The Lion’s Den

Day 5

Wednesday evening—Golfe de Saint-Tropez, France

T he monstrous boat looms above us, silhouetted against the bright-blue sky. This one’s got to be twice the size of ours, and she does have a helipad. We bob in the cool of her shadow, her shiny black exterior so close I can see our reflection as our tender slowly makes its way around the back of the yacht into the full glare of the low sun, where TYGER is etched in gold script across her stern.

A ladder lowers, and we shade our eyes and gather bags as two crewmen in crisp white uniforms help us up one at a time. A crew woman offers a tray of champagne, and I gladly accept a glass, briefly wondering what percentage of the world’s champagne is consumed on the Riviera in August. A photographer appears and snaps photos as we toast for the camera.

We’re all looking fresh in the blue hi-lo dresses gifted to us by John. They’re each a slightly different shade of blue, but all the same cut: gauzy fit-and-flare spaghetti-strap with a crisscross low back, save Rhonda’s, which is less revealing—a fact I overheard her complaining to Brittani about through the paper-thin walls on the boat, but as far as I know she has not shared her displeasure with Summer. We look like a bunch of bridesmaids for Summer, who’s dressed in a similar-cut dress by the same designer, in white.

They’re beautiful dresses, and very expensive, I’m sure, but the whole thing is just weird. And blue has never been my color, especially the shade of dusky blue my particular dress is made from. I wouldn’t be surprised if Summer selected it for that purpose. Wendy’s shade would have looked much better on me and mine on her, but Summer wouldn’t let us switch, pointing out that since I was taller, Wendy’s would be much too short on me, and mine too long on her.

Summer notices me check my watch. “I thought I told you not to wear that,” she says.

I meet her glare with a smile. “Sorry. Forgot.”

We both know I didn’t forget.

“You can put it in my purse,” she says.

“No, that’s okay.” I swig my champagne. “I like it.”

I can tell she wants to rip it off my arm, but she is stopped by John, who takes her by the hand.

It’s true; shetold me not to wear it when she came down to our quarters to see us in our dresses earlier. Which, of course, was never going to stop me. She was eating something out of a jar with a mother-of-pearl spoon.

“What is that?” Iasked, knowing full well what it was.

“Mmm…It’s caviar. So good. I’m starving, and this was the only thing in the fridge in our room. Go figure.” She didn’t offer me any, and I didn’t ask.

She reviewed our jewelry selections and made suggestions as to whether we curl or straighten our hair. “I mean, we need to look our best. You know who Marlena Falgione is, right?”

When we all shook our heads, confirming our ignorance, she gleefully informed us, “She’s only one of the premier artists on the scene right now. Everybody is crazy for her work. John bought a painting of hers last month for one-point-two, which was a steal. And she’s a designer as well, super stylish. The dresses are from her summer line. And her husband, Charles Bricknell—well, you know who he is. He owns one of the biggest tech companies in the world, and John is trying to secure him as an investor for this huge development he’s working on. So, everybody, best behavior tonight. That means you, too, Brittani.”

“Don’t worry, honey. I’ll keep her in check.” Rhonda winked.

Rhonda keeping Brittani in check is like a bear keeping a wolf from mauling anyone, but it seemed to satisfy Summer.

“Why you gotta pick on me?” Brittani said. “Belle was the one hurling behind the restaurant earlier today.”

Summer feigned surprise. “What?”

“From seasickness, not alcohol,” I clarified. “I guess the pill you gave me didn’t work.”

She didn’t flinch. “Are you okay now? Because you can’t be doing that tonight.”

I nodded and displayed the patch on my neck. “I got a patch. I’m fine.”

After Summer had spritzed us each with her signature Chanel No. 5 and departed for her own quarters, Amythest tried to change back into the predictably short, black dress she had originally selected for herself, but I managed to convince her otherwise. Nothing was to be done about the violet contacts, though. Summer had tried to talk her out of wearing them, but Amythest insisted they’re prescription and she’s blind without them.

As Amythest turns toward me now with the glare of the low sun in her eyes, the rim of her almost black irises is visible around the violet. The effect is startling and a bit unsettling, as though she’s a member of the undead. “Who I gotta screw to get a room on this boat instead?” she whispers.

