As Luck Would Have It

by Zoe May

  Chapter 11

  Funnily enough, honeymoon suites aren’t really designed for one person sleeping on the sofa, but somehow Will and I have made it work. We found a spare blanket in the wardrobe and Will huddled up on the couch, letting me have the king-sized bed to myself. It felt a bit strange to neatly pick off the rose petals and chastely tuck myself in, rather than be thrown on the bed in the throes of passion as it was clearly intended. I couldn’t sleep for a while, I kept thinking of Hera. Even though my mum and I exchanged a ton of texts before bedtime featuring lots of pictures and updates on everything from what Hera had for dinner to what pyjamas she was wearing, I still missed her so much. The awkwardness and unfamiliarity of having Will in the same room as me also proved annoyingly distracting, but eventually, tiredness took hold and I fell into a deep restful sleep. So restful in fact, that Will and I have had to hurry out of the room to catch breakfast before the hotel stops serving.

  The breakfast at the hotel is everything I’d hoped for and more, with an array of options from croissants and pastries to sausages and beans to Moroccan pancakes and jam. I decide to opt for a traditional Moroccan breakfast, with several pancakes and an apricot compote.

  ‘This place is heavenly.’ I sigh contentedly, gazing out over hotel restaurant with its marble pillars and lantern lampshades as I tuck into my second pancake.

  ‘It really is,’ Will replies as he sips his coffee. ‘It couldn’t be more different to my last experience in Marrakech. We stayed in a hostel right by the site of the bombing. It was completely chaotic. There were sirens blaring through the night. Police everywhere. Total panic. Not to mention the horrible thin mattresses and shared bathrooms, although they were the least of my worries at the time.’

  ‘It sounds awful. You can have the bed tonight,’ I insist, feeling a little guilty.

  ‘Thanks,’ Will replies, before biting into his croissant. He glances down at my hand, and more precisely, my ring finger.

  ‘Oh no …’ he mutters, staring at it.

  ‘What?’ I place my coffee cup down. ‘What is it?’

  Will reaches over, takes my hand and scrutinises my finger, pulling a face. ‘Our rings really are cheap crap. It’s left a green mark on your skin already,’ he says, twisting my ring up to reveal a repulsive greenish stain.

  ‘Oh God,’ I sigh.

  ‘Good morning!’ Medhi greets us with his signature broad beaming smile. I quickly pull my hand away and place it under the table, out of sight. I’m hardly going to look like a newlywed with my cheap disgusting ring! I need to clean my finger as soon as possible. Maybe we should have splashed out on real gold after all.

  ‘Morning!’ Will and I reply.

  ‘Did you sleep well?’ Medhi asks.

  ‘Oh yes, amazingly!’ I enthuse.

  ‘Great night’s sleep, thank you,’ Will concurs.

  ‘The petals and the pillows were a lovely touch,’ I add.

  Medhi smiles proudly. ‘I’m so glad you were comfortable. I wanted to check because housekeeping just came down and they said it looked like someone had slept on the sofa.’

  What?!

  Will and I exchange a panicked look. Damn it. We both slept in and in our hurry to make it to breakfast in time, we forgot to clear the sofa, or hang the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the door handle. Great. Just great. We hardly look like newlyweds now.

  ‘Err …’ I utter.

  Medhi stares at me, waiting for an answer.

  ‘Oh, erm …’ Will is visibly squirming. His cheeks flush pink.

  ‘I, erm …’ I try to think of a plausible excuse for why, on what is supposedly the first night of our honeymoon, my husband would have slept on the sofa, but my mind is blank.

  ‘Well, err..’ I glance down at the crumbs of my pancakes, as though they’ll give me the answer, but my brain is like tumbleweed rolling across the Moroccan desert. I glance up at Will, urging him to say something. After all, he saved our skin with the lie about the rings and luggage last night.

  ‘Natalie, err …’ A flash of something passes across his eyes – inspiration has struck! I’m beginning to recognise that look. ‘Natalie wasn’t feeling well,’ he says, meeting Medhi’s gaze. ‘I think the tagine we had in Jemaa el-Fnaa was a bit too spicy for Nat so I, erm, thought I’d give her some space.’

  What the hell?!

  ‘Oh,’ Medhi replies, with a look of concern. ‘It sounds like it must have been very serious.’

