Chapter 2
Thought of the day…
Putting yourself first is not selfish.
It’s self-care.
(Just tell everyone else to bugger off. But in a nice way.)
I know how privileged I am.
My life is extraordinary by most people’s measure, something I’m acutely aware of. Jetting about, dining in the world’s best restaurants, wearing beautiful clothes, indulging in luxurious experiences like being on Aetheria…
But that doesn’t mean my life is perfect. I’m still human. I have fears and doubts; I wrestle with moments of sadness and longing. A swipe of bright-red lipstick can work wonders, giving me a bold facade of confidence, but there are days when it does little more than stain my lips.
And there’s far more to Divorced Diva than what’s visible on social media. Our charity partnerships typically happen quietly, behind the scenes. For every photo of me with a cocktail in hand, there’s a meet-and-greet with single parents who need help finding a job or a place to live.
The outward-facing Diva funds the causes that matter, the ones that allow me – us – to make a difference. Just like I dreamed of back in the tiny flat I shared with Tommy when we first married and subsisted on beans on toast.
Back then, Tommy was my person, but after we split, Claude became that person. She knows the real me better than anyone – not just the Diva, but the woman underneath.
I don’t know what I’d do without her.
‘Well, how’s it going?’ she asked – as usual, no chit chat, just straight into it.
I could have gushed for days about the incredible architecture, or how the landscaping evoked tropical island resort but with a Greek Island twist. Or about my villa, which was the most luxurious accommodation I’d ever stayed in (which said a lot).
Every minute detail had been carefully selected to strike a balance between opulence and tranquillity, from the soft furnishings to the bath products and beyond.
But I knew my audience of one and Claude was asking about Julian, not the resort.
‘Julian has been a perfect gentleman,’ I replied, to which she scoffed with a gentle grunt. Ignoring her, I continued. ‘And it’s beautiful here, Claude. We should come back for a proper holiday, just us two.’
It was a futile suggestion and we both knew it. Convincing Claude to travel overseas was about as likely as me touring with Taylor Swift as a backup dancer.
‘Perhaps,’ Claude replied noncommittally. ‘So, have you read Maya’s plan?’
She meant the marketing plan. Maya had teamed up with Julian’s PR rep – for every request from Aetheria, Divorced Diva got a reciprocal opportunity.
‘I read it on the plane.’
‘Good, I thought you might,’ she replied. ‘And look out for a package. It’s supposed to be in your room.’
I cast a glance about the suite, spying a cardboard box on the coffee table. Next to it was an even larger gift basket, no doubt showcasing luxury goods that Aetheria would become known for.
But it was the box that mattered most. Inside was a carefully curated selection from our boutique-brand partners – businesses founded by divorced women and men we’d supported as they launched their dreams.
‘Al?’ she asked when I didn’t answer.
‘All good – it’s here,’ I replied, keeping my tone neutral.
The truth is, I loathe it when she calls me Al. The shortened version of her name, which is Claudia if you didn’t guess, is strong, classical. Claude. But Al sounds like a pissed-off seagull fighting over sandy chips at the beach. Especially the way she says it.
‘We have to make the most of this,’ she continued, undaunted. ‘Otherwise, with you away for nearly a week, we’re at a loss and—’
‘Claude,’ I interjected. ‘I promise I won’t let any opportunities slip through my fingers, all right?’ I wandered back into the bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed.
‘All right,’ she replied with a resigned sigh.
Hang on… My forthright, sometimes nag of a sister was bowing out of a robust conversation without having the last word? Something was amiss.
‘Claude, what’s going on? What aren’t you telling me?’
She didn’t answer right away, but when she did, her voice was tight and small. ‘I saw Gregory today. At Tesco.’
Gregory – AKA The Twat – AKA my sister’s ex-husband.
And unlike my three exes, Gregory is not a decent bloke who just wasn’t right for her. He was a total and utter twat from the moment she met him. He cheated, he lied, he treated her like shit, and eventually, he gambled away their life savings.
I disliked him from the start, spotting his wily ways immediately. Whereas Claude persisted in that shitty, shitty (bang, bang) marriage for eight years. Eight years!
‘Oh, no! Claude, that’s rubbish! I’m so sorry. And what the bloody hell is he doing at Tesco? I thought you got Tesco and he got Sainsbury’s?’
It was an odd aspect of their division of property, but when you move into a tiny flat around the corner from your marital home, a necessity.