A stocky crewman leads us up a set of stairs onto the lower deck, with its sleek built-in loungers and tables open to a sunken living room that features an ostentatious chandelier, a grand piano, and a giant fish tank. But he doesn’t stop there, ushering us up a wide exterior spiral staircase that leads to the main deck, where a table for twenty is being set by white-uniformed staff and a couple of musicians are testing their sound equipment.

“Everyone is on the upper deck for the sunset,” he informs us as we follow him into a game room lined with huge TVs, past a pool table, poker table, foosball table, and a bar that wouldn’t look out of place in a restaurant. We ascend another wide spiral staircase, this one carpeted in white shag, with a light sculpture made of crystal orbs running up its center, and emerge onto the open upper deck.

It’s nirvana on the Mediterranean. A long-haired flamenco guitarist picks a melody with his eyes closed, the notes drifting on a gentle breeze that lifts the heat of the day as waiters pass hors d’oeuvres to a handful of elegantly dressed guests scattered across the deck. The shimmering sea is speckled with ships suspended in the tide, and green hills rise from the water, dappled with villas whose windows are lit fiery orange by a setting sun that bathes the entire scene in golden light.

I accept a sliver of grilled octopus, which melts on my tongue, and follow it with crisp champagne, amplifying the nutty flavor. A striking woman who looks to be in her late forties approaches us, smiling. Her dark hair is short in the back and longer in the front, streaked with a dramatic blue that accents her slate eyes, her tanned face clean of makeup save a bright-red lipstick. She is dressed in a cream modified leisure suit, which sounds awful but looks incredibly stylish on her slim frame.

Summer lights up at her approach, clearly pleased when the woman takes her hands and air-kisses her cheeks three times before looking her in the eye and saying in Italian-accented English, “Summer, so lovely to see you. And John, of course, always a pleasure.” She turns to the rest of us. “I am Marlena.”

As we introduce ourselves, she grasps each of our hands in turn, meeting our eyes with interest.

“Thank you so much for inviting us,” Summer croons when the introductions are over. “And for letting my friends come, too.”

Marlena envelops us in her radiant smile. “Welcome aboard Tyger .”

“‘Tyger, Tyger burning bright’?” I venture, ignoring the sharp glance from Summer.

“‘In the forests of the night,’” she confirms.

The other girls look at us blankly.

“I noticed the spelling when we boarded,” I explain. “May I ask why?”

“It is between my husband and me a—how do you say—private funny?”

“Inside joke?” I suggest.

“That’s the one. Thirty years I am married to an Englishman, and still the words escape me.” She takes my elbow and steers me toward the bar. “You must come and meet my husband and my son.”

Marlena beckons for the others to follow, looping her arm through mine as we traverse the deck. Trailing behind us, the girls fan out around John like the petals of a flower.

“It’s such a beautiful evening,” I remark.

“Isn’t it?” Marlena agrees. “It never becomes old. Every night I am here, absorbing this beauty. It is so important to be in life, don’t you think?”

“Absolutely.” I like this woman.

She slips her arm around a wiry, intelligent-looking man about her age and gives him a kiss that leaves a lipstick stain on his cheek. His curly hair falls in front of his glasses as he turns to us with a lopsided smile. “This is my husband, Charles.”

“Hello, ladies,” he says. “And John. I’m glad you could make it on such short notice.”

“Impromptu parties are the best parties.” Marlena taps the shoulder of a young man in a seersucker suit who is deep in conversation with the bartender. “Darling, I hate to interrupt, but you must meet our guests.” And then to the bartender. “And, Emelio, I’d love a martini.”

“Mother doesn’t drink champagne,” the young man says, turning toward us with his father’s lopsided smile. “I’m Michael.”

Michael is about our age, good-looking and coiffed beyond metrosexuality. A paisley silk pocket square adorns his seersucker, and underneath he wears a pink button-down, open deep enough to show his hairless chest. He raises his champagne glass to us, and we reciprocate. “Cheers,” he says.

