Twenty-Five
I escaped the conference this afternoon and went shopping on the Croisette, finding an ivory chiffon minidress covered with
swirly embroidery and tiny beads, which immediately made me think of Lucy. It is a fortune, but I hand over the Centurion
card, the black American Express I was given by Clara, told to use for any clothes for work events, and refuse to feel guilty.
Two stores away, I find a pair of giant rose gold Sachin & Babi sequin earrings that will make Preeti laugh, and which look
stunning with the dress. She did say to wear sequins.
Fuck that journalist, I think over and over as I get dressed. Preeti got up on that stage looking like a model, and no one
is accusing her of being spoiled, of taking advantage of her family money, of being the inconsequential female appendage of
a male-run business.
The article in the Journal was misogynistic, I think.
It was written by a woman who didn’t believe another woman has a right to be at the top.
Tall Poppy Syndrome. That’s what my mother used to say.
When people disparage or discredit people who have attained too much success, too much wealth, too much prominence.
It’s all too much, they decide, so it’s their job to cut them down to size.
Fuck that journalist, I think again, as I head to the beauty center in the hotel for something I have never had done in my
life—a blowout and professional makeup. I sit in the chair, watching the expert wrap tendrils of my hair around a curling
iron, releasing soft shiny waves. In the makeup artist’s chair, my skin becomes a smooth sheen of silk, my eyes now heavy
with fake lashes that make me feel like Sophia Loren. Fuck that journalist, I think. It’s okay to feel pretty. I never thought
I was pretty, but sitting here, looking at myself in the mirror, I not only feel beautiful, I feel powerful. The possibilities
seem endless, and endlessly exciting as I take the elevator back to our suite and slip the chiffon minidress over my head,
admiring how it falls, how Lucy would approve.
Jerome walks in from a meeting, his face lighting up when he sees me.
“Jesus Christ,” he says, whistling, moving toward me, his eyes wide with admiration and delight. “You look like something
out of a movie. You look like a brunette Margot Robbie.”
I laugh. Margot Robbie is his favorite. There is no higher praise he can give. “I wish.”
The dress comes off as Jerome leads me to the sofa. Our lovemaking has always been good, but today it is something else. I
take control, pushing Jerome back and moving down his body, unbuttoning his pants and taking him in my mouth. When I am ready,
I straddle him, guiding him inside me, and when he reaches out to hold me, as he always does, I wrap my hands around his wrists
and hold them down, not allowing him to touch me. I want to feel this, and I want to be in charge. I don’t want distractions
today. I want to continue to feel the way I have felt since this morning: powerful.
I want to continue to feel that the only one in charge of my destiny is me.
“Wow!” Preeti hugs me as soon as I walk into the beach bar. “I’ve never seen you look like this!” She steps back, admiring me from head to toe. “I love everything about this,” she says. “The legs! The earrings! The dress! The hair! You look like you just stepped out of 1973.”
I laugh nervously. “1973? That doesn’t sound like a compliment.”
“Are you kidding? I’m obsessed with the seventies. You look like Jane Fonda in Barbarella.”
“Now that,” I say, “I’ll take.”
“And just so you know—” she leans forward, whispering “—this party is just as dull as I expected.” She steps back and gestures
around the crowd gathering under a large tent covered in flowers and tiny LED lights. It should be glamorous—the palm trees
outside the Carlton, immediately opposite, in silhouette against the backdrop of the dramatic hotel—but the people are tech
geeks, mostly men, in plaid short-sleeved shirts and baseball caps, thrilled to be in such an exotic location.
“See?” she says as I sweep the crowd before laughing.
“I’m stealing you away,” she says. “I have to be here for half an hour, but there’s something happening on one of the mega
yachts in the harbor. Apparently, there are a bunch of movie stars who have just finished filming here, and there’s a huge
wrap party on the boat.”
“Do we have an invitation?”
“Honey, we don’t need an invitation. Stick with me.” She winks. “I’ll come and find you in thirty minutes.” And she’s gone.