‘I know!’ she wailed, following up with a sniffle. ‘That’s what I said when I saw him, but he made up some excuse about Sainsbury’s being out of buns.’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ I murmured, mostly to myself.
It wasn’t the first time I’d wanted to throttle my former brother-in-law.
It also wasn’t the first time I’d wished Claude would let me cover her share of the marital debt that he’d racked up without her knowledge.
I’d had to settle for paying her a generous salary.
Of course, she deserves every penny of what she earns.
With the sound of her increasingly louder sniffles, an idea popped into my head.
‘Claude, what if you came to Aetheria? Now, I mean. The official opening is still more than a week away, so there’s plenty of room. You could relax, have some spa treatments… I’m going on a sailboat tomorrow – we’re sailing around the entire island. And you love to sail. What do you say?’
Having proposed the near-impossible – Claude not only shies away from travelling, she’s rarely impulsive – I waited patiently, willing her to say yes.
‘No, it’s all right. I’ll just run a bath and watch something cheery. Maybe Happy Valley. Everyone’s been on about it for ages.’
I didn’t correct her – she’d find out soon enough that Happy Valley was about as cheery as a migraine. And disappointed that she’d turned me down, I tried to sound upbeat. ‘Good plan, Claude. Call you tomorrow?’
‘Okay. Bye.’
She ended our call halfway through me saying I love you.
I flopped backwards onto the enormous bed, sinking into the luxurious linens, my eyes drooping. The queasiness from the helicopter ride had receded but fatigue was advancing fast. I could easily have drifted off – if there weren’t the pressing matter of my job!
I heaved myself off the bed and wandered over to my tote where I retrieved my laptop. I searched for the WiFi password, finding it on the large oak desk, and was soon logged in.
I scanned Maya’s marketing plan again, then opened the itinerary from Julian’s team – it was packed to the brim. Between photoshoots, filming sessions, excursions, activities, and product promotions – some of them to be live-streamed – I would barely have a moment to catch my breath.
It was probably a good thing Claude wasn’t coming. It had been na?ve of me to think there’d be any time for R&R.
‘This isn’t a holiday, Ally,’ I reminded myself.
‘It never is,’ I replied.
Wonderful – not only was I talking to myself, I was replying. But I had a point. When was the last time I’d been on a proper holiday? I ran through my recent trips, crossing them off one by one when I recalled the work angle.
Six days spent at a resort in Cabo San Lucas: a conference for female leaders.
Two days sailing along the coast of Croatia: a photoshoot for an up-and-coming swimwear designer.
Three nights in a treetop lodge in Thailand: trialling a yoga retreat for newly single women.
I was the only one who didn’t cry the whole time – even the woman running the retreat was in a bad place emotionally.
I told so many sobbing women You’ll get through this that it sparked inspiration for a line of merchandise.
Amazing experiences, each one – but they were far from holidays.
And then I remembered: the last time I’d been on a proper, read-by-the-pool, get-a-daily-massage, sip-cocktails-at-sunset holiday was with Julian aboard his super yacht two and a half years ago. The trip where I caught him in the captain’s cabin with Ebba.
It turns out that catching your husband with another woman tends to take the shine off a holiday.
As I sank onto the plush linen sofa, a realisation landed. It was me who needed time on Aetheria to decompress, to rest, to heal… Well, Claude did too, but I was always telling our followers that self-care is not selfish. Maybe it was time I started taking my own advice.
Only when I eyed my laptop again, I sighed. I may have needed a holiday, but Aetheria was not it. I was there to work. Full stop.
So, I tore into the box and started decanting products onto the coffee table, then set up my travel tripod and clipped in my phone. Divorced Diva mode activated, I broke into a wide smile, held up a delicious-smelling beeswax candle from one of our partners, and pressed record.
* * *
‘My god, Ally, you’re breathtaking.’
There’s something you need to understand about the Divorced Diva. She’s hot – a total smoke show, as the Americans say.
She wears figure-hugging dresses to dinner, low-cut jumpsuits with tailored jackets to work, matching crop tops and booty shorts to the gym, and bikinis by the pool.
Her body is sculpted by Pilates, her skin smoothed by treatments, and her platinum-blonde hair kept silky and lush thanks to ￡600 salon appointments. Makeup flawless, accessories on point – bags, shoes, jewellery – and she smells divine, as if anointed by Aphrodite herself.
