?” The corner of his mouth curls.
“Don’t forget the hooped skirt. It’s mandatory.” My gaze slides over his shoulder to the men, then back again. “I thought we’d do it in what I’m standing in.”
“It wouldn’t be a first time,” he replies silkily.
“Not do it, do it.” Urgh, I sound so juvenile. I stuff my cover-up back into my backpack.
“I think I might like to marry you in a bikini.”
“I’m not sure it’ll fit you,” I say, ignoring the flame of pleasure his tone ignites.
“I’m serious. We’ll do it out by the pool. Put on the bikini and coverall—”
“Up. It’s cover-up.” I frown. “And it doesn’t cover a lot at all, to be honest.”
His eyes fall closed. Frustration probably, rather than him imagining me in it.
“Please,” he says, opening them again. “Put it on. If for no other reason than to give the old goat something to smile at.”
“I’m not the entertainment,” I retort.
“You’re more entertaining than you think.”
“I’m not providing him with an opportunity to perve at me!”
“I don’t think you’re his type,” he adds, glancing back at the man in the matching pink silk vest and bow tie.
“All the more reason for you to wear it.”
“Lavender.” His hand suddenly covers mine. “Bottom line? He wants to be able to say this didn’t look fake. I think we need to give him that.”
Crunch time.
My wedding. On the terrace. Overlooking the Mediterranean.
In the time it took me to shower, braid my hair, pin it up, and slap a little makeup on, the terrace has been turned into some semblance of a wedding venue. Complete with a designated aisle. I’m not going to ask where the arch of greenery has come from or who scattered pink rose petals between the two rows of chairs.
Maybe he’s worried I might get lost on the way.
Burying my nose in my bouquet, I force back the wave of pleasure. My bouquet. A tasteful arrangement of cabbage roses with a delicate pink hue. Probably the same color as my cheeks, I think.
I look up to find my groom’s eyes studying me. He’s changed from his sharp suit into light-colored linen pants and a white open-necked shirt. His dark waves flutter in a sudden breeze, and my stomach tightens, remembering how it felt between my fingers.
No music plays as I step over the petals. There’s just the sound of birds chirruping in nearby trees and the flip-flop of my Havianas, which sound quite ridiculous. As if getting married in a bikini isn’t ridiculous enough.
Thank heavens, I packed my prettiest cover-up.
Raif takes my hand, and I hate how my tummy somersaults again. We turn to Se?or… whatever his name is, as he begins his well-practiced spiel.
“Raif and Lavender,” the registrar’s sonorous voice begins, pronouncing Raif’s name in an unusual way. All rolling r’s and prominent i. “I welcome you both on this most special of days, your wedding.”
I glance down and notice sock rings around my ankles.
Oh well. It was never going to be perfect this time around.
“… voluntarily entered into for life.”
My head snaps up at his proclamation, my eyes meeting Raif’s.
His head gives an almost imperceptible shake. Married for life. It’s what my parents signed up for, though I’ve never thought of it for myself. But I’m young, and I suppose I’ll get to do it again the right way another time. Heather and Archer. Whit and Mimi. Even Daniel is dating. If they can all find love, I’m sure I can.
Hopefully.
I’ll be a divorcée of course. Does that make a second marriage less special? Never mind, I suppose I can mop up my tears with fifty-pound notes because I’ll be a divorcée with a successful art gallery and an obscene-looking bank balance.
As my mind jumps around like a squirrel on crack cocaine, Raif seems so unaffected. Damn his poker face. It’s so bloody unfair becausse my heart is beating so hard, I’m surprised it’s not visible through the crochet loops.
I’m marrying a man I don’t know, and I’m annoyed that I seem to be the only disconcerted one. I hate inequality. I always have. Maybe because I’ve always felt like I’m missing something. Some intrinsic puzzle piece that will make me the same as everyone else. But I’m not like other people because no one else I know seems to fuck up as much as me.
Before I can examine the thought (or talk myself out of this), my hand rises, and my mouth opens.
And all eyes are looking my way as I say, “Wait.”