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chapter 02
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A blast of moist, soupy tropical air envelops us when we leave the aircraft, as if someone has opened the door of a tumble dryer mid-cycle. My sunglasses instantly fog and Lottie’s hair fluffs in a platinum nimbus around her shoulders. I can only imagine the effect the humidity is having on mine.
We join the crumpled, weary queue snaking towards passport control. When the US border guard asks me whether my visit is for business or pleasure, I’m tempted to tell her neither.
If you like eating dinner at 5.30 p.m. and wear sandals that fasten with Velcro, Florida is for you. But for those not aged under seven or over seventy, it’s less enchanting.
We’re here because Marc’s bride is the kind of woman who wants Insta-ready wedding photos of cerulean oceans and sugary beaches, regardless of the inconvenience to everyone else.
I can’t be the only person who finds the current craze for destination weddings the apogee of entitled narcissism. If it’s romance you’re after, elope. Otherwise, is it fair to expect a brother with three young children, student loans and a mortgage to fork out for five plane tickets or risk becoming a family pariah? And what about elderly relatives whose own life events – marriage, children – are now behind them, andfor whom a grandchild’s wedding is one of the few genuine pleasures left?
For me, flying four thousand miles to enable my daughter to be a bridesmaid at my best friend’s wedding is an expensive nuisance. For the lonely and infirm, unable to travel, such distant celebrations are an exercise in heartbreak.
It’s the reason Luca and I married twice, once in his mother’s ancestral church in Sicily to please his extensive family, and once in West Sussex for my considerably smaller one. Perhaps a third wedding would have actually made it stick.
I reclaim our suitcase from the carousel, and Lottie and I join yet another queue, this time for a taxi. We’re both hot, tired and disagreeable by the time we get in the cab, but fortunately my daughter soon falls asleep, her head pillowed in my lap.
I stroke her hair back from her sweaty face, smiling as she wrinkles her nose and bats my hand away without waking.
Mothering Lottie is the hardest thing I have ever done. It’s the only task, in my accomplished life, at which I’ve struggled to succeed.
There’s no Hallmark coda to that statement, nobut nothing has been more fulfilling. I don’t find motherhood satisfying or rewarding. It’s tedious, repetitive, solitary, exhausting. Luca was a much more natural parent. But my love for my daughter is visceral and unquestioning. I’d take a bullet for her.
I check my emails as we sit in bumper-to-bumper traffic on the causeway across Tampa Bay, careful not to disturb Lottie.
It’s as I feared: while I’ve been in the air, my Yazidi client has had her request for asylum denied, principally because she was unwilling to confer with her male legal counsel and participate fully and properly in the interview.
I fire off several quick emails in response, setting in motion the steps necessary to lodge an appeal. I’m not being preciousor egotistical when I say my absence from London has real-world consequences, and every minute I’m away from the office counts.
But Marc put his entire life on hold for me when Luca was killed. He knows I don’t particularly like Sian, his bride; failure to attend their wedding, no matter how I might spin it, would test our friendship. And I’ll only be away six days. James can hold down the fort at work till I return. I’ll just have to pull a few all-nighters once I’m home to get things back on track.
I put my phone away and gently reposition my daughter’s head in my lap as we take the exit towards the neon-lit drag of St Pete Beach, with its jostle of hotels, bars, chain restaurants and tourist shops.
We turn off the main strip away from the crowds and into a more residential neighbourhood. A few minutes later, the taxi stops at a gate at the foot of a short bridge, which leads to a tiny barrier island a few hundred feet off the coast. The skyline is dominated by the Sandy Beach Hotel, a primrose-yellow, six-storey crenellated building that rises against the sky like a wedding cake.
Our driver lowers his window to talk to the security guard and, after a moment, the white barrier is lifted and we cross over onto a tiny spit of land jutting out into the Gulf of Mexico.
I shake Lottie awake as the taxi pulls into the courtyard in front of the hotel. A porter whisks away our luggage, and I pick up my drowsy daughter and carry her into the lobby.
A huge wall of glass opens directly onto the white sugary beaches and Lottie instantly buries her face in my shoulder. She’s always been terrified of the sea; I have no idea why.
A number of beachfront rooms have been reserved for the wedding party. I change ours to one overlooking the pool, so Lottie doesn’t have to wake up to a view of the ocean. A vivid orange and red sunset is spreading across the sky, and I’m justabout to take my weary child upstairs when Marc and Sian come in from the beach.
Marc pretends to ignore me completely and extends his hand to Lottie. ‘Miss Martini,’ he says gravely. ‘A pleasure to see you again.’
‘It’sMizz,’ she corrects.
‘Mizz. My mistake.’
Sian slips her hand through Marc’s arm. The gesture is possessive rather than affectionate. ‘We should be getting back to the others,’ she says.
‘Want to join us?’ Marc asks. ‘Paul was just getting in another round.’
‘I would, but Lottie needs to get to bed. She’s shattered.’
‘Why don’t you get her settled, then come back down and find us? We’re at the Parrot Beach Bar, just the other side of the pool. Zealy and Catherine are with us, too.’