  ‘Yes, exactly. You know what these things are like. Jumping up from the bed, running to the toilet. Getting gassy. The works. New cuisine – it can be hard on British stomachs,’ Will says, smiling sympathetically at me.

  I get that he’s trying to embellish the lie to make it sound more convincing but running to the toilet? Gas? Really?

  Medhi eyes me sympathetically too.

  I smile tightly, flashing a glare at Will. I cannot believe this. So Medhi thinks I’ve been rushing to the toilet all night and probably farting so loudly and disgustingly that I’ve forced my husband onto the sofa. Great. Just great. While most new brides would be being passionately ravaged on the first night of their honeymoon, I can’t even get through the first night of a pretend honeymoon without having the pretend shits. This is mortifying. I’m almost tempted to just blow our cover, but I can’t now. We’re way too far into the lie. Will’s taking a sip of his orange juice with his wedding ring flashing right now.

  ‘Yes.’ I rub my stomach. ‘It was a long night, but I’m okay now,’ I tell Medhi.

  A long night? What am I even saying?

  Will’s lips twitch and I can tell he’s trying not to laugh.

  ‘This is terrible. You need to be careful. Some of the sellers in the square, their restaurants are not so safe. You need to eat in the good places,’ Medhi says, looking worried.

  Will nods gravely, correcting his expression to strike a more serious note.

  ‘Come to me next time. I will tell you where the good places are,’ Medhi says.

  ‘We will,’ I reply, realising that I’m still rubbing my stomach.

  ‘Are you in pain, Natalie?’ Medhi asks, noticing.

  ‘Oh, no. I’m fine.’ I immediately pull my hand away and plaster a smile on my face. ‘I’m good.’

  Medhi eyes me sceptically. ‘One second. My wife will have something to help you. She makes the best herbal teas. Remedies for everything! I will ask her.’ Medhi turns to go and get Amira.

  ‘No, honestly, I’m fine!’ I insist, but it’s too late, he’s already off.

  ‘So ill from my tagine that I got the shits and farted all night?’ I hiss at Will the moment Medhi’s out of earshot.

  ‘Sorry,’ Will replies, looking both guilty and amused. ‘It sounded better in my head, then when it came out, it was a bit …’

  ‘Humiliating?’ I suggest.

  Will covers his mouth with his hand and I can tell he’s trying hard not to laugh.

  ‘I’m glad you find this so hilarious, Will. But now Medhi and his whole family are going to think I have the shits. It’s hardly the five-star relaxing luxury experience I was expecting!’ I moan.

  ‘You’re probably not the first person they’ve had staying here who’s had the shits,’ Will points out.

  ‘Fabulous! I’ll just join the cannon of guests who’ve had the shits then.’ I slump back into my chair.

  Will laughs, in spite of himself.

  Amira comes over to our table, frowning, clearly fretting over my wellbeing.

  ‘Come with me, Natalie,’ she says. ‘I will help you feel better. I have a remedy.’

  ‘No really, it’s fine. I’m feeling much better.’

  ‘Please. Please let me help you,’ she implores, fixing me with a look of almost maternal concern. I feel like I can’t say no without upsetting her. I’ve finished my breakfast. It’s not like I’m doing anything.

  ‘Okay,’ I reply. ‘Thank you.’

  She smiles, beckoning for me to follow as she turns to head back
to the kitchen. I shoot Will a look as I get up to go.

  The kitchen is full of pots and pans and jars of spices and herbs. There are shelves on the walls piled high with cookery books and old hand-written recipes pinned to the walls. A few other staff are milling about; one is doing the dishes, another is chopping onions and another is mixing some kind of dough. They look my way, and although they seem a little taken aback by the presence of a guest in the kitchen, they smile politely and continue with what they’re doing.

  ‘Take a seat,’ Amira says, gesturing for me to sit down at a table where I imagine the staff eat their meals.

  ‘Tell me what’s wrong,’ she insists, sitting down opposite with an intent look on her face.

  Oh God, she truly cares about helping me. I make up some generic symptoms and Amira nods gravely, before setting to work mixing herbs, grinding them in a pestle and mortar.

  ‘I will make you a tea my mother used to make me when I was sick. It will make you feel much better, I promise,’ Amira says warmly.

