Day 4
Tuesday morning—Cannes, France
The drum of hooves and hot breath as the pack draws near. Dirt clods fly, shadows sharp in the noonday sun, colors so saturated the scene is almost surreal. Green grass, blue sky, blurs of red and white uniforms. Somewhere a stick is raised and a ball flung. Muscles ripple under glossy coats of chestnut, gunmetal, and black, lathering in the heat. Cheers from the small, well-heeled crowd, sipping rosé at picnic tables under the shade trees on the sidelines.
I lean my forearms on the white fence that edges the spectator area and gaze out at the horses, feigning interest in the game to avoid the human buzzards circling our table. Judging by the number of male acquaintances who happened to show up to his match today, word must have gotten out that John is traveling with a harem. I’m reminded that that’s what we’re here for, after all. “Good for business.” I can’t keep my eye on the ball to save my life, but the horses are beautiful, as are many of the men riding them. If only it were the strapping Scandinavian-looking one that caught my eye on his last pass who was coming to lunch with us, and not the two old enough to be his father.
Iactually gotmy hopes up when Summer revealed that a few of the polo players would be joining us after the match. My knowledge of polo is limited, but from what I can tell, there are two groups of players, the paid professionals who look like they belong in a Ralph Lauren ad and the rich guys who play to feel young. John and his friends clearly belong in the latter group.
I’m feeling much more myself this morning after finally having had a good night’s sleep last night. I’d intended to stay awake to see whether our door was locked during the night again, but I guess I was so worn out from the sun and swimming and Jet Skis that I couldn’t keep my eyes open and passed out during the movie we watched after dinner. I’m normally a pretty light sleeper, but apparently it took Vinny five minutes to wake me when it was time for us to go to our rooms, and my limbs were so heavy I could hardly make it down the stairs.
I feel Wendy’s nails on my arm and turn to see the others exiting the gate behind her. “We’re leaving,” she says.
“Why?” I ask, confused. John’s still on the field.
“Don’t be obvious because she’s staring at us, but see that woman over there in the big ugly hat?”
I surreptitiously glance over her shoulder to see a Waspy-looking woman in her forties wearing the biggest, bluest hat I’ve ever seen.
“Take my arm; let’s go,” she says. And then, as we walk through the gate, “That’s John’s wife’s best friend. So we have to leave.”
“Wait, John’s still married? But he was getting a divorce when he and Summer met, what—six, eight months ago?”
Saying it out loud reminds me just how quickly Summer has adapted to her new lifestyle. Wendy wrinkles her brow. “It’s been longer than that.”
“No,” I say. “It was after Christmas when they met.”
“Huh. Well, it seems like longer. Anyway, it’s complicated. Something about divorce being too expensive right now. So they’re still technically married. I mean, she’s like his fourth or fifth wife or something, and he only sees her once a month or whatever, and she knows about Summer, but there’s an agreement that she and Summer don’t share space. And the wife gets priority, or she’ll make his life hell. So whenever she or her friends are around, Summer can’t be there.”
The first of our two black Suburbans peels out of the dirt lot in a cloud of dust as we approach, leaving us covering our faces.
Claire, Wendy, Amythest, and I are all lost in our own worlds as our Suburban pulls away. I gaze out the window at the brilliant day while we speed along a road that hugs the coast, my thoughts completely out of step with the tranquil setting. I shouldn’t be surprised that Summer lied about John’s marital status—it’s the least of the lies she’s spun, and yet somehow I’m thrown by it. When I think of the vicious tactics she’s employed to maintain her place…The fact he’s still married somehow makes it worse. And that Wendy knew and I didn’t? I have to do a better job of paying attention.
I realize I have no idea what I’ve gotten myself into, agreeing to come on this trip; I probably should have stayed home, gone to see Grannie with Lauren. We’d be doing water aerobics with the biddies right about now, which sounds absolutely wonderful. But it’s certainly too late to turn back at this point.
I briefly allow myself a fantasy about what a trip like this would be like if I were here with Lauren and Hunter. There would be more quiet reading time involved (Lauren), and more dancing (Hunter). And certainly no one would tell us where to sit or what to talk about. That’s the problem with being on someone else’s dime:you serve at their pleasure. At least I’m only here for a week. I can’t imagine choosing to live my whole life like this, the way Summer has.