The photographer snaps more pictures as we sip our champagne and gaze at the sunset, mesmerized by the view. Summer hangs on John’s arm while he chats with Charles, her eyes sliding helplessly toward Marlena. But Marlena is far less interested in idle chitchat with Summer than in telling bawdy jokes with her son and the bartender, who appears to be his boyfriend.

A few additional guests filter in, but it’s an intimate gathering, and our group of ten will likely take up half of the dining table. Claire is confiding in me about how much she misses her boyfriend when I notice Wendy talking with an unusually tall man on the other side of the deck. Their backs are to us, but I can tell she’s in flirt mode as she smooths her glossy black tresses over one shoulder and places her hand lightly on his arm, hanging on his every word.

“Wendy seems to have found a friend,” I say.

Claire follows my gaze. “Yeah, she said she knew him from somewhere, but I can’t remember where. I think Summer knows him, too.”

Wendy leans her back against the rail and meets my eye. She beckons for us to come over, and he turns as we move toward them, flashing a smile. He looks familiar, but I can’t place him.

Wendy’s face is lit with delight as we approach. “Belle, Claire, this is Leo Martin.”

My hand swims in his paw. He must be six foot six, but he’s not gangly; he’s well proportioned, fit, and sharply dressed.

“My pleasure,” he says.

“You remember Gianni?” Wendy asks.

Gianni, the Italian designer Summer dated in the small pocket of time between when Eric moved to New York and she met John. He wasn’t around long. I only met him once or twice. It ended badly, but I can’t quite remember the details.

“And remember Gianni’s birthday party,” she continues, “at that beautiful home down in Newport Beach, when everybody jumped in the pool at the end of the night?”

Ah, yes.

“That was Leo’s house! He’s friends with Gianni. He was throwing the party for him.”

It’s all coming back to me now. Leo’s rich. Like, John rich. A count or a baron or something, far richer than Gianni, and better-looking, too. Summer got uncharacteristically sloshed at the party and threwherself at Leo, whorebuffed her in deference to his friend.

“What a small world,” I say. “We met briefly at the party. It’s nice to see you. How is Gianni?”

“He’s well. I was just with him at his home in Sardinia,” Leo replies. “He is there for the month, with his children and his girlfriend.”

“Have you said hello to Summer yet?” I ask with a big smile. “I’m sure she’ll be thrilled to see you.”

I should keep my mouth shut. But I’m on my second glass of champagne, and I’m sick of being treated like the help. I want to see her squirm. Anyway, it’s a party of twenty people; it’s not like they’re going to be able to avoid each other all evening.

As if on cue, Summer turns to see all of us staring at her, a flicker of recognition playing across her face as she notices Leo. She releases John’s arm and slips away, striding toward us with a smile plastered on her face.

“Hiiiii,” she says as she approaches.

Leo bends to give her kisses on her flushed cheeks. “You remember Leo,” Wendy says.

“Of course,” Summer intones without dropping her smile. “How are you?”

“I’m well. Just saw our mutual friend in Sardinia.”

“Ooohhh.” She watches him carefully. “That’s nice. I’m here with my boyfriend, John.”

“Yes, Wendy said,” Leo returns. “I know John. He is a lucky man to have you beautiful girls with him.”

Summer relaxes a little. “Yeah, I brought my friends to celebrate my birthday. I guess Marlena and I have birthdays a day apart.”

“Happy birthday.” Leo smiles.

“Thanks.”

“It’s crazy,” I say to Summer. “I mean, you told us that everyone who’s anyone is on the Riviera in August, but I didn’t think I would know so many people. Leo—”

“Mmm-hmm.” Her eyes slide past me toward John, who is still engrossed in conversation with Charles.

I shouldn’t poke the bear, I know. But I simply can’t help it. “And I ran into Dylan at the restaurant earlier,” I continue, watching for her reaction. “Did you know he and John work together?”

I think I see her smile falter, but maybe I’m imagining it.

“How strange.” She glances over her shoulder at John. “I better get back. Good to see you,” she says to Leo, and heads for John like a homing pigeon.

Once the sun has set, the stocky steward rings a bell and invites us all down to the main deck for dinner. Wendy hasn’t left Leo’s side. I’m glad she’s warmed to the idea of finding someone better than Mr. Pussycat, but a little surprised that she would be so obvious about her interest in Leo in front of Summer after what happened between them. Wendy is generally an incredibly loyal friend, but I guess Leo is an even better catch.

