Charlie sipped her water. “So you were telling me about Katie. Lovely, sweet, southern Katie.”
Dan laughed. “My Katie was a born-and-bred New Yorker who thought her nanny was her mother until kindergarten. She was one tough chick. Knew her mind. Knew mine, too. I’d never met a girl like that before, I guess. Private schools and Hamptons houses and French tutors, the whole nine. I was totally seduced by it. It’s kind of embarrassing to admit.”
“I get it,” Charlie said quietly. She, too, had been awed by the families her father taught at Birchwood. It was more than their wealth: it was as though they had internalized their privilege at birth and moved through life with such a relaxed, graceful ease. The world was theirs for the taking, so they took.
“Katie stood up for me when her family disapproved of us, and even though she didn’t need to work, she’s a kick-ass photographer these days and it was all her own doing. She’s pretty impressive, actually.”
“So why aren’t you with her?”
Dan turned to look at her. “Because at the end of the day, there was no way that Katherine Sinclair of Park Avenue and East Hampton was going to marry Dan Rayburn from Marion, Virginia, whose parents owned a hardware shop and who didn’t have a passport until he’d graduated from college. Duke or no Duke, she knew who I was.”
Charlie was quiet for a moment. “Her loss,” she murmured, careful not to meet Dan’s eye.
His smile was tinged with sadness. “Yeah, I’m sure. Anyway, I can see from Facebook that she married Lachlan Dobbs III in Bermuda six months after we broke up. Had two boys in two years, both with Roman numerals after their names. They are currently building a home next to her parents’ in Amagansett, and they just moved from Gramercy to a modest little ten-million-dollar townhouse on Seventy-Fourth between Park and Madison. Not that I keep track.”
Charlie laughed, and it was all she could do not to reach across the aisle and hug him. “I can see that. Very restrained. I’m impressed.” Before Charlie could remind him that he was, in fact, sipping Evian from a crystal glass aboard a plush private jet en route to spend a few days aboard one of the world’s most luxurious super yachts, voices rang out from the stairs.
“Well, well, look who made the cut!” Natalya trilled out, holding the gathers of her maxi dress in the crook of her elbow as she gingerly stepped aboard in four-inch platform espadrilles. Benjy, following behind her, smashed his head into the doorframe. His hands were the size of Ping-Pong paddles.
“Natalya,” Charlie murmured, determined not to let herself get ruffled. “And Benjy. How are you? No training camp for you?”
“Still officially the off-season,” he said, lowering his enormous body into one of the seats across the aisle from Dan. “I’ve been told this little sailboat we’ll be visiting has quite the gym, so I’ll still get my workouts in.” He looked up and met Charlie’s gaze. “I didn’t know you were coming this year. Terrific. Anyone traveling with you?”
Charlie motioned to Dan and introduced them. Natalya was busy staring out her window and yakking in Russian into her phone.
“Anyone else?” he asked.
“Marco is meeting us tonight at the port. They’re sending the plane back to London for him and a couple of other people.”
“Mmmm, got it,” Benjy murmured.
“Marco’s coming, huh?” Dan said quietly. “I’ve got my nannying work cut out for me.”
Charlie turned to him and feigned indignation. “Really?”
“You heard Todd. There won’t be any middle-of-the-night visits, let’s just put it that way. Coach’s orders.”
“What, are you standing sentry outside my door?”
“Whatever it takes.”
Eleanor McKinley, the young Canadian who’d beaten Charlie in the first round of the French Open, walked onto the plane and nodded to everyone.
Charlie forced herself to wave. The girl’s mother, wearing an elegant pantsuit and carrying a Louis Vuitton tote, sat next to Eleanor and began whispering in her ear. As soon as they were settled, Rinaldo, Marco’s biggest on-court nemesis and closest friend on the tour, strode aboard. He wasn’t conventionally gorgeous, but his height and overall physique more than made up for his slightly weak chin.
“Hey, Rinaldo,” Charlie said, standing up to kiss both his cheeks. “No Elena today?”
He shook his head. “Home with the baby.”
The flight to Naples was short, under two hours, and the chauffeured Suburban that took them to the marina was sumptuous. Still, nothing prepared Charlie for the sight that awaited them when they approached the dock where Lady Lotus proudly floated. She was a sleek, two year-old 190-foot mega-yacht that was commissioned by a wealthy entrepreneur from China who was reputed to hate both boats and water. Supposedly he had bought the yacht because he understood it was a Western status symbol, but rumor was he had done little more than sit on the sparkling new decks, barefoot and clad in a designer suit and tie, as the boat bobbed in the marina. Only guests who chartered the yacht—nearly all celebrities, due to the $750,000 per week rental fee—ever actually left the harbor. This week Bono had chartered the boat and invited aboard six of the highest-profile tennis players and another dozen or so uber-wealthy tennis fans, for a charity tennis competition. Aboard the yacht. On a floating tennis court that doubled as a helipad. These guests were paying three hundred thousand dollars each to spend two days aboard the yacht, watch the pros play a few games, and, if they wanted, pull out their own rackets and have a hit with the world’s best. All the money went to AIDS prevention and treatment in Africa. It was an annual Bono tradition and, naturally, one of the most coveted invitations in both tennis and philanthropy circles.