I take out my phone, frustrated that I still have no new messages. But as I’m putting it away I notice the little airplane icon on the top and remember I’d put it in airplane mode to save power since we have no service on the boat. I turn on data roaming and immediately am hit by a flurry of notifications. I scroll through, looking for one in particular. And there it is, a message from @drl1991, sent two hours ago. It’s only one line:
Where are you?
I bite my lip. So my posts did their job. But now what? I’m nervous about actually seeing Dylan. It’s been so long since we were in the same room, and so much has happened.
Somewhere off the Ligurian coast,
headed to Saint-Tropez. You?
Wendy peers over my shoulder. “Who ya writing?”
I hesitate for a moment before answering her. “Remember Dylan? Eric’s brother. We spoke to him on the phone after Eric—Oh! You met him. At the fairy party, like, two years ago.”
“Oh my God, the night someone drugged me.” She shivers. “I don’t really remember him, but I know he saved my ass.”
“He’s out here for the summer, somewhere near Saint-Tropez, I think.”
She raises her eyebrows in surprise. “You guys are still talking?”
“I mean, sort of.” I shrug. “He lives in London, so we haven’t seen each other or anything, but yeah. I’ve talked to him a few times, since the news about Eric.”
“How’s he doing—after everything?” she asks.
“I really don’t know. That’s why I want to see him.”
“That’s so sweet of you.” She gives me a little hug. “He’s been through a lot. I’m sure he could use a friend right now. Wait, he was superhot, wasn’t he? And, like, successful? Hmmm.” She looks me up and down with a smirk. “No one ever said you weren’t smart.”
Wow. These friends of mine…“Thanks.” I laugh. “But I’m not in the man-trapping business. I just wanted to check on him.”
“Mmm-hmm.” She winks.
Good God.
My phone dings.
In Ramatuelle, just south of Saint-Tropez for the month
I reply:
So close! Not sure I’ll be able to get away, but
would love to catch up with you if possible. Any news?
“You know Summer’s never gonna let you see him,” Wendy says.
“Yeah, I know. But that doesn’t mean I can’t try.”
My phone dings:
Sorry you’re stuck. If we can’t connect this trip,
I’ll hit you up next time I’m on the west coast.
Love to catch up. X.
No acknowledgment of my question. Which I can assume means no new developments surrounding what happened to Eric—or none he’s willing to share, anyway. But then, that’s not exactly a surprise. I wonder if I saw him face-to-face, would he be more forthcoming?
We bounce along a dusty road, finally parking in front of a restaurant built into the side of a low cliff. As I get out of the car, I can almost taste the salt in the light breeze that blows off the sea, lapping at the rocks below. I instantly forgive myself for saying yes to this trip, no matter how insane the situation might be. I am, after all, allowed to enjoy myself. Or rather, required to.
The restaurant is essentially a patio, naturally shaded by the lip of the cliff above. Driftwood tables look out over rocks rounded by the constant pounding of the surf, lit gold in the afternoon sun. The calm sea reflects the luminous sky, and boats bob in the distance.
Summer, Rhonda, Brittani, and the two goons are already seated at a long table on the far side of the patio, and two Chinese businessmen hover close by, sweating in their dress shirts. I slide into the chair next to Summer.
“This place is magical,” I say with a smile.
“John’s sitting there.” Summer doesn’t return my smile.
“Of course.” I move a seat over.
“Actually, can you sit down there?” She indicates the other end of the table, where Amythest is seated with Bernard and Vinny. “He’ll want to sit next to the men who are here to do business with him. They’ve come all the way from China.”
“No problem.” So much for that. I move down to the other end of the table and open my menu, ravenous.
“Don’t bother looking at the menu,” Summer instructs us. “John knows just what to order—he’ll take care of it all when he arrives.”
Easy for her to say; she probably had a five-course meal on the ride over.
I notice Summer doesn’t object when Wendy takes the seat directly across from her and beckons to the Chinese businessmen, one tall and one short. “Come have a seat.” She flashes a charming smile. “I want to hear all about China. I’ve always wanted to go.”
The men awkwardly sit next to John’s empty seat, and within minutes Wendy has them laughing. I feel a pang of jealousy. This whole trip would be going a lot more smoothly if I had her social skills.
I’m seated too far away from Wendy’s one-woman show to participate, and Brittani and Amythest are taking photos of each other in front of the view, so I attempt to strike up a conversation with Bernard and Vinny.
“So, how long you guys been working with John?” I ask.
Neither of them so much as looks at me, and when after a few moments it becomes apparent to each that the other is not going to answer and I’m not going to stop waiting expectantly until they do, Bernard mutters, “Long time.”
