Day 6
Thursday evening—Saint-Tropez, France
I t’s ten to five when we get back to the port. The day is still torrid, and when the boat has not arrived by five thirty, we trudge across the street and take a seat at the restaurant where wehad a glass of wine earlier. I guzzle a fizzy water and blot my face with the napkin. I am not looking forward to my “meeting” with John—or seeing Summer, or Wendy, or any of it. If all my stuff weren’t on the boat, I’d be more than tempted to just bail, regardless of everything else. But for now I’m stuck. I don’t even have my passport.
I’m so distracted by my thoughts that I don’t see the Lion’s Den pull into port. Amythest grabs my arm. “Let’s go. We don’t want to get left again.”
The knot in my stomach tightens as we board the boat. The deck is deserted aside from Dre, who helps me down from the gangplank, whispering, “Sorry about this afternoon. All the crew wanted to wait, but they say no.”
I nod. “Thanks. Where is everyone?”
“In their rooms, dressing for dinner.”
“I thought we were supposed to be going to drinks with John’s friends here at five.”
“Change of plans,” he says. “Dinner on the boat while we go toItaly. Monsieur Lyons has a meeting there in the morning.”
He reels in the gangplank and the boat is moving.
When I reach the room, Amythest is sitting on her bed, phone in hand, giggling.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Just John.”
“Seriously?”
She titters. “That bitch thinks she’s better than us because she has all this, but it’s not hers; it’s his. She thinks she has him wrapped around her finger, but it could be me inviting you to come on this trip next year. And I would—I’d invite you. None of the rest of these hoes, but you’ve been good to me.”
“Amythest. You literally just promised me you’d keep your head down and go home without any more drama.”
“It’s not drama if she doesn’t know about it.”
I pop my knuckles in frustration. “Just…please be careful,” I plead. “You really don’t want her to find out. I know you’re pissed, but just maybe hold off till we get home. Let’s try to make it through the next two days without it becoming a soap opera.” Who am I kidding? It’s already a soap opera.
“More like a skin flick.” She winks.
In the shower, I try to psych myself up for my meeting with John, going over what I plan to say to him. My mind keeps cycling to what I’d actually like to ask him, but I know he wouldn’t answer and I’d only jeopardize my own safety. Beyond that, I’m divided about whether I want to get kicked off the boat or stick out the rest of the trip. I have no desire to be here anymore, obviously, but getting fired isn’t exactly ideal, either. Surely they would at least give me a plane ticket back if they exiled me?
While I’m washing the conditioner from my hair, Amythest slides open the shower door, already naked. “Camille came by. You have a meeting with John at six thirty.”
I wring out my hair. “Fun.”
“You should bring me with you.”
I reach past her for a towel, and she takes my place in the shower. “I don’t want to get you kicked off the boat, too.”
“If I get kicked off, I’ll get kicked off in style. Don’t think I haven’t recorded my sessions with John.”
“You’re kidding.” I’m hit with a tidal wave of both horror and pride. Didn’t know the girl had it in her.
“Nope,” she says proudly. “I recorded everything with my phone. You never know when something like that might be useful. I’m sure he doesn’t want the world to know how much trouble he has getting it up. And how nasty he is. I look great, though, so I don’t mind. Check it out—my phone’s on the bed. My password’s 6969.”
Of course it is. Do I even want to see this? But I have to know. I can only imagine what John and his goons would do—or worse, Summer. I scroll through her videos folder and click on one featuring an askew angle of the bed I’m sitting on right now. There’s something hanging down in the foreground…a purse strap. She’d set up the phone in her purse so John wouldn’t suspect. Smart. I cringe to see John’s junk on camera.
Amythest strokes him with her bejeweled nails, trying her best to get him hard. She blows him and gets him up to half-mast, then pushes him back on the bed, stuffs him up inside her, and bounces up and down with zeal. After a minute, they have to stop because he can’t keep it up.
“How do you want me?” she asks, coquettish.
“Have you ever done a golden shower?” he asks.
My jaw drops. This is too good to believe.
“No,” she says.
“It really turns me on,” he says. “And girls who turn me on get rewarded nicely.”
I can’t help but snort with laughter. This is exactly how I would’ve expected John to talk in bed.
She looks him, at the bed, considering. “But the bed—”
“I’ll have someone clean it up.”
“Okay.” She positions herself above him. “Where do you want me to—”
“On my cock,” he says. “I want you to piss all over my cock.”
Oh my God. I don’t want to see, but my eyes are glued to the screen.
And there it is.