  ‘Thanks so much,’ I reply, feeling grateful even though I’m not even remotely ill. Amira really does seem to want me to get better, taking me under her wing as though I’m not just a guest at her hotel, but family. It’s so sweet and kind.

  ‘You know, our housekeeper came downstairs, and she thought you and Will were fakes,’ Amira tuts as she tips the herbs into a silver teapot.

  I gawp at her. ‘What?’ I utter, with an awkward laugh.

  ‘Yes. It is quite common around here,’ Amira tells me, glancing over as she holds the teapot under the tap, filling it with water. ‘Friends or couples book a room and then pretend to be married to get upgraded to the honeymoon suite. Quite a lot of hotels experience this problem. Some have even started asking to see marriage certificates.’

  ‘Right …’ I squirm. ‘I can’t believe people would do that!’ I add, feigning indignation.

  ‘They want the nicest room. The champagne. The chocolates. It’s a big problem.’ Amira sighs, flicking the hob on and placing the teapot onto the heat.

  ‘Oh no, how awful,’ I say, plastering an appalled look onto my face.

  ‘I know. I told her you and Will are not like that. I’m a good judge of character. I know you are good people. I knew you wouldn’t do something like that. I was sure there was another reason, then when Medhi told me about your stomach problems, it made sense. I knew it had to be something,’ she says, smiling kindly as the flames of the hob lick the teapot.

  I nod, feeling like the worst person in the world. ‘Yes. Just an upset stomach, nothing untoward!’

  Amira smiles. ‘I know.’

  Amira tells me about her family’s herbal remedies as the teapot begins to boil on the stove. I’m struck by a sudden urge to just confess. The way Amira is being so caring and seeing the best in me despite how much of a fake I am is making me feel terrible, yet every time I try to think of a way of explaining, the words don’t quite come. Amira takes the teapot off heat and retrieves a cup from a cupboard, pouring the tea into it.

  She hands me the cup. ‘I hope this helps,’ she says.

  ‘Thank you so much,’ I say, smiling gratefully as I take it from her.

  I can’t bring myself to ‘fess up. The moment’s passed. I need to force the guilty thoughts out of my mind and focus on something more constructive. So Will and I have lied? It may have been a pretty bad thing to do but we have to live with it now. I’ll make it up to Amira and Medhi. I’ll get them some press coverage or something – a nice magazine feature. I’ll wave my PR wand and zap away the stain on my conscience. Yes, that’ll do.

  I take a sip of the tea, relishing its fruity medicinal taste. ‘I feel better already, Amira.’

  ‘It’s no problem, no problem at all,’ Amira says. Her kindness is so unnerving. Every caring comment highlights what a terrible person I am.

  I gaze around her kitchen and try to think of something to say to lighten the mood. I take in the rows of spices, oils, herbs, but I’ve never been much good in the kitchen and they don’t inspire a conversation starter. When I was in London, I pretty much lived off Pret sandwiches, sushi and M&S ready meals. My eyes suddenly land on a framed picture of Amira and Medhi on display on a shelf next to a stack of cookbooks.

  ‘Aww, what a sweet picture,’ I say, attempting to stand up to get a better look, but Amira insists I stay put.

  She takes the picture from the shelf and hands it to me. Amira is wearing a gorgeous emerald-green jewelled kaftan with a gold headpiece and a magnificent flowing veil. She looks absolutely stunning. Medhi is holding her hand and gazing at her with a look of total adoration.

  ‘It was a beautiful day – the day I married my soulmate,’ Amira says, smiling fondly at the memory.

  ‘Wow, you both look so happy,’ I comment dreamily.

  It’s true, they really do. They’re both smiling from ear to ear as though they want nothing more from the world than each other. It’s a really sweet shot and looking at it, I can’t help feeling a little sad. I’ve never had that all-consuming overwhelming love before. Love that makes you feel completely overjoyed and elated. Pretty much all of my romances have been fleeting. Since I broke up with Leroy, I’ve been able to see that what he and I had wasn’t founded on unconditional love, it was mainly just lust and a bit of neediness too. At the time, the social pressure of turning 30 and being unmarried had started to get to me. I don’t think I was even consciously aware of it, but I’ve always been someone who’s kept up with the people around me, even achieving things faster than others. I didn’t take a gap year and I was the first of my friends to graduate, I was the first to set up a business, the first to move into my own flat. I guess I didn’t want to end up the last to get married. I wanted to settle down and fit in. But now I realise that settling down because all your friends are settling down is the worst possible reason and will always come back to bite you. Now I’m the first of my friends to be a single mum, the first to move back home and even the first to go on a fake honeymoon. I guess that’s karma for you! What I should have looked for in a relationship wasn’t convenience and good timing, it should have been this: what Amira and Medhi have – pure, heartfelt, joyful love.

