Chapter 5
The first course had already been served by the time Fletcher made it down to dinner.
Violin melodies beckoned her toward the hidden grotto on the far side of the pool.
Lit candles dotted her path. A light fixture had been hoisted into the air, woven from some variety of horns—impala?
antelope?—and the centerpiece was an ebony-and-gold table with an arrangement of dahlias and eucalyptus.
A table set for fifteen.
Fletcher’s heart plummeted. Another reminder that she hadn’t been invited. That she didn’t belong here.
Everyone else clinked their crystal flutes and sipped sparkling wines they were born knowing how to pronounce.
All these things they intrinsically knew, Fletcher had to teach herself.
Which fork was for salads and which was for the rest of your meal.
What a hedge fund was. The art of summering in the Hamptons.
God forbid, Fletcher couldn’t even tell impala horns from antelope horns.
At the opposite side of the table, Dyer wordlessly gestured with the serrated end of his knife. From the shadows, a server procured another armchair. Its golden legs scraped against the tiles with every agonizing inch. No one chewed. No one swallowed.
Eventually, the staff member shoved the chair at the end of the table, stuffing Fletcher between Sheila and Asshole Rick, right across from Waylon.
“Apologies,” Fletcher said to the group bashfully as she sank into her seat.
Conversations whirled on without any regard to Fletcher’s arrival, picking up right where they left off—without her.
Melv, Jackie, and Raul roundtabled about cloud-based document-management platforms. Bertram and the Brians chatted animatedly about the trademark logistics of incorporating a Taylor Swift lyric into a headline while Deepti and Opal traded keratin-treatment recommendations.
An easy, familiar cadence. Rhythms they knew well.
Fletcher counted the steps to their dances. Melv would deadpan something unexpectedly funny, and Jackie would lift her lipstick-stained glass to salute. Right on cue, a French 75 tipped into the air.
Then, she overheard Brian mention a new email campaign idea and knew it was downhill from there.
Other Brian, looking up from his untouched appetizer, would get so excited spit would start flying, and Bertram would lean away, a hand pressed to his distended belly as if to settle his churning disgust.
Fletcher’s usual patterns didn’t fit in here. Instead of gossiping over drinks and fine cuisine, she would normally be spending tonight in her apartment, head dangling off the sofa while Sex and the City autoplayed.
Ford would stop by, already buzzed off free drinks.
He’d steal her H?agen-Dazs out of the freezer, and she’d let him.
Before Carrie got back together with Mr. Big, he’d dart out the door, off to karaoke or trivia night.
Then, a bit later, Kent would call, and she’d answer.
He’d ask her to take him back, and she would.
That was on her for being a Type Nine Enneagram. Pleasing people made her good at her job. She made it look so easy: perfectly content to stuff envelopes and coordinate meetings and plan luncheons. Never a bad temper. Never a hair out place.
But being here, on this island, stabbing her fork into a peri-peri prawn and sipping sauvignon blanc with her pinky raised? Uncharted territory.
Across the table, Waylon sized her up. A blond curl dripped over his eyebrow, and his shirt stuck to him in wet patches from his evening splash.
“So nice of you to finally join us, Spence.” As if he wasn’t the reason she had to go upstairs to change.
“Don’t worry, you still got the best view at the table. ”
Fletcher scowled. Simmered. “I’ve seen better.”
Butting in obliviously, Sheila said, “Oh my god. No way. The views on this island are insane. Like, why have I never come here before?”
Waylon didn’t take his eyes off Fletcher as he said, “Usually this is the kind of place you have to be invited to.”
Before she could think better of it, Fletcher nudged Waylon’s foot beneath the table with the pointed toe of her shoe. He dropped his knife in surprise, the sound ringing loudly over the small talk. Fletcher stifled her amusement as Dyer reprimanded him with a stiff glare.
“Luckily for Sheila,” Fletcher said between bites, “her hard work is finally being recognized.”
“And what hard work is that? Push any more unsuspecting victims into a champagne tower lately?” Waylon stepped on Fletcher’s toe. He grinned, a cocky sidelong thing. If he scuffed her shoes, he was dead meat.
“I—Sheila was trying to stop you from getting her fired by causing a scene in front of that reporter. She didn’t push you into it on purpose.” Waylon winced as she retaliated with a swift kick to his shin. “It’s not her fault you were drunk.”