Wow. I don’t want to be the type of person to judge other people’s sexual proclivities, but…gross. Does Summer do this, too? I shudder and throw the phone on the bed. There’s a good deal more of the video, but I’ve seen enough. I’m not going to be able to unsee it. Though I do wonder what use it might be.
Amythest may be some kind of nympho, but she’s not stupid.
I throw on a dress and run a brush through my hair. Fourteen minutes until the meeting. I realize my nerves must be the effect of my ego, bracing for a hit. But a needy ego is no reason to stay here. So it’s decided: I’m done with this charade. I’ve played my part; I’m ready to take a bow and go home. I’m gonna go up there and politely ask for my passport and a plane ticket. No hard feelings, just goodbye.
I step across the hall and knock on Wendy and Claire’s door. Claire answers, wearing a paper face mask made to look like a cat. “Hey,” she says, her eyes sympathetic. Then, remembering the mask, she laughs. “Oh. Wendy’s making me moisturize.”
Wendy’s sitting on the bed behind her in a matching face mask, her hair piled on top of her head amid some kind of deep-conditioning treatment. She looks up from the magazine she’s reading and waves as though nothing is amiss.
“I’m sorry you got left,” Claire says.
“Yeah, me too,” I agree, glancing at Wendy, who doesn’t meet my eyes. “How did your day go?”
“It was great!” Wendy chirps without looking up from the magazine. “We went to this cove that was absolutely beautiful and swam off the back of the boat and rode Jet Skis.” She gestures to her hair. “Ruined my hair though, so I had to wash it. So annoying. What’d you do?”
What the hell is wrong with her? “Nothing much,” I say. “Just had lunch, walked around. Did Summer mention anything about having left us?”
Wendy shrugs. “No. She was just having fun.”
“It was kinda weird to just leave you in port, then not say anything all day, like nothing happened,” Claire says.
“Yeah, she sent me a text telling me how ungrateful I was,” I divulge. “I have a meeting with John in a minute. I’m sure I’ll get my ass handed to me.”
Wendy flips a page in her magazine and continues to read.
“I’m sorry,” Claire sympathizes. “I know you didn’t mean to be late.”
“No. We ran all the way. I texted, but…it seems like Summer has a bigger problem with me. Like she thinks I was intentionally rude or something.”
“For what it’s worth, I don’t think you’ve been rude,” Claire says sweetly. “This whole trip has been different than we expected.”
Wendy still doesn’t look up from her magazine. “Wendy, has she said anything to you?” I ask.
Wendy shakes her head and gives me a perfunctory smile. What is going on with her? I try a different tactic. “Did she say anything more to you about Leo?”
Again she shakes her head. Clearly, for whatever reason, I won’t be getting anything out of her. “Okay, I gotta go meet John. Wish me luck.”
“Good luck,” Claire says.
Wendy calmly flips to yet another page of celebrity gossip as I back out of the cabin.
The living room is empty when I arrive at exactly six thirty. I fiddle with my watch while I wait for John to arrive, then try to ground myself by taking a deep breath and feeling it all the way down to my feet, like I learned in yoga class. This meeting is nothing I should be afraid of. Just ask for your passport and a ticket home. Out the windows, I watch as dark clouds close in, obscuring the evening sun.
When John hasn’t arrived by six forty-five, I take a seat in front of the computer and fire up my email. I’ve been careful to delete every message after I’ve sent it, so I’m not too worried about Vinny or whoever else poking around in my in-box. I’ll just have to watch what I say.
Writing from the boat—I’m in trouble for returninglate after shopping, awaiting the opportunity to apologize to John, which Summer so thoughtfully arranged. Looks like rain tonight. I’m sure rocking seas will do wonders for my seasickness. Heard there may be sea urchin for dinner though, if I’m still
“Isabelle.”
I jump and turn to see John, freshly showered and flashing his most disarming smile, designed to throw me off balance, I’m sure.
I hit send without finishing the sentence I was typing and log out of my email as fast as humanly possible, then vault to my feet as he approaches and shake his hand like I’m interviewing for a job. “I apologize for being late today.”
He nods coolly, and I follow him to the formal sitting area, where I perch on an uncomfortable chair across from him, hastily explaining what happened with the credit card, substituting myself for Amythest. “I’m so sorry,” I conclude, hating myself for groveling. “I didn’t mean to be ungrateful or disrespectful. It was an honest mistake.”
Strangely, he pats my hand. And then, without addressing anything I have just said, “Summer’s always spoken so highly of you. I know you’ve been friends for a long time, and it can be hard when a friend is taken away by a new relationship. Especially when that friend has been letting you live with her for free.”