As we head down to dinner, I watch Summer’s eyes travel to Leo’s hand on Wendy’s bare lower back while Leo explains to John that he and Summer met through mutual friends. No specifics or insinuations, no ego boosters to spoil any story Summer might spin for John. A gentleman used to covering his tracks.

I wonder if Summer is having second thoughts about her commitment to John, considering whether she could have done better. But she’s made her bed.

The table is lined with white roses, set with silver and crystal that reflect and splinter the flickering candlelight. A quartet plays what I can only describe as Mediterranean jazz as the sky loses its color, and we exchange our champagne glasses for wineglasses. I locate my place card, thrilled to find I’m seated at the opposite end of the table from Brittani and Rhonda, next to Michael.

Marlena is in the midst of an impassioned discussion with one of the men as she makes her way down to her seat at the table. “No, I am happy to pay the taxes,” she’s saying. “If we humans cannot take care of one another, then we are all doomed, because there is no one else.”

“But you’re paying more.” The man’s accent is American, his watch worth more than my car. “If it were a flat tax, you would still be paying your share, and it would still be more because you earn more, but you wouldn’t be penalized for earning more.”

“Oh! You poor man, penalized for earning more.” She dismisses the idea with a wave of her hand. “I am a lucky woman. There are many artists better than me who are not so lucky. Now the people like my paintings. They think I am a good artist. I have them fooled. Tomorrow, who knows, they don’t like my paintings. I am out of favor.”

“You’re too modest,” the bejeweled wife of the man chimes in. “Your paintings are brilliant.”

Again, the dismissive wave of her hand. “It is all in the eye of the beholder. The mistake is to believe we deserve the things we have.”

“You deserve it all, Marlena,” says the man lightly.

“Do I like this boat? Of course I like this boat,” Marlena continues. “I love this boat, but I do not deserve this boat. I do not need this boat. I was happy before I had this boat.”

“That’s because you’d never had the boat,” the man says.

Everyone laughs.

“Mother, for the last time, please don’t give away the boat,” Michael implores.

“Okay, we keep the boat.” She smiles. “For now.”

“A toast.” Charles raises his glass from the head of the table. Everyone quiets down and raises their glass. “To my beautiful wife on her…”

He looks to her across the long table for confirmation he may reveal the number, and she rolls her eyes. “ Cinquantaquattro! Fifty-four! And glad of every year!”

“On her fifty-fourth birthday,” Charles finishes.

She blows him kisses and we all drink. “ Grazie mille. ” She raises her glass to us. “And to all of you, for making it a party. I do love a party.”

We drink again, then take our seats. Immediately, as if in one motion, the staff places our plates in front of us. The steward announces, “Bresaola, arugula, Grana Padano, and fresh lemon.”

I lose count of the perfectly timed number of plates, each small enough not to be intimidating and big enough that I am full before we’re halfway throughbut keep going nonetheless, unable to turn down the experience of each delectable dish.

This is the first dinner I’ve had on this trip during which the conversation is not moderated by our patron, and it’s lovely. There is actually an exchange of ideas, witty repartee.

But like Victorian children, John’s girls are meant to be seen and not heard, to speak only when spoken to. I’ve been trained by the conditions of the past few days (was it only a week ago that I was in the bohemian cocoon of my apartment, packing for this trip?), and I know better than to make waves.

This, of course, does not stop me from engaging in conversation with my new friend Michael, who, it turns out, is a big fan of Hunter’s music and is ecstatic when he finds out I’m friends with him.

“I love Hunter Rogers!” he enthuses. “He’s so dapper, and his voice is sweet and smooth, like molasses. And he’s gorgeous.”

“He would be thrilled to hear you say that.” I laugh.

The best way I can describe Hunter’s music is Cole Porter goes to Ibiza. Original songs in a jazz standard format, set to dance music. He’s not hugely famous, but he does have a loyal following among Broadway fans and dance music lovers. So, mainly gay men. Which, of course, suits him just fine.

