Wedding Night by Sophie Kinsella Read Free Book Online Page A

wobbly letters. How can Daniel bail out on him like this? He hasn’t seen him for a fortnight; he never calls to chat with him. It’s as if Noah is a hobby that he bought all theequipment for and reached an elementary level—but then decided he’s just not that into after all and maybe he should have gone for wall-climbing instead.
    “It’s really not,” I repeat. “I think you should go.”
    I don’t even look up as he departs. I draw his stupid pile of papers to me, flick through them, too angry to read a word, then open a document on my computer and type furiously:
    D arrives at office, leaving N with me with no notice, contravening agreement. Unhelpful manner. Wishes to raise more points regarding divorce settlement. Refuses to discuss reasonably.
    I unclip my memory stick from its place on a chain round my neck and save the updated file to it. My memory stick is my comfort blanket. The whole dossier is on there: the whole sorry Daniel story. I replace it round my neck, then speed-dial Barnaby, my lawyer.
    “Barnaby, you won’t believe it,” I say as soon as his voicemail answers. “Daniel wants to revisit the settlement
again
. Can you call me back?”
    Then I glance anxiously at Noah to see if he heard me. But he’s chortling over something in his book. I’ll have to hand him over to my PA; she’s helped me out with emergency child-care before.
    “Come on.” I stand up and ruffle his hair. “Let’s find Elise.”
    The thing about avoiding people at parties is, it’s quite easy if you’re hosting. You always have an excuse to move away from the conversation just as you see a forty-inch pink-stripedshirt bearing down on you. (So sorry, I
must
greet the marketing manager of the Mandarin Oriental, back in a moment.…)
    The party has been going for half an hour and I’ve managed to avoid the Gruffalo completely. It helps that he’s so massive and the atrium is so crowded. I’ve made it appear totally natural that every time he gets within three feet I’m striding away in the opposite direction, or out of the room completely, or, in desperation, into the Ladies’….
    Damn
. As I emerge from the Ladies’, he’s waiting for me. Gunter Bachmeier is actually standing in the corridor, staking out the door of the Ladies’.
    “Oh, hello, Gunter,” I say smoothly. “How delightful to see you. I’ve been meaning to catch up with you—”
    “You hef been avoiding me,” he says in severe guttural tones.
    “Nonsense! Are you enjoying the party?” I force myself to put a hand on his meaty forearm.
    “You hef traduced my new hotel.”
    He pronounces “traduced” with a rich, rolling sound. “Trrrraduced.” I’m quite impressed that he knows the word. I certainly wouldn’t know the equivalent for “traduced” in German. My German extends to “Taxi,
bitte
?”
    “Gunter, you’re overreacting.” I smile pleasantly. “A four-star review is hardly … traducement.” Traduction? Traducedom? “I’m sorry that my reviewer found herself unable to allot you five stars—”
    “You hef not reviewed my hotel yourself.” He’s bristling with anger. “You hef sent an amateur. You hef treated me with disrrrrespect!”
    “No, I hef not!” I retort before I can stop myself. “I mean hev. Have.” My face is flaming. “Have not.”
    I didn’t mean to do that; I just have a terrible parrot habit. I mimic voices and accents without intending to. Now Gunter is glaring at me even more viciously.
    “Everything all right, Felicity?” Gavin, our publisher, comes bustling up. I can see his radar twitching and I know why. Last year, the Gruffalo shelled out for twenty-four double-page spreads. The Gruffalo is keeping us in business. But I can’t give his hotel a five-star review simply because he bought some ads. A five-star review in
Pincher Travel Review
is a very big deal.
    “I was just explaining to Gunter that I sent one of our top freelancers to review his hotel,” I say. “I’m sorry