My brain shorts. Did Summer tell him I was crashing with her and not the other way around? “I’m sorry?”
“You must have a lot of anger toward her, toward me. It’s understandable. But Summer invited you here to have fun, and you’re not having fun. So maybe it would be best if you went home. I know your sister misses you.”
Nothing about him reads as angry or vindictive, but I’m sure I’ve never mentioned my sister in front of him, which means he wants me to know he’s been reading my emails. I stare at him, unsure what to say. A voice in the back of my head reminds me that it doesn’t matter, that he’s right and it’s okay for me to leave now, but I’m too shocked to respond immediately. My ego takes advantage of my hesitation to jump in, wanting to save itself from criticism and make everything okay. “I’m having fun!” I lie.
No, no, this isn’t how this is supposed to go! I don’t need to please this horrid man. I conjure up the image of his flaccid penis.
Still smiling enigmatically, he again pats my hand. I resist the urge to jerk it away and yell at him not to touch me. “You should ask for her forgiveness, not mine,” he says. No part of me wants to eat humble pie for that bitch. “You can do that now.”
I slowly rise to my feet, reminding myself of why I’m here. Even if I’m gonna jump ship, I should do so on good terms. “Is she in her room?”
“Go to your room and call her.”
I’m kicking myself as I climb down the stairs to my room. What just happened? Why was I so obsequious? What a waste. It was supposed to be my decision to leave. And I didn’t ask him for my passport. I totally disregarded my plan. I failed.
“What happened?” Amythest asks when I get back to the room.
“I’m supposed to call Summer to apologize now.”
“Lame.” She rolls her eyes.
I pick up the handset on the bedside table and hit the button for her room. I’ll ask for forgiveness, then tell her I think it’s best if I take off, blame it on feeling sick. I’ve stayed long enough; I don’t need to be here anymore. She answers on the first ring. “Hi,” I say. “I was just calling to apologize.…”
“You don’t sound like you’re sorry,” she charges.
“Honestly,” I insist, reminding myself to be nice, to get my passport back. “I didn’t mean any disrespect.…”
“This is John’s boat, and it leaves when he says it does—”
“I got that. Look, I don’t know what I did to upset you, but…”
“You’ve been a nightmare this entire trip,” she chides. “You haven’t noticed that I’ve been acting different toward you the past few days?”
“Yeah,” I counter, slowly coming back to my senses, “but you’ve been acting different this entire trip.”
“You should have come to me and asked me why I was mad at you.”
I take a deep breath. I know it does me no good to blow up at her, but I’m having trouble maintaining my composure. “I didn’t know you were mad,” I say evenly. “I can’t read your mind.”
“Maybe if you weren’t so wrapped up in yourself, you would have noticed,” she snaps. “How am I supposed to feel? I invited you here to have a good time, and you were sulking at lunch yesterday—”
It’s like a fun-house version of the conversation I just had with John, only nothing about it is fun. The details of my supposed transgressions on this trip are so petty, so trivial in the face of the bigger picture. Yet my ego wants to argue with her, to convince her that she’s the awful one. And then there’s the part of me that wants to talk this whole thing out with her, my onetime best friend, to make sense of what has happened between us—not just over the course of this trip, but before. What did I do to make her hate me so?
But it doesn’t matter. She’s changed, and I have, too. We’re no longer compatible as friends; I knew that going into this trip. Riding on jets and yachts may be fun and all, but I can’t begin to fathom believing this lifestyle to be worth the sacrifices she’s made to obtain it. So I simply apologize, noting that I was sick to my stomach yesterday. But she’s not finished cataloging my sins.
“I don’t believe you. And you’ve been hanging out with that whore my sister brought—”
“She’s my roommate, who you assigned to me and required I hang with,” I return, exasperated.
“And then, last night, singing, drawing attention to yourself—”
“Oh my God.” I clench my jaw. “I was having fun, which you literally just said you wanted me to have.” I am so tempted to come clean, to tell her everything I know, to torch the house of lies she’s built to the ground. But that would only compromise my position. I ball my fists and control my voice. “Look, I’m sorry if I offended you. I didn’t mean to. Our friendship has meant a lot to me over—”
“I don’t believe you,” she interrupts. “I think you should just go home.”
“Okay.” I must get off the phone before I say anything I’ll regret. “I’ll just need my passport.”
“You can go back upstairs now.” She hangs up on me.
Amythest stares at me expectantly. “I’m being sent home,” I say.
“Lucky bitch. Hopefully I’m next. What did she say about me?”