“Jesus Christ,” Dan muttered under his breath as a tall blond deckhand in a short-sleeved polo and navy shorts held open the car door.
At least two dozen crew lined up shoulder to shoulder across the hull, hands crossed behind their backs and smiling as the group made their way to the gangplank. There, after removing their shoes and placing them in individual woven baskets that already bore their names, Charlie and Dan filed onto the main deck, where a hostess offered them cool, citrus-scented towels and a Crest-ad smile. Her white polo was embroidered with LADY LOTUS, and she wore a crisp navy skirt that showed off her deeply tanned legs. Everywhere Charlie turned, another matching deckhand or hostess with dazzling teeth and shiny hair smiled back at her.
“Welcome, Ms. Silver. Mr. Rayburn. My name is Johanna. We are so happy to have you aboard,” a girl no older than nineteen or twenty said to Charlie and Dan. “I just wanted to ensure you are aware that we have you assigned to bunk together? Due to space considerations?” The girl looked momentarily concerned.
“Yes, of course,” Dan said, silencing Charlie’s anticipated protest. It was hard to imagine there wasn’t an extra room somewhere on this floating city.
“We have taken the liberty of making up separate beds for you,” Johanna continued. “The accommodations are large. And during our tour I will point out where there are additional guest bathing facilities, should you not wish to share the head.”
Maybe Charlie would protest more if she weren’t so dumbfounded by their surroundings. Johanna led Charlie and Dan through automatic sliding glass doors into a behemoth salon, richly upholstered in white leather with walnut accents. There was a sectional that seated twelve and additional armchairs and love seats for at least another dozen, specially commissioned sets of classic board games, an entire wall of first-edition novels, hardcover photo books of past celebrity cruises, and a mounted projection screen. Opposite the television were two Warhols and a Lichtenstein. They continued through the salon and outside to a staircase, which led them to a lower sundeck featuring a gym with enough equipment to rival an Equinox, a spa locker room complete with two massage tables, steam, sauna, and hot and cold plunge pools. Adjacent to that was a sort of miniature beauty salon with
a stylist’s chair, mirrored vanity, and equipment for providing facials and manicures. Somewhere around the third teak sundeck that was outfitted with a resistance lap pool, Charlie lost track of where they were.
“Charlie, are you seeing this?” Dan shouted when Johanna allowed them a peek into the storage unit at the bottom of the boat where the owner kept his “toys”: four jet skis, water skis, wake boards, snorkel and scuba gear, and two tenders that would ferry the groups to shore or take them out to play on the water.
“I see it,” she said, a little embarrassed that Dan was acting as excited as she felt.
“Incredible. Just incredible,” he murmured, taking it all in. Charlie knew he must be thinking of his parents back at their home in Virginia, just as she was picturing her father in his one-bedroom guest cottage that could most kindly be described as “rustic.” The whole thing felt so surreal.
But even she could barely mask her awe when Johanna escorted them into their cabin. A king-sized platform bed with a leather headboard mounted to the wall sat atop a white silk area rug. A single handheld remote controlled the cabin lights, temperature, window shades, window tinting, and bathroom floor heat; a separate command unit with its own touchscreen could summon the drop-down television from its hiding place in the wall and offer a menu of more than a thousand movies and nearly two hundred TV series. The music selection included over twenty thousand songs and could be played overhead, in a pillow speaker while sleeping, or in the shower. One of the walls contained a hidden handle that pulled down to create a twin-sized bed. It was already made up exactly like the king, and it included a push-button panel that could be raised or lowered for privacy, creating a nearly separate sleeping nook for Dan. Charlie relaxed.
“Please feel free to take the afternoon at leisure,” Johanna said, sweeping her arms. “Lunch is a cold buffet on the third floor aft deck, available whenever you please. We are still waiting for guests to board this afternoon, so we won’t be launching immediately. Should you need anything at all, please don’t hesitate to pick up any phone extension and you’ll immediately be connected to a hostess. Is there anything I can do before I leave you?”
Charlie glanced around. “I’d love to fit in a workout before everyone else gets here. Would it be possible to have my luggage brought down?”
“It’s already been unpacked. Folded clothes have been placed in drawers, shoes are in the storage units under the bed, toiletries in the bathroom, and hanging clothes are currently being pressed and will be placed in your closet. Which reminds me, just leave any laundry in the basket and we’ll collect it each morning. I do apologize that we are unable to offer daily dry cleaning, but if you have something that requires it, we’re happy to bring it ashore whenever possible.”
“Thank you,” Charlie managed.
Johanna smiled and closed the door behind her.
“What a dump,” Dan said, sitting down on the edge of his pull-down bed.
“No dry cleaning? What kind of shitty yacht is this?” Charlie said.
“I want a refund.”
The two of them convulsed in laughter. Charlie had to wipe the tears from her cheeks a full minute later. She couldn’t remember laughing that hard in weeks. Or had it been months? Each individual muscle in her stomach ached and she could feel the makeup smeared across her face, but she didn’t care at all.
