5. Marseille, France
5
MARSEILLE, FRANCE
Now
“M y girl!” Paul scooped Alex into his arms, twirling her around before setting her down and stepping back to take her in. “How do you look this cute after twenty-four hours of travel?”
“I did my best.” Alex laughed, grateful to have her efforts recognized.
She looked around, delirious, at the scene before her: the old port in the heart of Marseille, hundreds of boats bobbing gently in the water, rolling hills on all sides dotted by old buildings whose lights were just beginning to turn on. The sun always took its time setting during European summers, drawing the daylight out through every shade of orange and pink. She was grateful that even the sky seemed to be collaborating with her on preserving her self-image, at least until she had the time to shower and change. Paul, meanwhile, looked scrubbed to perfection in his pastel boat outfit, holding a flute of champagne and looking like a proud parent.
From behind the black van provided by the charter company to shuttle them to their slip, she heard Danial: “The two of them slept for half the ride down. I would look cute, too, if I just took a four-hour nap.”
He was standing around awkwardly, his attempt at unloading luggage rebuffed by two crew members in polo shirts who had almost everything loaded onto an elegant brass trolley. Just like in college: if he wasn’t able to be helpful, he sort of just milled around like a video game character without a player.
“Thank you for being chauffeur.” Paul smiled, his arm around Alex’s shoulder.
“I need a shower,” Sophie said, stretching her arms behind her head. “I smell like a barn animal.”
“There’s a bathroom in your suite. You can shower after we finish the tour.”
“ Paul!” Guy called from the deck of the most impressive yacht in the harbor. “Stop yapping and help them up here!”
Guy was as he always had been: the grown-up in the room. After he finally won Paul over—or wore him down, depending on who you asked—his fundamental seriousness only sharpened. If Paul was mercurial, Guy was stoic. When Paul made a vulgar joke, Guy was right behind to diplomatically soften it. Even the way he dressed felt like an anchor to Paul’s whimsy: his blond hair was neatly slicked back, and he wore a beige linen shirt with crisp white pants and buttery white boat shoes. He was nothing if not perfectly reasonable.
“You could also come down and greet them like a normal human,” Paul yelled back without turning to face him. “I’ll show you around,” he continued, gesturing them toward the boat.
“This is our baby for the next two weeks, the Verseau. That’s French for Aquarius, I looked it up.” Paul said to Sophie as they walked, who nodded in a half-interested way. He continued: “One hundred seventy feet, with a reclaimed mahogany deck and custom interior design by Maxime Niederhoffer, one of only two yachts he’s worked on, plus—”
Guy cut in as soon as he was in proper earshot, leaning over the railing. “Top performance engine with a maximum speed of sixteen knots.”
Without needing to be instructed, Sophie immediately reached down to slip off her loafers as soon as they were above deck, setting them down neatly beside her. Alex followed the gesture as if it were always her intention, and felt Danial moving behind her with the same delay—for all his upward mobility, he was still her equal when it came to yacht instincts.
In front of her, the crew was lined up in a neat little row, each in their respective uniforms: polos and khakis for the hospitality crew, chef coats for the kitchen staff, captain’s uniform, complete with epaulets, for the friendly looking older man who would be their captain. She moved down the line, shaking hands and introducing herself, willing herself to remember their names even as they insisted with a friendly flourish that they would meet again. Behind her was a flurry of activity, as still more crew members loaded their suitcases onto the passerelle.
“Melanie, you have to let me show them around,” Paul insisted to a deeply tanned blonde woman from hospitality. “You know I love giving the speeches.”
“Of course, Mr. Kennedy.” She nodded, ticking something on her tablet with a stylus pen. “But you’ll need to bring them back for the safety brief.”
“Can’t forget the safety brief.” He smiled in Alex’s direction.
“You guys must be hungry,” Guy cut in.
“Or thirsty,” Paul added impishly, gesturing his arm wide toward the interior of the yacht.
The Verseau was, in a word, magnificent.
The navy blue hull and deep reddish-brown deck felt like a living Ralph Lauren ad, but inside felt like a parallel universe of luxury, a sumptuous, white-on-white living space with panoramic windows flooded in golden light. Everything seemed to glint and gleam, the brass details at times catching Alex’s eye in the fading sun with a blinding brilliance. She placed a hand on the back of a white leather sofa, steadying herself against a distinct wave of queasiness at the base of her stomach.
Her mind went slightly numb as Paul spoke, giving them an incredibly detailed overview of the interior design choices and handing everyone a crisp glass of champagne. She took a sip from her flute, running her eyes along the bounty placed on the central island: platters of fresh-cut fruit, cheese, crudités, fancy crackers, and elegant little plates to serve yourself a snack.