“She called you a whore.”
She laughs. “Maybe she found the panties.”
“I think you’ll know if she finds the panties.”
I wonder how Amythest will fare on her own once I’m gone, but then I remember the sex tape. She’ll be just fine.
When I get back upstairs, Vinny is sitting at the dining room table, scowling at me. My chest is tight as I take a seat across from him.
“You leave tomorrow,” he growls. “Out of Genoa. You’ll have dinner in your room tonight. A car will pick you up in port tomorrow morning at eight.”
I take a breath. At least they’re paying for my ticket home. “My passport?”
“Your driver will give it to you with your ticket when you reach the airport tomorrow.”
“Why can’t I have it now?” I ask, suspicious.
“We hold on to it until you leave.”
Now I’m getting freaked out. “I’d like my passport back immediately,” I demand as forcefully as I can muster, wiping my sweating palms on my dress.
“No,” he refuses. “That’s final. Now go to your room.”
Blood rushes in my ears. I should keep my trap shut and do as he says, but what the hell. I’m going home tomorrow anyway, and I’m done with being treated like an imbecile and a child. I push myself to standing and fold my arms across my chest, my breath shallow. “You know”—I narrow my eyes, trying to keep my voice steady—“John should be more careful about what he discusses at the dinner table. Not all women are purely ornamental.”
Vinny rises to his feet, his movements startlingly sudden. “Don’t be stupid. I’ve warned you once: mind your own business.”
“Or what?” I challenge.
He grabs my arm just above the elbow, compressing the flow of blood to my hand. “He sees and hears everything,” he hisses in my ear. My eyes slide to the camera just behind his head. “Everything. You know that already. Keep your fucking mouth shut and go to your room.”
He drops my arm forcibly, his eyes boring holes into me. My instinct is to resist, but something about the intensity of his admonishment stops me. I could almost imagine it’s not a threat at all, but a warning. Which is, of course, all the more alarming. “ Go ,” he orders, pointing at the stairwell.
I have no power here. There’s nothing for me to do in this moment but comply. Again I descend the stairs to my quarters, my legs jelly.
Back in the room, I’m trembling as I shut and lock the door. Amythest eyes me from her post at the bathroom sink, concerned. “Are you okay? You look like you just saw a ghost.”
“It’s just Vinny.”
She runs a brush through her hair. “He’s hella scary.”
“Yeah. He—” But I decide the better of recounting his warning. After all, maybe it was nothing. And telling her might bring up questions I don’t want to answer. So instead I change the subject. “I’m so glad you bought that dress. It’s gorgeous on you.” She’s decked out in her new mod dress without the purple contacts. Her makeup is toned down, and she really does look fantastic. “I like your natural eye color, too.”
She laughs. “It’s so weird , suddenly my vision is like new. So? What happened up there?”
“Officially canned.”
“I can’t believe they canned you and not me. I figured she would have found the panties by now and kicked me off the boat. Or killed me.” She laughs.
“Not funny. Vinny wouldn’t give me my ticket or my passport. Says I’ll get it when they drop me at the airport in the morning.”
Her eyes go wide. “Damn, that’s some gangster shit. I bet Vinny’s mafia. These guys are all connected. John was telling me how he’s friends with that Italian politician that’s always having affairs and is so obviously shady it’s like a joke? I can’t pronounce his name, but you know the one. He, like, basically owns the country.”
“I think I know who you’re talking about.”
She smears a red stain across her mouth. “Okay.” She rubs her lips together. “Time to go poke the bear. What do you think she’ll do if there’s lipstick on his collar?”
“Amythest.” I shake my head. “You just said yourself that he’s connected to gangsters.”
“Yeah, he is. Not her. And he likes me. I’m younger, fresher pussy.” She snickers.
“I just think, if it’s a rich guy you want, there are plenty of them, and I’m sure you could have any one you want,” I implore. “Maybe a younger, richer one even.”
I’m not sure exactly why I’m trying to talk her out of it. At this point, I would love for her to steal John from Summer. It would be the ultimate revenge, and Summer sure as hell deserves it. But the whole thing makes me uneasy for Amythest.
“I woulda let it go if she’d been cool, but she’s not, and she needs to learn her lesson.” She checks the time on her phone. “I gotta go. Dinner’s in five. I’ll come down after to give you the report.” She breezes out the door.
I open the closet and throw my suitcase on the bed, my limbs still viscous from the draining adrenaline. What a colossal mistake coming on this trip turned out to be. At least I’ll be home tomorrow. I never want to see Summer again.