“How about you, Vinny?” I ask.
“Thirty years,” he grumbles.
I let out a low whistle. “So you must know where all the bodies are buried, huh?”
Now I have their attention. Only they’re not laughing.
I read a warning in Vinny’s bloodshot eyes as he leans in to my ear. “Guests are meant to be seen and not heard,” he hisses.
A chill runs down my spine.
Vinny abruptly takes out his phone and begins typing away at the screen as I focus on my breathing, attempting to slow my racing heart. Everyone else carries on with their conversations, oblivious to our tense exchange.
Bernard excuses himself to take a phone call, and as he stands, a pill bottle falls from his pocket, rolling beneath my chair. I bend to pick it up before he realizes what’s happened, sneaking a peek at the label as I hand it back to him. Diazepam. It sounds familiar, but I can’t place it. He snatches it from my hand without meeting my eye and shoves it in his pocket as he stalks away.
I take out my phone and google “diazepam.” Oh right, it’s Valium. Bernie’s on Valium? I guess that makes sense; it’s probably pretty stressful working for John.
I return my focus to my phone and open my email, landing on a new message from Lauren_Carter812:
Hi Sis!
How’s the sailing? Hope the weather there is as beautiful as it is here. Did you get my last email?
Love,
Sis
I quickly type:
I got your last email and downloaded the Shakespeare quote—didn’t have time to reply—was interrupted by Bernard looking over my shoulder. I got in trouble because apparently we aren’t supposed to download anything while using their computers. In other news, they lock us in at night, so that’s creepy. This whole trip is kinda bonkers. We’re being paraded around like Summer’s chorus line, and John is super controlling. Yes, it’s beautiful here, and the food’s delicious (at a restaurant overlooking the sea currently, entertaining some Chinese businessmen John is working with)—but I wouldn’t call it fun. I’m writing more freely b/c I’m on my phone, maybe delete this message when you get it so that it’s not in the system next time I log in to the boat computers. Xo
Wendy catches my eye and looks pointedly at my phone and then nods toward my bag. I dutifully put it away, irritated she’s taken it upon herself to monitor my behavior.
When at last John and his two Italian polo friends arrive and he orders the long-awaited food, it is every bit as divine as the vista. Plates of prickly sea urchin, salt-crusted sea bass, succulent melon with perfectly cured prosciutto. The rosé from the restaurant’s sister vineyard is like sunshine in a glass, so smooth I could drink a bottle on my own without blinking.
I rest my arms on the table and eavesdrop as John and the polo guys schmooze with the Chinese, complimenting them on the success of what sounds like an entire city they built in China, persuading them that what they accomplished there will do even better here. From what I gather, the development John is planning is on the Italian Riviera overlooking the sea, complete with all-new high-end homes, condos, a resort, a spa, shops, restaurants, golf, a marina, and the crown jewel: he’s secured a gambling license, apparently a real feat, which the polo guys are somehow involved in.
The womenfolk aren’t invited to take part in the conversation, of course, but I’m paying attention nonetheless. Here are the titans of industry in their natural habitat, the delicate balance of power shifting among them as they court one another, vaunting their authority and leverage like birds engaged in a bizarre courtship dance. It’s fascinating.
What’s even more interesting is the fact that the men seem to have zero regard for the seven women seated at the table––as though it would be impossible for us to hold opinions on anything they’re discussing. While there’s clearly plenty that’s being left unsaid, I’m amazed by how pragmatically they speak about issues like environmental impact and minimum relocation costs—it’s all numbers to them; they’re not in the least bit concerned about the very real damage to the planet or the disrupted lives of the people forced to relocate to make way for their monster resort.
I don’t claim to be well versed in the ins and outs of Italian (or for that matter, American) business regulations, and sure, none of this may be exactly illegal, but their casual entitlement displays an unmistakable moral bankruptcy. Then again, I suppose it’s par for the course. It’s not like I haven’t seen the Russian billionaire keeping a separate yacht for his wife and kids right next door to his boatload of hookers.
After a good hour of smiling vacantly and downing copious amounts of wine in an attempt to drown out my growing ire, I’ve got a strong enough buzz that I can almost forget the who and why of my situation and simply enjoy the where. But my reverie is interrupted by John, who seems to have remembered that we’re here after all.
“Let’s talk about our mothers,” he instructs us between bites of squid-ink pasta.