“You have to introduce us,” Michael begs. “Maybe he’s my soul mate. We could have a wedding right here on the boat. You could be our maid of honor. But I’m getting ahead of myself. How did you guys become friends?”

“We met doing a musical in college. Grease. I was Sandy and he was Danny. Then we lived together till he had to move to New York for his first Broadway show.”

“I live in New York! Where does he live? Not that I’m gonna stalk him or anything, of course.” He winks.

“He has a loft in the Meatpacking District.”

“I’m in SoHo! Seriously, you have to call me next time you’re there. We can all hang out. I swear I won’t be weird.” He lowers his voice. “I’m gonna go smoke some hash before dessert. Wanna come?”

I glance down the table to where Summer is sitting. She’s engrossed in conversation with the bejeweled wife of the American that Marlena was debating taxes with earlier, her back to us. John wouldn’t notice if I fell off the boat, and Wendy is across the table to my left, but she’s so captivated by Leo that she hasn’t glanced at me since we sat down. Claire is their third wheel. Brittani, Rhonda, and Amythest are doing shots of limoncello, and Bernard and Vinny are nowhere to be seen.

I turn my attention back to Michael and grin. “Sure.”

Indeed, the only person who notices as we push our chairs back and exit down the spiral staircase behind the table is Marlena, who meets Michael’s eye and nods.

On the lower deck, Michael sinks into one of the couches and lights the spliff. “Your friend Wendy is in for a disappointment if she’s looking for more than a night of fun. Leo’s a trophy hunter.” He inhales.

“She has a boyfriend at home anyway,” I say, suddenly defensive of poor Wendy, so desperate to start a family.

“Don’t they all?” He blows smoke rings as he exhales.

“Neat trick.”

He passes me the joint, and I inhale the taste of tar and tobacco. Hash is a different beast than California Kush, and while I personally prefer the green stuff, I’ll take what I can get.

“My mom taught me,” he says.

I laugh. “Your mom’s pretty cool.”

“When I was younger, I was super annoyed that she wasn’t like the other moms. But then I figured out that I wasn’t like the other boys, and we’ve been tight ever since. I mean, she always encouraged me to be whoever I wanted to be, but she was secretly so relieved to have a gay son. She abhors all the traditionally male things, like sports and cars and hunting…”

“Hunting? Who in New York City hunts? That’s where you grew up, right?”

He nods. “In all the traditional places, there’s always the head of some poor beast staring down from on high while you eat his brothers. A reminder to all the men they are kings of the jungle.”

“I’m surprised your mom goes to those places.”

“Oh, she avoids them like the plague. My dad drags me along every so often. He went there with his dad…he likes tradition. I have no idea how the two of them work, but they do.”

“They probably balance each other out. It’s nice to see a couple who actually love each other in this environment. Most of the other romantic situations seem so overly…complicated.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Like your friend?”

I snort. “My friend.”

“Lemme guess. She’s totally smitten with her sugar daddy. It’s true love.”

“Let’s just say she’d do anything for him.”

“Full disclosure, my mom can’t stand her,” he whispers. “Or John. She’s philosophically opposed to gold-digging as a career choice.”

I haven’t so much as said a bad word about Summer this entire trip, but the wine and the spliff have loosened my tongue, and I’m thrilled to have someone to confide in. “I swear she wasn’t always like this. Or maybe she was. I don’t know. Money does strange things to people. That, or I’m a terrible judge of character.”

“Money doesn’t change people,” he reflects. “It only magnifies the qualities that were already there.”

I nod, thinking about the Summer I used to know. She always found her validation in men, even when we were sixteen. “That makes sense.”

“I’ve seen it over and over with the owners of the companies my dad buys,” he expounds. “Money allows them to be who they truly are, without restriction. Someone generous becomes super generous; someone with insecurity becomes a super dick.”

“You’re very observant.”

“I’ve been watching people court my parents my whole life. Your friend’s sugar daddy is really only here to get money out of my dad. They’re not friends; their ideals are diametrically opposed. And my dad’s never gonna invest in the project he’s proposing.”

“How do you know?”