And yes, I’m aware that describing oneself in the third person is almost as troubling as talking to oneself, but I’ve come to think of the Diva as a persona – someone separate from the real me. A brand.
When it’s just me – no cameras, no followers about – I’m happiest in old trackies, an oversized hoodie, and Uggs, my hair in a messy bun and zero makeup.
But Wonder Woman has her gold tiara and lasso of truth, Black Widow has her leather catsuit and pistols, and the Divorced Diva? She’s armed with a bold red lip, a slinky dress, and killer stilettos.
So, when I say I showed up to Julian’s island ready to work, I shouldn’t have been surprised that I took his breath away. But I couldn’t have him hyperventilating whenever he saw me – especially after that flirtatious greeting. Maybe our well-established boundaries would need to be reinforced.
I gave him a friendly smile as he pushed my chair in, then reached for the menu, salivating as I scanned the offerings.
‘This all looks incredible, Jules,’ I said, my eyes not leaving the menu.
‘It is incredible. The chef – she’s a genius – she has two Michelin stars. I had to pay her an obscene amount of money to convince her to leave Athens.’
That drew my attention and I lifted my gaze. ‘You always did know how to throw money at a problem, Jules,’ I said, though not unkindly.
‘Ouch,’ he said, clasping his chest with both hands.
‘Oh, don’t pretend to be insulted – or wounded. You know you’re proud of that.’
He sniggered, tilting his head in concession, and I dropped my eyes back to the menu. But the fatigue I’d felt earlier was settling in and deciding what to have for each course was suddenly too much.
‘Any chance we can ask her to craft a menu for us?’ I asked.
‘Chef’s choice? Absolutely.’
He discreetly raised his forefinger and an Adonis with jet-black hair, tanned olive skin, and the kind of physique that adorns the covers of romance novels appeared.
‘Christos, let Dimitra know we’re happy to leave the menu up to her. And bring a bottle of the Assyrtiko, will you?’
The Adonis – Christos – nodded with a polite smile, his eyes darting to meet mine before he turned and strode towards the kitchen.
‘So,’ I said, shaking off the brief exchange and smiling at Julian, ‘you bought an island.’
He laughed. ‘I did. Are you sure I didn’t mention before?’ he asked, his eyes narrowing playfully.
‘Positive. So, what prompted such an extravagant purchase?’
‘Oh, I don’t want to bore you with all that – not on your first night here. Let’s save that for another time, shall we?’
Sensing a wistfulness beneath Julian’s casual brush-off, I debated probing further, but he’d tell me when he was ready, so I let the topic drop. Besides, the hot waiter had returned with the wine.
Christos made quite the show of presenting the bottle, which was from Santorini, then uncorking it with short, sharp twists of his beautiful hands. My eyes drifted to his forearms, which bulged with each twist, then up to his chiselled face. Actually, calling him an Adonis didn’t do him justice.
He expertly poured two glasses, then set the bottle in an ice bucket. But before stepping away, his dark-brown eyes met mine again, his lips lifting slightly at the edges. It was obvious that if I wanted, I could have a very handsome Greek man in my bed that night.
But as I’d only just reminded myself, I was on Aetheria to work, not to hook up. And if I did feel randy, I’d packed enough toys to scratch that itch.
When I looked back at Julian, he was watching me curiously. ‘He’s a handsome bloke, isn’t he?’ he asked.
‘You think so?’ I quipped with a nose scrunch. ‘I hadn’t really noticed.’
He chuckled softly. ‘You know, you’re very welcome to—’
‘Jules,’ I said, cutting him off.
‘What? Isn’t it part of your brand, being sexually empowered?’
‘It is, yes, but that’s mostly about supporting my followers – helping them reclaim that part of themselves post-divorce. It doesn’t mean that I’m out there bonking every Tom, Dick, and Harry who looks my way.’
‘Or Christos,’ he interjected.
‘Or Christos – exactly. It’s not about promiscuity, Jules. It’s about agency, confidence, and pleasure – without losing sight of who you are.’
He regarded me thoughtfully. ‘Have you always been this clever?’
I laughed. ‘God, no. But that’s the beauty of growing older, isn’t it?’
‘Mmm,’ he murmured, giving nothing away. Just then he looked past me and broke into a wide smile.
‘Oh, here’s someone you should meet,’ he said. ‘Our trusty skipper – an excellent sailor and a top bloke to boot.’
I turned and looked over my shoulder.
Oh. My. Fucking. God.
It was Tommy.