Twenty-Six
We have made our way to Port Vauban in Antibes, where the party is being held on the yacht of a Russian oligarch, Preeti says.
It’s not hard to find the boat. A huge crowd of onlookers gather on the dock as glamorous people push their way through. Men
in slim trousers, their tanned ankles showing, expensive designer sneakers on their feet, the women in ruffled floral dresses,
falling off-the-shoulder, exposing shimmery clavicles.
The party guests have an aura the onlookers can only dream of attaining. I catch people staring at me and wonder if I have
a stain, before realizing that although I feel like an onlooker, I’m a guest; at least, I look like a guest—I look like someone
about to make their way to the bouncers at the front, intimidating in their dark suits and Ray-Bans, all three holding clipboards
with guest lists, their faces never cracking a smile as they click open the rope to let people through.
The paparazzi are there, flashes lighting up the night sky, calling out the names of movie stars, models, influencers. “Jennifer!
Jennifer! Here! Bradley! Here! Kylie! Kylie!”
I see Jennifer Lawrence at the front of the crowd, the rope opening for her, and I wonder what I am doing here, whether we will get in.
“Are we on the list?” I ask Preeti.
“Leave it to me,” she says, as she moves purposefully through the crowd. I wait, stand back, embarrassed. I know we’re not
on the list, and I don’t want to be publicly humiliated.
I watch Preeti flirting, tossing her head back and laughing, gesturing to me, and in turn, I watch the bouncer soften. Preeti
says something, points to the clipboard, and I think I see him shrug and shake his head, before I hear one of the paparazzi.
“Missy! Missy! Over here!” It must be another Missy. I turn to see who is there, but it is me they are calling, and a million flashes explode in my eyes.
“Smile.” Preeti is at my side, urging me to turn, to place my hand on my hip, to pose and give them what they want. Then she’s
grabbing my hand and pulling me along the dock, past the bouncer who lifts the rope and welcomes us onto the boat.
When I say boat, it isn’t really a boat. It would be the equivalent of calling those enormous mansions in Newport, Rhode Island,
cottages. Two glass staircases rise up on either side of the bar, which is surrounded by huge Lucite vases containing enormous
branches strung with lights. Behind the bar are plush white sofas on which sit young women in tiny, tight dresses, their older,
graying escorts chatting to each other about business.
Rising above the bar are three decks, maybe four.
I presume that somewhere there is a swimming pool, if we can make our way through the crowds to find it.
Yes, a swimming pool would be nice, I think, wishing I had brought a bathing suit.
As a child I would go swimming at my father’s house.
He let me swim by myself from the age of six, after I had proven that I could keep my head above water.
I had perfected a sort of breaststroke doggy paddle hybrid that made him laugh, and was effective enough for me to jump in the pool, by myself, whenever I wanted.
While my father was working in the house, I would pull on my red Speedo, grab a towel, and run through the garden to the pool,
the spiky dry grass and fallen burrs pricking the soft soles of my feet.
I would cannonball in the water, then try to stay underwater as long as possible, so I could enjoy the quiet and the peace,
the way the water muffled everything, without having to come up in a burst for air.
Under the water was sensory deprivation. I heard nothing, saw nothing other than the faint blue pool tiles. I would lie in
a dead man’s float, my body weightless, my mind clear.
At twenty-nine, this is still the thing I find more relaxing than anything else. I have had massages, but I tense as they
knead out the lumps and bumps, squirming uncomfortably under their powerful fingers. I have never done a floatation tank,
but I imagine it is not unlike my swimming pool experience. I would like to be in the swimming pool right now, away from everyone,
everything; my chosen form of escape.
Everywhere, there are people who are either beautiful, or rich. I see faces that have been bought, tiny noses and huge pouty
lips, extravagantly curved cheekbones, the best money can buy. The most handsome waiter I have ever seen walks over with a
silver tray of French martinis. We take one each, and I sip it slowly, determined not to get drunk, however much Preeti may
want to party.
Now that I am the CEO, I have a responsibility. It is one thing to drink, to party, to have fun in the safety of my own home,
or with people I know and trust, but quite another to drink to excess in a public place. There will be no more of that for
me, and there is a part of me that is relieved.
Drinking quiets my anxiety and makes me feel like I belong.