“John’s already burned him once, and now he wants to completely destroy a town that’s hundreds of years old, upending the lives of all the people who have lived there for generations, to make way for an incorporated luxury town and resort for the superrich. My parents have spent my life teaching me the importance of strengthening and giving back to communities, not destroying them. Not to mention you’d have to consider the environmental impact of a development of that scale. The ecosystem of this area is very delicately balanced.”

Sounds familiar. “I think I’ve heard him discussing that project the past few days.”

“He’s already bought most of the town at ludicrously low prices and run the rest out with threats of imprisonment for withholding property and all kinds of other made-up charges.”

“How can he do that, legally?” I ask.

“You can do anything with enough money.”

I think of Summer and what she’s gotten away with.

“Wait.” He jumps to his feet. “You said earlier you were Sandy in Grease . So do you sing?”

I nod. “When I’m drunk enough.”

“I play the piano. I can play anything. Like, anything. Come on.”

My body tingles from the hash as he pulls me to my feet and across the sunken living room to the grand piano. I’m on a yacht in the Mediterranean and life is good. Tonight has finally felt like a vacation. I curl my toes in the plush carpet as Michael lifts the shiny black top of the piano and takes a seat on the bench. “A grand on a boat,” he says, playing arpeggios. “What a terrible extravagance. So much damage from the salt air, you have to pitch them overboard every couple of years.”

“Is that true?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. Makes for a good story, though, doesn’t it? You know this one?”

He starts into “Fly Me to the Moon.” I spin, my arms outstretched like wings. “A few steps higher.”

He scales up, and I start in, singing as much of the song as I know, which is more than Irealized.

“ Bellissimo! ” He claps. “What do you like to sing? Throw it at me.”

“‘God Bless the Child’?”

He throws his head back in laughter as he plays the opening notes. “What are you trying to say?”

I join him, and before long Marlena wanders in with the Italian couple who were seated across from her. She lights up to see us playing. “I knew I gave you piano lessons for a reason. You have?” She raises two fingers to her mouth in the international mime for joint.

He extracts the spliff from his pocket with one hand, the other never leaving the keys, and the Italian man lights it for Marlena. Michael and I are warmed up now—flying, in perfect sync. He seamlessly flows into “Summer Nights,” and I squeal with delight. We camp it up as Sandy and Danny as the other dinner guests begin to file in.

Wendy dances coquettishly with Leo while Brittani and Amythest become our backup dancers. The Italian couple joins Leo and Wendy, and the others drape themselves across the furniture or lounge on pillows on the floor, incapable of supporting themselves after the generosity of our hosts. John and the goons are missing, but I notice Summer on the couch with Claire, her platinum hair looking yellow in the lamplight, the rocks in her ears and the big stupid not-a-diamond on her finger glittering as she mechanically nods her head to the music. She has a lipstick stain on her perfect white teeth, and there’s something sour about her smile.

The crew brings in tiramisu that looks divine, but I’m having too much fun singing to take a break to eat. Brittani dances like a bull in a china shop, while Amythest gyrates in the light, clearly not wearing any undergarments beneath her dress. The thin pale-blue fabric pulls in such a way that it looks like it wants to slip right off her—which I don’t think anyone would mind, except Summer, of course, who stares daggers at her.

We’re doing “The Girl from Ipanema” when I notice that John has returned. He’s leaning in the doorway, watching Amythest with X-ray vision. After a moment, Summer spies him. She swallows and readjusts herself on the couch, breathing shallowly, then looks back at John, trying unsuccessfully to get his attention. At the same moment, Amythest notices John watching her and gives him a wink.

Summer rises from her seat and starts for John, but Bernard taps him on the shoulder and he disappears into the hallway, leaving Summer unmoored in the middle of the room. I grab her hand and make an effort to dance with her, but she jerks it away and gives me the evil eye before stalking out onto the back deck, Rhonda scuttling after her.

After the next song, I hand the mic to one of Marlena’s Italian friends and wander into the hall in search of a bathroom. The closest bathroom is occupied, so I wind up the thick-carpeted wide spiral stairs looking for another one. Funny, now that I’m not dancing, I can feel the boat rocking. Or is that me? I grip the railing as I go around, still managing to step on the hem of my dress and nearly bust my ass. I sit down right in the middle of the staircase and try to focus on the large abstract painting staring at me from the wall, but the colors all want to blend together. I feel my phone buzz in my clutch and extract it, noticing I’m connected to Wi-Fi. I guess not all rich people are crazy paranoid. I scroll through my email, the messages swimming before me.

