opposite: that she would remain Charlie Zailer; frankly, she was amazed Simon hadn’t also. Annoyed with herself for being unprepared for such an important discussion, she’d decided on the spot that she would do whatever he wanted. There were worse names than Waterhouse.
It seemed, though, that for once Simon’s feelings were uncomplicated. ‘Really,’ he’d assured her. ‘What does it matter what you’re called? It’s only a label, isn’t it?’
‘Exactly,’ she’d replied, straight-faced. ‘I mean, thinking about it, I could just be called Female Police Sergeant number 54,437, couldn’t I?’
The matter of her surname had been preoccupying her ever since. What did other married women do? Charlie’s next-door neighbour Marion Gregory, Kate Kombothekra, Stacey Sellers, Debbie Gibbs – they had all changed their names. Olivia, Charlie’s sister, who was getting married next year, was trying to persuade Dominic, her husband-to-be, that they should become the Zailer-Lunds. ‘Or he can stay as he is, and I’ll be Zailer-Lund on my own,’ she’d told Charlie defiantly. ‘If Dom wants to wrap himself in the mouldering fetters of outmoded tradition, that’s up to him. He can’t stop me from adopting a more progressive approach.’ Knowing Olivia as she did, Charlie suspected her determination had less to do with principle and more to do with a desire to be double-barrelled.
Charlie Zailer-Waterhouse. No, it was out of the question. Unlike Liv, Charlie did not hanker after the trappings of aristocracy; a double-barrelled surname would be an embarrassment to her, as well as an opportunity for everyone at the nick to take the piss.
‘Why don’t we pick a new name?’ she called out to Simon, who was in the pool – or, rather, on it, lying in an inflatable boat that they’d found bobbing on the surface when they arrived. His arms and legs trailed in the water as he drifted aimlessly. Sometimes he used his hands as oars to turn himself round or push himself along; once or twice he’d kicked back from the edge, to see if he could propel himself all the way to the other side. He couldn’t; the pool was too big.
Charlie had been secretly watching him, pretending to read her book, for nearly an hour and a half. What was going on in his mind? ‘Simon?’
‘Hm?’
‘You’re miles away.’
‘Did you say something?’
‘Instead of me taking your name, why don’t we choose a new one? For both of us.’
‘Don’t be daft. No one does that.’
‘Charlie and Simon Herrera.’
‘Isn’t that Domingo’s surname?’
‘Exactly. We could start a new tradition: the first person you meet on your honeymoon, their surname becomes your married name.’ Domingo was the villa’s caretaker: a young muscly chain-smoker with a deep tan, who spoke little English and appeared to live in a small wooden chalet-style building at the far end of the garden. He had picked Simon and Charlie up at the airport and driven them to Los Delfines, then given them a tour of the house and grounds without asking – perhaps because he lacked the vocabulary – whether they would prefer to wait until morning. The tour had taken nearly an hour; Domingo had insisted on stopping in front of every appliance and pointing at it, before demonstrating, in total silence, how it ought to be used.
Charlie hadn’t cared. She had walked through the wooden gate set into the high, pantile-topped white wall, smelled the warm, spicy air in the garden, seen the pool lit up like an enormous glowing aquamarine stone, and fallen in love with Los Delfines on the spot. If she had to watch Domingo mime the turning of keys in front of keyholes and the setting and unsetting of the burglar alarm in order to be allowed to stay here for a fortnight, it was a price she was more than happy to pay.
Everything about this place was perfect. So perfect that it made Charlie worry about herself and Simon in comparison. What if the only thing wrong was them?
It seemed, though, that for once Simon’s feelings were uncomplicated. ‘Really,’ he’d assured her. ‘What does it matter what you’re called? It’s only a label, isn’t it?’
‘Exactly,’ she’d replied, straight-faced. ‘I mean, thinking about it, I could just be called Female Police Sergeant number 54,437, couldn’t I?’
The matter of her surname had been preoccupying her ever since. What did other married women do? Charlie’s next-door neighbour Marion Gregory, Kate Kombothekra, Stacey Sellers, Debbie Gibbs – they had all changed their names. Olivia, Charlie’s sister, who was getting married next year, was trying to persuade Dominic, her husband-to-be, that they should become the Zailer-Lunds. ‘Or he can stay as he is, and I’ll be Zailer-Lund on my own,’ she’d told Charlie defiantly. ‘If Dom wants to wrap himself in the mouldering fetters of outmoded tradition, that’s up to him. He can’t stop me from adopting a more progressive approach.’ Knowing Olivia as she did, Charlie suspected her determination had less to do with principle and more to do with a desire to be double-barrelled.
Charlie Zailer-Waterhouse. No, it was out of the question. Unlike Liv, Charlie did not hanker after the trappings of aristocracy; a double-barrelled surname would be an embarrassment to her, as well as an opportunity for everyone at the nick to take the piss.
‘Why don’t we pick a new name?’ she called out to Simon, who was in the pool – or, rather, on it, lying in an inflatable boat that they’d found bobbing on the surface when they arrived. His arms and legs trailed in the water as he drifted aimlessly. Sometimes he used his hands as oars to turn himself round or push himself along; once or twice he’d kicked back from the edge, to see if he could propel himself all the way to the other side. He couldn’t; the pool was too big.
Charlie had been secretly watching him, pretending to read her book, for nearly an hour and a half. What was going on in his mind? ‘Simon?’
‘Hm?’
‘You’re miles away.’
‘Did you say something?’
‘Instead of me taking your name, why don’t we choose a new one? For both of us.’
‘Don’t be daft. No one does that.’
‘Charlie and Simon Herrera.’
‘Isn’t that Domingo’s surname?’
‘Exactly. We could start a new tradition: the first person you meet on your honeymoon, their surname becomes your married name.’ Domingo was the villa’s caretaker: a young muscly chain-smoker with a deep tan, who spoke little English and appeared to live in a small wooden chalet-style building at the far end of the garden. He had picked Simon and Charlie up at the airport and driven them to Los Delfines, then given them a tour of the house and grounds without asking – perhaps because he lacked the vocabulary – whether they would prefer to wait until morning. The tour had taken nearly an hour; Domingo had insisted on stopping in front of every appliance and pointing at it, before demonstrating, in total silence, how it ought to be used.
Charlie hadn’t cared. She had walked through the wooden gate set into the high, pantile-topped white wall, smelled the warm, spicy air in the garden, seen the pool lit up like an enormous glowing aquamarine stone, and fallen in love with Los Delfines on the spot. If she had to watch Domingo mime the turning of keys in front of keyholes and the setting and unsetting of the burglar alarm in order to be allowed to stay here for a fortnight, it was a price she was more than happy to pay.
Everything about this place was perfect. So perfect that it made Charlie worry about herself and Simon in comparison. What if the only thing wrong was them?
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