Alex learned early on that one of the most notable features of being ultra-wealthy was being constantly surrounded by excellent food, but almost never eating it. You might pop a grape into your mouth, sneak a cheeky cookie from a tray the chef freshly baked, but in general most of the food went untouched. You would have something at mealtimes, usually, and you would definitely do some late-night pantry raiding if you’d had too much to drink. But overall, food was a fraught thing, more a vehicle for demonstrating restraint than for enjoying.
From the corner of her eye, she caught Danial taking in the scene with similar wonder. Seeing her look at him, he gestured toward the bounty, as if to suggest that he wouldn’t touch it until she did. She shook her head, and his mouth flicked down at the corners.
“Where’s Dev and Bee?” she asked no one in particular.
“They’ll be here for dinner if we eat late,” Guy answered, flicking through his phone to confirm details. “There was a bit of a crisis dropping off the twins.”
“Here, let me show you your room.” Paul seemed to materialize behind Alex, linking his arm through her own.
As the group filtered down to the cabins, Guy explained the setup: he and Paul were in the master suite, obviously, while Dev and Bee would take one of the queens and Alex would take the other. Sophie and Danial would be taking the rooms with two twin beds. Upon noticing that her room shared a wall with Danial’s, Alex flicked her eyes exasperatedly toward Paul.
“If you’d rather have two twins, I’ll make him switch with you,” he clarified, misreading her intent.
“I would have happily offered it up,” Danial replied, breaking off from the group into his room. “Just let me know if you want it.”
“No, thank you, a queen is great.”
Her room was, unsurprisingly, beautiful: all gleaming mahogany and tasteful white fabrics, with recessed lighting and built-in storage everywhere she looked. It screamed intentionality like no space she’d ever seen. Her luggage was already arranged neatly in a corner of the room, as if materialized from thin air and somehow appearing to not take up much space at all. In such small quarters, providing a truly luxury experience was no small feat—but the Verseau had managed it. Paul pressed theatrically on one of the lacquered wooden panels along the wall and it popped out slightly, which he extended fully to reveal a gleaming coat and shoe rack.
“Wow,” Alex said, handing him her denim jacket to hang.
“Bitch, that is nothing. ” He laughed, walking around her room to open various cabinets and drawers, each more inventive and helpful than the last.
“I feel like I’m in a spy movie,” Alex said, sitting herself on the edge of her tall, fluffy bed. Next to her was a nightstand complete with a large ceramic lamp, a fresh journal and expensive-looking pen, a bottle of sparkling water, and an upturned glass on a monogrammed coaster. She thought of pouring herself a glass, but didn’t want to disrupt the still life.
“You haven’t even seen the bathroom yet.” Paul extended his hand and Alex placed hers upon it, allowing him to guide her up from her seated position. “I wanted you to have the double because it has a bathtub. Danny doesn’t get a bathtub.”
She marveled at the similarly ingenious bathroom, with a sprawling vanity, paneled cream walls, tasteful brass fixtures, and a marble bathtub full of jets that rivaled anything she’d seen in a spa. “Oh, come on,” she muttered, running her hand along the counter.
“What? You think I didn’t make absolutely fucking sure you had a nicer setup than him?”
She laughed, doing her best impression of a woman who was no longer bothered by the situation. “I told you, I don’t care anymore. I got over that whole thing years ago.”
Paul sat himself on the edge of the tub, taking her in. “That’s not what Sophie said.”
Alex reeled. “ What Sophie said? When could Sophie have possibly formed an opinion on the matter?” She knew her anger was betraying her attempted coolness, but she couldn’t stop herself.
“When she was texting me the whole way down from Paris, complaining about you guys fighting.”
“She was supposed to be asleep!”
“She was trying to sleep, but you obnoxious motherfuckers couldn’t help yourselves. And you didn’t even notice her texting because you were too busy laying into him about his job. Apparently.” Paul smiled, sipping his champagne.
“Jesus, is nothing sacred?” She looked in the mirror, wiping under her tired eyes. “And by the way, we agreed to be friends—not that she texted you that part, I’m sure.”
“She didn’t give me the meeting minutes, no.”
It was funny hearing Paul—whose primary relationship to work as an adult had been in largely ceremonial positions for his father’s software empire—using any kind of professional jargon. In her frustration, she briefly considered asking him if he even knew what the phrase meant, but thought better of it.
“Well, thank you both, because I’m fucking humiliated.”
He stood up, walking toward her and placing his hand over hers on the counter. “Lex, come on, I’m just kidding. She was just trying to sleep, and you guys were being loud the whole—”
“I wasn’t—”
“Let me finish. You were laying into each other, but I don’t blame you. I just want you guys to at least try to get along.”
“I told you, we agreed to be friends for the trip. I’m not going to ruin your bachelor party.”
“It’s not for me, babe, it’s for Guy.”