  ‘How old were you when you got married Amira?’ I ask. She looks younger in the picture, but not especially young.

  ‘I was 33. I’d started to wonder if I’d ever find anyone, then Medhi came along.’ Amira smiles fondly as I hand the picture back to her.

  ‘That’s so inspiring,’ I muse. A year older than me. Maybe I’ll get there one day too.

  ‘Inspiring?’ Amira quirks her brow as she places the picture back on the shelf.

  ‘Err … yes. Inspiring!’ I say, sounding ridiculous. I really need to work on my lying skills. ‘I mean love, isn’t it just inspiring?’ I smile moronically.

  ‘Yes, of course!’ Amira replies, looking a little perplexed. ‘You’ll have to show me your wedding pictures later too.’

  Wedding pictures?

  ‘Tonight?’ Amira suggests.

  ‘Tonight …?’ I echo.

  ‘You must have them? On your phone, at least? I’d love to see,’ Amira says, her eyes twinkling. She’s right, any newlywed would have snaps of their wedding on their phone. Why on earth did I not anticipate this kind of thing? I thought faking being married would be easy, but it’s a nightmare.

  One of the staff, the man chopping onions, glances over. He has warm brown eyes and a mysterious jagged scar on his cheek. The woman mixing dough also looks over her shoulder.

  ‘Wedding pictures?’ she chimes in.

  Amira nods. ‘Natalie and her husband Will are staying in our honeymoon suite. Such a beautiful couple!’

  ‘Oh, an English wedding! I’d love to see the pictures too,’ she adds. Even the male chef chopping onions seems interested, smiling enthusiastically. The guy doing the dishes doesn’t seem interested. If only more people could be like him.

  ‘Of course!’ I reply in a slightly high-pitc
hed tone. ‘Yes! I left my phone in my room, but I’ll show you tonight.’

  ‘I can’t wait,’ Amira says, topping up my tea.

  I take a sip, smiling brightly.

  Chapter 12

  ‘We have to do what?’ Will balks, perching at the end of our double bed, which has been neatly made by the nosy housekeeper.

  ‘We just need to fake a wedding photograph. It won’t be that hard,’ I insist.

  Will eyes me like I’m crazy.

  ‘You owe me, Will. After the whole shits incident.’

  ‘Hang on a minute, I owe you wedding photographs?’

  I explain the entire conversation with Amira – including the housekeeper’s suspicions, Amira’s wariness over fake honeymooners, and her sweet trusting motherly nature that made it impossible to admit that we’d been lying.

  ‘Oh my God,’ Will groans when I get to the end of the story.

  ‘See? We can’t get out of it. She asked to see pictures tonight,’ I tell him.

  ‘Can’t we just pretend we don’t have any on us?’ Will suggests weakly, clearly knowing this doesn’t ring true.

  ‘Come on, Will. If we were really newlyweds, of course we’d have pictures. It would look so suspicious if we didn’t.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right,’ Will grumbles. ‘But we told Medhi and Amira we got married in a little church in England. How the hell are we going to fake that in Marrakech?’ Will asks.

  ‘I guess we should just leave out the church bit? We said we had an outdoor reception. Let’s just take an outdoor shot. A garden’s a garden after all, right? Whether it’s in England or Marrakech.’

  ‘As long as you crop out the palm trees,’ Will grumbles.

  I roll my eyes. ‘Come on, it won’t be that hard. It might be fun!’ I suggest.

  ‘Hmm …’ Will raises an eyebrow, not entirely convinced.

  * * *

  ‘So, where shall we take these pictures then?’ I ask as Will and I wander down the street, away from the hotel.

  It’s just as lively and chaotic as it was last night, with donkey carts, stray cats and vendors trying to get our attention like paparazzi, calling me ‘blue eyes’ and Will, ‘Tom Hiddleston’.