Chapter Eight
I think, across my lifetime, I’ve now spent less time in school than I have on this plane. And yet the flight from LA to Singapore isn’t even the longest part of this journey. In fact, when we land in Singapore, we are met with a private escort who drives us from the airport to the ferry port, where we take a boat to Batam, Indonesia. Unbearable is a relative term, but I think it’s safe to say that it is unbearably hot and humid in Indonesia. I’m used to living by an ocean, but this is like nothing I’ve ever felt, and by the time we’ve boarded yet another flight there, which is on an amphibious plane that takes off from land but descends onto water, both I and my adorable Chanel shorts set are showing prominent wrinkles of defeat. I’d love to change but I have no idea where my robot luggage is. I assume it’s followed us of its own volition somehow.
I was worried that we’d have to scrounge for food during rushed layovers and random bus trips, so for all the dummies like me out there, know this: the rich don’t travel like the rest of us do. West and I were fed and liquored up every moment of the flight we weren’t sleeping in our fully flat, first-class beds. The car to the ferry was stocked with water, wine, beer, sandwiches, and an enormous platter of fresh fruit upon which I descended like a vampire on a pulsing, nubile throat. The amphibious plane looks like a rubber duck from the outside, but inside it’s all smooth cream leather couches; low, polished wood tables; and yet more booze to lock us firmly into vacation mode.
However, for as much as I would say he could use a stiff drink, West barely had anything. He barely smiled, either, but that’s how he’s always been. And as much as I wanted to be sauced the entire time, I took it easy, too, because the closer we come to the gleaming white sand, the more aware I am that I’m on the job. Everything I’ve seen so far tells me that the money Vivi spent on the clothing in my luggage is a drop in the ocean for this family. The ten-thousand-dollar check that was life-changing for me is nothing to the Westons.
That realization is both intimidating and nauseating. The odds are very high of me spilling wine on an article of clothing that is worth more than my life. I can absolutely imagine I will, at some point, crack an inappropriate joke to someone who turns out to be the leader of a NATO country. I’m probably not going to like anyone there, but I must make them like me anyway. I simply don’t know if I possess that level of moxie inside my underfed, lower-middle-class body.
I feel the warmth before I hear his velvety voice. “Gorgeous, isn’t it?”
I turn to see West so close, only a few inches away as he’s looking out the window beside my shoulder. Up close, his skin is amazing. Smooth and clean, with just the right amount of shadow darkening his jaw after our long day of travel. We both took a few minutes to freshen up in the lounge in Singapore, and he smells like soap and that crisp, astringent bite of dude deodorant. He doesn’t look the slightest bit rumpled, and I wonder, for what I’m sure will not be the last time, whether the rich ever get swampy like the rest of us.
“What?” I ask, lost in the realization that he has a perfect nose. Straight and even. His bone structure is unreal. I swear there isn’t a pore anywhere. I’d like to paint him.
To be clear, I mean paint on him.
“This water,” he says, lifting his chin so that I follow his attention outside. “It doesn’t look real.”
He’s right. And to an artist, the view is overwhelming. The crystalline azure water undulates below us, so clear that the coral reefs are visible from the air. It’s like looking at a mirage; one main island orbited by five smaller moons, the surface of each ringed in white sugar and capped in emerald green. As we approach, the island topography rises from a flat canvas. There are rugged bluffs and rocky interiors, a smattering of blue pools nestled inland and sheltered by overhanging foliage.
“It’s beautiful,” I agree quietly. “It’s the kind of view I can’t entirely wrap my head around.”
For some reason, this moment recalls the first time I saw a ranunculus. I didn’t think I’d ever come close to re-creating their delicate wrinkles on canvas, to accurately capturing the soft, tight bunching of the layered petals, the delicate baby-soft hairs down the stem. But I tried over and over until I got close. Being an artist is sometimes about not being afraid to do it badly first.
Is that why, in the end, I chose art? Because it’s forgiving? My brain wasn’t wired for medicine, fine, but was I drawn to art because the bounds are loose and subjective? Because this… this trip… it isn’t something I can do badly at first. There are no loose boundaries. I don’t even know what the boundaries are. I don’t know the rules of this game.