“Because you already had to beg him to include me, I know.”
“Hey, whoa. Don’t do that. He’s just really stressed out about everything being perfect. And I didn’t force him to include you. You were always at the top of the list.”
“So he can write off my expenses as a charitable donation,” she deadpanned, avoiding his gaze.
“Stop it. You know it’s not about money with him.”
“Of course it is. Everything is about money, and the only reason you all get to act like it’s not is because you have so much of it.” She sighed, deciding her comfort level before continuing. “I’ve been taking on extra clients for six months to afford my wardrobe for this trip. Everything is about money.”
He rolled his eyes, sighing. “Babe, not again…”
“It’s not ‘again.’ It’s very different this time, and I’m not telling you so you feel sorry for me. I’m just telling you because I already feel like the smelly kid at the lunch table. And the fact that Sophie was apparently making fun of me the whole car ride down doesn’t help.”
Paul pulled her into his arms, putting her head against his chest. “You are not the smelly kid. Sophie was not making fun of you. Danny was an asshole to provoke you, and if you want to spend this whole trip avoiding him, I give you permission.”
“I don’t want to spend my whole trip doing anything about him.” She sighed, closing her eyes and breathing in Paul’s elegant cologne. “I just want to forget he’s here.”
“Okay, shh,” Paul whispered, resting his chin at the crown of her head. “Why don’t you lay down for a few minutes and relax? You could take a bath.”
“Do I smell?” She sounded like a little girl, overtired and full of emotion.
“No.” He smiled, stepping back and smoothing the hair she had rustled while pressed against him. “I’m going to go check on the others, Just text me if you need anything.”
“Will do.”
“Oh.” He reached into his pocket. “I almost forgot. In case you need it.”
He reached out with two thin black wristbands, each containing a small white sphere in its center, where a watch face might be.
“What?”
“You put them on your wrists, facing inward. It’s for seasickness, because you—”
“Because I’ve never lived on a boat before, I get it.”
“I was going to say because you puked twice in my car on the road trip to Vermont, but that, too.”
There was a pause, and a satisfied little grin from Paul.
“Fine.” A smile pulled at the corner of her mouth despite herself.
She grabbed them from his hand, walking him out of the cabin and closing the door behind him. For the first time since she left her apartment more than a day ago, she was completely alone, and the privacy itself felt luxurious. It enveloped her completely, almost insisting that she fall back onto the bed to enjoy it. Her body made a starfish shape, stretching out mindlessly to enjoy every inch of surface area. She’d never felt sheets like these before, not even when she stayed at Paul’s family beach house in Hilton Head. And the boat itself felt both solid and smooth, rocking under her in a motion so gentle that she would miss it if she weren’t concentrating on it. The space was like a little mahogany cocoon, crafted to the finest detail to help someone relax. Even the sounds within the quiet were calibrated for relaxation: the water, the air conditioning, the muffled din of voices outside her door. It all combined to create a kind of natural white noise, and she knew that she would be gone for the night if she allowed herself to close her eyes for even a moment.
She began to unbutton her shirt, working her hands down the center of her until it was totally undone. Then she lifted herself off the bed and removed it fully, tossing it to the floor, swiftly followed by her skirt, underwear, and bra. The full-length cheval mirror in the corner reflected half of her naked body, and she stepped fully into frame, walking to the glass to take herself in. It had been years since she’d given this much attention to her appearance: regularly exercising, drinking plenty of water, waxing and tanning and deep conditioning her hair. It was no wonder rich people always looked so good, when even the smallest details—like her brow lamination or her tasteful lash extensions—had the power to transform her face. She even found that her usual insecurities, like the prominent nose she once desperately wanted surgery for, the moles dotted all along her body, didn’t really register.
Hanging from a thick wooden hanger on a wall hook was a plush white terry cloth robe with a pair of slippers neatly placed below it. Both were monogrammed with the yacht’s name, and Alex couldn’t wait to put them on after her bath. But she would be patient, only enjoying things in the proper order. She walked, naked, into the bathroom and started running the tap, sitting on the side of the tub to feel the temperature rise. Something about the water—being in it, being on it—put her at ease. Maybe it was the summers she spent on Lake Ontario, or the fact that she was a Cancer.
At the thought of her sign, her mind drifted back to the night junior year when they had all stayed up until three in the morning while Bee read everyone’s star charts. She remembered that Paul was “the most prototypical Gemini she had ever seen,” that Dev was “almost too Capricornian to function,” and that Danial had “so much Scorpio in his chart it stung her.” Alex had spent the days after scouring everything she could about Cancer-Scorpio compatibility, and remembered—among many other things—that they were both water signs. She wondered if he felt the same immediate relaxation around bodies of water as she did, or if ten days on the Mediterranean would be enough to put out the fire between them for good.