Though this edict is directed at the table, it’s clearly intended for those of the female persuasion, for the purpose of entertaining the men—which is, in this world, our sole purpose. Our mothers being a safer subject than our fathers, I assume, who are younger than the majority of the men present.
“Wendy, you start,” he says, unfurling his Cheshire-cat grin.
“My mom is Sandra, and she’s amazing.” Wendy smiles broadly at the table. “You know, my dad’s a senator in Ohio”—yep, there it is—“so she has a lot of social obligations. She’s head of the Cincinnati Country Club Association, the PTA when I was in prep school, and she and I were actually both president of the same sorority. And she has the best taste—I am always raiding her closet when I go home. She’s almost as good at tennis as Summer, and she’s an amazing cook.”
This is all true, though Wendy confessed to me in a moment of weakness facilitated by painkillers after her horse-jumping accident how hurt she was that her mother hadn’t come out for her surgery. She admitted that Sandra rarely had time for her and has always been much more interested in her social status than her only child. Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, I guess.
Summer raises her glass. “To Sandra!”
We all raise our glasses. The polo players sit next to Wendy, and I am on the other side, so it falls to me to speak next.
“My mom is Beth, and she’s also amazing, but in a different way,” I say. “She’s a nurse, and even when she’s not working, she’s always taking care of everyone. When we were little, we would go to this community pool, and any of the kids who couldn’t swim, she would teach to swim. If a baby bird fell out of a tree, she was feeding it with a bottle till it could fly. And she loves to garden—she can make anything grow.”
“I remember she was always out there with her hands in the dirt,” Rhonda chimes in. “Wearing a sombrero and overalls like she fell off the turnip truck.” She cackles at her own wit.
Oh. Rhonda is drunk. Drunk and throwing shade at my mom. Great. “Well, we can’t all be as fashionable as you, Rhonda,” I say dryly. Oops. Clearly Rhonda’s not the only one who’s had a little too much wine. I paint on a smile and soften my voice, grateful for my acting experience, and continue. “I remember when you guys first moved in, my mom baked a lemon meringue pie from the lemons in our lemon tree to welcome you to the neighborhood. You remember, Summer? We ate the whole thing watching Pretty Woman , and then we were sick to our stomachs. We’ve been friends ever since.”
For a beat no one speaks, and I wonder if I’ve said something wrong again, but I’m relieved when Summer smiles. “I could go for some lemon meringue pie right now.” She shifts her gaze to John. “Should we order limoncello?”
“That’s a great idea,” Wendy agrees, and we all nod.
John orders the limoncello, then turns to Amythest. “Amythest, tell us about your mother.”
Amythest squirms a little in her chair. “My mom came over from the Philippines with me when I was six. She had a really hard time. I mean, she didn’t speak the language or know anybody or anything.”
“Tell about your foster moms, though,” Brittani interjects. “That’s some crazy shit. Amythest had some fucking crazy foster moms after her mom ditched her.”
Amythest stares at Brittani, at a loss for what to say, the look on her face a mixture of hurt and surprise. “I don’t…She didn’t…” Her voice trails off.
“She’s an addict. She OD’d and was put in a halfway house,” Brittani announces to the table, “and poor Amythest had to go live with just whoever they assigned. It was really fucking shitty. She even got molested. So awful.”
It’s as though the air has been sucked out of the scene. Everyone is still. Amythest blinks quickly, her face drained of color.
I push my chair back and stand, dropping my napkin on my plate, and glance around the table with an upbeat smile, my gaze landing on Amythest. “I’m going to run to the ladies’ room. Does anyone care to join?”
Amythest half nods and shakily stands to her feet while the rest of the table remains still as statues. I take her arm and steer her across the uneven stone toward the bathroom, never once dropping my smile.
Once the bathroom door is safely closed behind us, I glance under the two stalls, ensuring we’re the only ones inside. Amythest leans against the wall, staring out the small open window that looks over the sea, her fingers absently pulling at a piece of hair from the back of her head.
“She’s drunk,” I say.
She nods, tugging at her hair until strands come loose and flutter one at a time to the white marble floor, leaving a pattern of tangled black lines.
“Careful.” I gently pull her hand away from her hair.
She looks at her reflection in the mirror over the sink and spies the canister of cigarettes sitting next to the peppermints and perfume on the counter. She strikes a match from a box marked with the name of the restaurant and lights a cigarette, inhaling deeply.
“God, I’ve been wanting a cigarette for days.” She exhales.