It rubs off my awkward edges, gives me a boost of confidence, allows me to talk to strangers without wanting the ground to swallow me up.
Drinking allows me to pretend I know what I am doing; it allows me to pretend I am comfortable in the world.
Sobriety on the other hand, particularly at a party like this, a party at which I feel inadequate in every way, makes me more aware than ever of not being comfortable in my skin.
“Missy? Missy Cooke?” I turn to see the host of the party, a famous movie director that I’m pretty sure my father knows. The
director has made all of my favorite movies of the last ten years, and I stand speechless that he recognized me, that he even
knows my name. He doesn’t just know my name, he gives me a hug as if he has known me for years, asks about my father, gives
Preeti a hug, then introduces us to “Jack,” his assistant. “Jack will look after you,” he says. “Anything you need. Drinks,
introductions, food, anything else. Whatever you need, Jack will get it for you.”
“Drugs,” whispers Preeti when the movie director and Jack have turned to greet other people.
“What?” I shake my head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Preeti. Heaven forbid we get caught. European jail is hell, haven’t
you ever seen Locked Up Abroad?”
Preeti laughs so hard, she leans on me to keep her upright. “Not for us!” she says, when she has finally stopped laughing.
“I just meant in general. I think that’s what he meant. Jack can get us anything? Trust me, he wasn’t talking about French martinis.”
Minutes later, the movie director is back, this time with his leading man in tow, his teeth glinting wolfishly in his tanned
face as he approaches. I have met many movie stars over the years, and never know what to say. I want to tell him how much
I love his work, but that would turn me into a fan, and it would surely feel too awkward; I am, after all, here as a guest,
not a fan.
The leading man—names cannot be mentioned here—is so handsome, I can barely look at him.
He has what so many stars seem to have, a glow that is mesmerizing—you cannot tear your eyes away.
I have yet to figure out if the glow is what makes them famous, or if the glow is given to you once you attain fame.
I blush as we are introduced, and shake his hand, wishing I could think of something to say other than how much I love his work.
Preeti has no such reservations. “I loved Away from Here!” she says, her excitement palpable. “It was truly my favorite movie last year. And that house in it was amazing! We almost
tore down our house and built one just like it after we saw it.”
“It was an amazing house,” he says. “The outside is a real home in Montecito, but the interiors were a set.” He turns to me.
“I really wanted to meet you. I’m a huge fan of ipryy. I had a nightmare last year where I was hacked, so ipryy has truly
changed my life.”
I think back to last year, remembering suddenly how naked pictures of him were spread all over the internet. I blush, remembering
the pictures, and he sees me blush.
“You saw the pictures. Don’t worry. Everyone saw the pictures. I was mortified for a few weeks, but what can you do. Life
moves on.”
“At least your pictures were . . . impressive.” Preeti refuses to be embarrassed on his behalf. “If anything, I’d say it was
an unexpected bonus.”
“Now I’m going to blush,” he says, but he’s laughing. He is pretending to be embarrassed, but you don’t practice your yoga
moves naked while on vacation unless you want to be seen. Paparazzi have very long lenses, and no one knows better than he
that they are following his every move.
“Can I get you both a drink?” he asks. I shake my head, but Preeti downs her martini and asks for another.
“That’s my dream man,” she says, sighing, as soon as he is out of earshot. “You know he’s single. I have literally read everything that has ever been written about him.”
I start to laugh. I feel like I know this girl, that we have a true connection, but I know so little about her. There are
glamorous pictures of her all over the internet, and plenty written about her family, but I don’t even know if she’s in a
relationship.
“What? Why are you laughing?”
“I just realized I know nothing about you. I don’t even know if you have a boyfriend.”
“I do, but he’s definitely not the man I’m going to marry.”
I tilt my head, thinking about her background. “Will you have an arranged marriage?”
“I’ve told my parents that I am happy to have an arranged marriage as long as I arrange it myself. We’ve had terrible fights
about it, but they know I’m too strong-willed and they’re not going to win.” She sighs. “But I’m a good girl, and I’m trying
to make them happy. That’s partly why I’m still with Arjun. He’s from the right kind of family, he treats me beautifully,
and my parents love him.”
“And you? Do you love him?”
“We’ve been together for a year. I love him, but I don’t know that I’m in love with him. My parents say that that’s irrelevant,