“I had three drinks. That hardly qualifies as inebriated.”
“The cover of People would beg to differ.”
Waylon caught one of Fletcher’s ankles between his calves. She wiggled, but it was no use. The more she thrashed, the tighter his legs cinched.
Her glare said, Cut it out.
His answered, You started it.
“Is there something under there? What is going on?” Sheila asked, ducking her head beneath the table. Fletcher snapped her foot out of Waylon’s death grip before they could get caught playing angry footsie.
She ignored the intern. Never once let her death stare leave Waylon’s. “Sheila deserves to be here as much as everyone else.”
“I have no idea what you two are talking about, and I’ve been quiet quitting for months.” Sheila turned to her, fair cheeks pink from wine she was too young to legally drink in America. “But thanks, Fifi. I know the others disagree, but I’m glad you came back.”
“Back?” Fletcher asked, stomach sinking.
“Honestly, when you were late to dinner, I thought maybe you’d called the jet to go home.”
“Why would I do that?”
Sheila’s expression grew doe-like. “Oh! I didn’t mean it in a bad way. It’s just…”
Bertram cleared his throat a couple seats down. “You have no business being here.”
At that, her half of the table quieted. Churlish looks stretched toward Fletcher, and it took all her strength not to push her food around her plate, just to look busy.
Waylon’s gaze settled on her, heaviest of all.
She braced for an I told you so, but he took another bite, his mouth too occupied with chewing to continue ridiculing her.
Bertram’s beetle-black eyes inspected her. Scrutinized her. Searched for flaws he could extort. The disdain in his tone was palpable when he said, “You aren’t a top performer. You are an assistant. There is no place for you here.”
All Fletcher could do was blink. And stare. And blink some more.
This wasn’t one of Waylon’s underhanded jabs.
There was no volley of insults, no silver-tongued back-and-forth.
Waylon may have set the trap, but he didn’t have to strike the killing blow.
When she looked around, everyone’s hands had frozen halfway to their mouths.
Bertram had simply said what they were all thinking.
Fletcher hated to admit it, but on one hand, Bertram was right.
There was no denying she’d eked her way onto the island, hedging her bets and playing her only card at the right moment. A trick she’d learned from Dyer.
And on the other hand, Bertram had a stick so far up his ass it could scratch his brain.
He’d always been like this, stern and rule-following. He ran a tight ship on the Marketing team, constantly barking about higher conversion rates and keyword optimization. But he wasn’t her boss, and he wasn’t privy to her performance reviews.
He didn’t know she’d worked seventy-hour weeks for the last three years without a single complaint.
Or how she’d reshaped her life to accommodate Cartwright Media, bending but never breaking.
She’d never once snitched on Theo for expensing a VR headset to “boost team productivity,” or Joplin for making a private Slack channel called #shit-jackie-says, or Raul for giving Deepti a hickey at the company Christmas party while her husband grabbed drinks.
She’d stayed quiet then, but she couldn’t stay quiet now.
Dyer and Jackie studied her from the head of the table, measuring her response. And Bertram watched her the way a kid with a magnifying glass watched an ant fry in the sunlight. Waiting to see her squirm.
“I’m as fortunate to be here as you are.” Fletcher smoothed her lips into a congenial grin. It didn’t reach her eyes. (Her eyes were molten-lava lasers.) “I’d never underestimate your expertise in your department, Denis. Don’t underestimate mine.”
With what could only be divine intervention, dishes streamed in through the double doors, pivoting everyone’s attention. Hallelujah. Fletcher exhaled so thoroughly she blew out three tea lights that had to be relit by gloved waiters.
Each bite was more indulgent than the last. Biltong and fig salads, mango and lobster ceviche, kudu steaks in a truffle-and-brown-butter sauce. Fletcher must have died and gone to foodie heaven.
It was almost enough for her to ignore the whispers.
After the bowls of pear and ginger sorbet had been cleared, Dyer stood at the head of the table with a glass of imported whiskey in hand.
He sagged a little heavier against his cane than normal, but his smile beamed as bright as ever.
“I’m so glad to welcome you all to Lydell.
You deserve a chance to unwind after your dedication to our publications this year. ”
A round of applause rose from the table.