I distract myself, thinking how I’d paint this view if I could, trying to locate my first brushstroke in the sparkling surface of water. It’s overwhelming to imagine trying to paint something so vast, so unending, but the familiarity of the exercise is still better than thinking about everything waiting for me out on that island. I’d mix French Ultramarine Light Extra with Cobalt Green. I’d add small bits of Titanium White and mix until it was exactly the color that remains when I close my eyes.
I visualize painting until, with a tiny jolt and the sound of water rushing all around us, we land on the surface of the ocean. I grip West’s forearm as turquoise waves crest over the yellow rudders; the island is a green and white gem only half a mile away. Okay. It’s really happening.
Think like a millionaire, I tell myself. Cristal. Hamptons. Chanel. Hedge funds. Racehorses.
The flight attendant approaches. “Are you ready to deplane? The hosts are waiting on the beach to welcome you. Your belongings will be brought directly to your bungalow.”
West and I stand, stretching in unison, and I do a few uppercuts into the air. “Let’s do this!”
“The island is wonderful on bare feet,” she says, and it takes me a moment to realize she’s speaking specifically to me; at some point in the flight, West took off his expensive sneakers and put on flip-flops. “Guests are encouraged to enjoy their visit here in sandals, or without any shoes at all.” Although her expression is only warm, when she glances at my strappy shoes, I get what she’s saying: Not even the filthy rich can walk on sand in four-inch spike heels, dollface.
“What a relief,” I say, laughing as I attempt to unbuckle them. My nails are a real hindrance here, and adding to the comedy is the giant diamond on my finger that slides around, weighing an entire pound. When West sees me struggling with my talons, I feel his firm hands slide down my calves and cup my ankles, his fingers making quick work of the straps. I like it a lot more than I should. “My hubby loves me in tall, sexy shoes but the little wifey in me loves the feeling of being barefoot!”
She laughs politely at this and turns to lead us to the exit.
“Tone it down a little,” West says, straightening to hand me my shoes.
“I’m just being playful.”
“Play a little less.”
I turn to face him, whispering, “I know you think it’s fine if we don’t get along, but didn’t you say your dad wants you to come back to the family company to be the chief something officer?”
“Operations.”
“Right. And you think he might suspect our marriage isn’t real and use your inheritance as leverage to pressure you? Why not be a little lovey? We can’t get him off your back if we’re cold and robotic.”
“There’s a wide gulf between getting him off my back and you calling yourself a ‘little wifey.’?”
“I’m just playing the part, dude. I’m just going with the tiny scraps of information I have here.”
West stops me before I reach the stairs to exit the plane, his big hand wrapped around my forearm. “Have I grossly miscalculated this?”
“Uh, undoubtedly?”
Panic washes him out, makes his eyes a little wild. “Can you play the part? Don’t call me ‘dude.’ Don’t rave about your favorite bongs and Takis and flavors of White Claw. These people aren’t kidding around, Anna. My father spends millions—I mean millions—destroying people who fuck with him. You think he won’t do the same to me if he knows I’ve been lying about our marriage? You think he won’t destroy you?”
I make a little meep sound because that hadn’t occurred to me. I also want to yell at both of us for how I ended up here, but his anxiety is already palpable. One of us has to keep our shit together.
“You told me it was fine to be a Muppet-human hybrid, remember?” I hiss back at him. “And listen, I get it. This is stressful for you. I’ll cut you some slack and I won’t call you ‘dude’ anymore, okay? But you’re his kid. He’s not going to destroy you.” At least, I think. The most I know about rich families I learned from Succession, and I concede there’s some brutal shit there. “Besides, it’s not like he’s a weapons dealer. He’s a grocer. What, is he gonna ban me from every Weston’s in the greater Los Angeles area? I’ve got news for him, I can’t afford it anyway.”
West looks at me with unmasked concern. “Please, Anna,” he says gently like I’m very, very naive. “Just follow my lead.”
I MOVE TO TAKEmy first step onto the dock and stop, seeing West’s outstretched hand, his expression expectant and the tiniest bit pleading. I reach forward and his fingers wrap firmly around mine. Yes, it’s part of the show, but it’s also a physical reminder that we’re in this together. If he sinks, so do I.