Sis,

Beautiful day here too! Though nothing like floating around on the Mediterranean, I’m sure. I’m great, everything awesome. Sorry you’re having such a rough time out there. At least the food is good. Have you tried any sea urchin? I hear it’s delicious. I hope you don’t get voted off the island LOL. Keep me posted. Thinking of you. Xoxo

I immediately reply:

Heeeeeey sis whats up we’re on ths crazy boat and I just smoked a spliff so excuse my typos hahahhahaaa. Spent the morning puking z cuz my dramamine disappeared nad Summer gaveme something she said was but wasn’t. Aaaaand found out from vinny tht my emails are def being read on the boat so I wont be emailing from there anymore. So aslo u’ll never guess who I ranin to at lunch?? Dylan. Yep. was there with grannie who ai didn’t meet tho but was talking to john when I saw him. He told me to clall him lol. think I should??

Haven’t triee any sea urchin yet

I think threre r some rough seas ahead.

Rough seas I tell u. STORMW!!1!

Oh and Amythest! Is fucking JOhn!! HA!

I press send without rereading it and totter to my feet. Sheesh. I’m kinda wasted, it turns out. Good thing you don’t have to wear shoes on boats because heels would not be my friend right now. Okay. Where was I going? I have to pee. Upstairs. I was going upstairs to pee.

At the top of the stairs, I pause to pull myself together and scan for the bathroom. The place is deserted, but I hear men’s voices coming from behind a partially closed door. I know I’m drunk and probably not very quiet, but it’s too good an opportunity to snoop to turn down. I linger in the shadows as one of the voices rises above the others. The accent is British; it must be Charles.

“…is not a matter of the return, which I’m sure you are right about. It’s the principle. You couldn’t get this past your own board last time we spoke.”

“There’s no problem with the board,” John says flatly.

Charles standing up to John: this I have to hear. Out of sight between the office and the bathroom, I brace myself against the wall, listening. This should be good.…

Charles says something unintelligible, to which another voice replies something also unintelligible.

I strain to hear Charles sigh before returning, in a somber voice, “You may have the ability to circumvent the laws, as you did on our last venture, but that doesn’t mean you should. We have a responsibility to set a precedent, to safeguard the communities and land for future generations, not to pillage and destroy, take advantage of every business opportunity that arises.”

I inch closer to the door.

“I should think,” John warns, “after your part in our last venture, you would want to remain in the family.”

“I was nothing but a financier. I had no knowledge you were using substandard materials until the accident,” Charles spits.

“And you didn’t report it, even then,” John returns.

“Are you threatening me?” Charles asks.

“I’m sure you understand what damage—” John is interrupted by laughter ringing up the stairwell as guests climb the stairs, and the door immediately shuts. I quickly step into the bathroom and close the door behind me, too loudly. Shit. But I don’t think anyone heard. They were all in that office.

Michael was right about his father. At least someone in this gilded world has a moral compass. I bet John got Charles tangled up in that shopping center collapse the guys were talking about at lunch the other day. John is a bad man. A really, really bad man. But then, I knew that.

I pee for about six years, then splash water on my face in a vain attempt to sober up, and retouch my makeup. By the time I return from the bathroom, Bernard and Vinny are herding our blue-dressed harem back to the tender, where John and Summer are already waiting.

We’re a hot mess. Amythest’s dress is ripped. Brittani’s mascara is running. Even Claire nearly tumbles into the ocean as she’s handed down into the tender. But Wendy is the standout, her lipstick smeared and her chin chafed, her eyes a haze of longing for Leo as she wishes him goodbye.

Summer sits in the back of the tender next to John, her eyes fixed on the sea as we push away, but the rest of us are jovial. Brittani starts a reprise of “Summer Nights,” and everyone joins in until John has Vinny silence us.

The twinkling lights of the boat recede on the horizon and the music grows ever farther away, until all that’s left is the throbbing of the tender motor and the slap of the waves as we skate over the water.