We follow the pilot down the pier and it’s somehow even more beautiful up close. I spy brightly colored fish in the water beneath us, and the corner of a guest bungalow on tall stilts in the distance where the shore begins to curve. What I don’t see—or hear—are the things one usually associates with a resort. Aside from a pair of kayaks cutting silently through the water, there’s no marina traffic, no noisy tourists, no cheeky steel drum serenade. There are no flower beds, pots of foliage, or anything remotely manicured. It feels a little wild; truly isolated but not deserted. A utopia.
At the end of the narrow boardwalk, our feet sink into the sand. It’s so soft and fine it sifts like warm water between my toes. Waiting a few yards up the beach is a group of four employees. The vibe is very White Lotus—all of them stand shoulder to shoulder, smiling in welcome, wearing matching khaki shorts and white polo shirts, and holding something for us: small bunches of local flowers, a bowl with cool, wet cloths, a tray with cups of ice water, a plate with sliced fruit. The four hosts introduce themselves as Maria, John, Eko, and Gede before handing us their items. While we wipe our hands, drink the water, and eat the fruit, Gede steps forward.
“Welcome to Pulau Jingga,” he says. “I am your private butler for the duration of your stay. May I tell you a little about the reserve?”
“Holy shit,” I mutter under my breath. A freaking butler. This is amazing. But I remember I’m rich: “That would be lovely, thank you.”
His face breaks open in the most delightful smile I’ve ever seen. “In 1993, dynamite fishing was declared illegal within the hundred-mile radius surrounding Pulau Jingga. Now the island you stand on as well as the five neighboring isles are a certified conservation area.” With a sweep of his arms, he gestures around us. “The entire resort was constructed using traditional Indonesian methods and built to protect the shoreline from erosion as well as from destruction of the undersea ecosystem and the local flora. There are thirty-five guest villas: fifteen tent cabins along the beach, fifteen cottages in the gardens, and five luxury overwater bungalows, which is where you will be staying.”
“Luxury overwater bungalow,” I whisper to West. “The best three-word combination ever uttered.”
He smiles stiffly, and Gede continues. “Hot water and electricity are generated by solar and wind power; waste is recycled and reused. Meals are all locally sourced, and our restaurants are Michelin-starred. Everything is inclusive, including meals, spa treatments, and activities. We offer kayaking, paddleboarding, and snorkeling. You may also take a paddleboat to any of the nearby islands to fish. Snorkeling equipment is available in the boathouse just there,” he says, pointing, “and there are two shipwrecks nearby to explore. The interior of the island is thickly forested, and there are marked trails to follow if the mood strikes. Or, you may do absolutely nothing while you are here.”
“Ah-ha-ha,” I laugh fancily, setting my left hand on my chest to display my ring. “That sounds amazing.”
“I can be of as much or as little assistance as you want,” Gede says. “Just let me know.” He holds out his hand, gesturing down the beach to the bungalows. “You’ll find more information in your bungalow, but we can answer any questions that come up along the way. We rarely keep to a schedule here, but according to the itinerary provided by your party, you have a few hours before the cocktail reception at our flagship restaurant, Jules Verne. Perhaps you’d like to retreat to your bungalow to rest and refresh?”
Frankly, what I really want to do is drop my fancy purse and run like a maniac down the beach, splashing in the surf before taking a nap in one of the hammocks stretched between the skyscraping palms. But West still carries visible tightness in his shoulders, and we both could use a shower and a change of clothes.
“That sounds divine,” I drawl, sliding my arm through West’s. “Don’t you think, sweetheart?”
He gazes down at me, quickly tucking away a flash of amusement. “Yes. Very divine.”
Waving goodbye to our four new friends, we begin the surprisingly long trek toward the overwater bungalows. I do my best not to skip along the sand, because I don’t think a Weston Wife would do that, but the plane hostess was right: the island feels amazing on my bare feet. Meanwhile, West walks beside me, quietly miserable. At least he looks great: his linen pants rolled up just above his ankles, his white button-down flattened by the breeze into his chest, revealing to me that he’s got some great muscles. His flip-flops dangle loosely from his fingers. What must his life be if he can be walking in literal paradise and look like he’s being led to the gallows?
But then I look up to see two figures walking toward us. The man is small-framed and rigid, with salt-and-pepper hair and a boardroom stride that looks wildly out of place in this tropical oasis. The woman is thin and graceful with platinum blond hair. Her glamorous maxi dress billows in the island breeze.
I know without even asking who they are.