Their eyes met for a single moment before Dan quickly looked away. “You’re going to work out?” he asked, grabbing a book.
“Yeah, I think I’ll get that in now. Then probably shower and grab some lunch.”
“Sounds good. I’ll see you later.” Charlie tried not to stare at his exposed abs when he pulled his sweater off. She looked away the moment his T-shirt came down to cover the skin, but his eyes caught hers.
“Have fun,” she called out, ducking into the bathroom to change into workout clothes. She shut the door firmly behind her and waited to come back out until after his footsteps had receded into the hallway.
• • •
There was a collective inhalation among the women—especially the middle-aged wives of the billionaire philanthropists, the ones who had yet to see him in the flesh—as Marco joined the group, barefoot, on the aft deck for sunset cocktails. He was freshly showered, his hair still wet and swept back off his face, his pink button-down casually untucked over a pair of tight-fitting navy chinos. His teeth and toenails looked like they were glowing against his intensely tanned skin. Charlie glanced around at the women—all freshly scrubbed and tanned and turned out themselves—and could see from their expressions that there wasn’t one among them, married or otherwise, who wouldn’t fall into bed with Marco if given even the smallest window. It took him nearly ten minutes of being admired and courted and flirted with before he made his way to Charlie.
“Hey,” he said, leaning over to allow her to kiss his cheek.
“Hey, congratulations on Stuttgart,” she said, trying not to notice that his greeting was no warmer or more affectionate than he’d given any of the women. And then, because she couldn’t help herself: “I don’t think I’ve spoken to you since then.”
“Thanks, love.” He looked around. “So pretty, isn’t it?”
Charlie was just about to ask him how the flight in with Bono had gone when Dan materialized beside her. He, too, had just showered and looked handsome in a blue linen shirt and white pants. He had nowhere near Marco’s sex appeal, but he cleaned up well.
“Can I talk to you for a minute?” he whispered, leaning in close.
“Who’s your friend?” Marco asked, appearing vaguely interested for the first time.
“You know Dan,” Charlie said, looking at Marco with a surprised expression.
“Dan Rayburn. Charlie’s hitting partner. We’ve met probably a dozen times before,” he said neutrally.
Marco squinted, trying to place him, and laughed. “Sorry, man. I did not mean to offend. You know how it is with these women—they’re all so . . . how do you say it? Change their mind all the time? Fickle. That’s it. I know you seem familiar, but the hitting partners, they come and go all the time.”
Charlie could see the flash of irritation on Dan’s face, and she pulled him off to the side, telling Marco she’d be back in a moment.
The sun was just beginning to get low in the sky; the city of Naples looked far prettier in the hazy glint of dusk than it had driving through it at high noon.
“What is it? Marco? Don’t let him bother you,” Charlie said, noticing the way Dan’s knuckles were almost white from gripping the railing.
“Bother me? You’ve got to be kidding. He doesn’t bother me, I just hate the fact that you’re dating such a douchebag. There. I said it.”
Charlie was shocked by Dan’s outburst, and she hated the way she sounded, but she couldn’t stop herself. “You had something to tell me? Presumably something other than criticizing my romantic life?”
Dan’s whole neck and cheeks had flamed red. “Jake called to tell me he’ll be joining us tonight.”
“Wow, Todd must be really worried his little Delinquent Princess is suddenly going to go hog wild and start blowing heaps of cocaine while doing a striptease for the whole boat. I get two babysitters? And the great irony is that Natalya may very well go down on every single male on this boat, NFL boyfriend or not, and no one seems to care about that. I’m the slut. I just love it.”
Dan coughed. “Jake said that the charity people had an extra spot for someone from Elite Athlete Management, so he’s taking it.” He paused. “I don’t think there’s any more to it.”
Charlie was quiet.
“They were going to put him in the crew quarters, but I had Johanna move my stuff there so Jake can stay with you. He’ll be more comfortable.” What he didn’t need to say was: I’m sure we both will be, too.
Charlie softened. “Thanks,” she said. It had been weeks since sh
e and Jake had had a face-to-face conversation. He hadn’t even texted her about his arrival. Just Dan. He’d stayed in Europe to smooth over her public relations nightmare at the French Open, and she hadn’t seen him since.
“No problem.”
A hostess walked over and handed a glass of Pellegrino with a lime to Charlie and a beer in a frosted mug to Dan.
Despite not even being offered a drink of choice, it was impossible to remain in a bad mood. Especially as the sky turned orange and purple over the ocean once the sun set and dinner was served. Jake joined them mid-meal and flashed Charlie a do-you-f’ing-believe-this look, making her laugh. Across the table and down a few seats, Dan was doing his best to feign interest in one of the billionaire wives, and Marco was doing the same but looked to be enjoying himself a whole lot more. Natalya was practically curled up in the lap of an oil magnate while Benjy talked with Jake. Everyone was drinking except Charlie.
Before dessert and aperitifs were served, Bono stood at the head of the table to welcome everyone. Even these world-famous CEOs appeared awed by him. “You all know how strongly I feel about our work in Africa,” he said as the group applauded politely. “Each and every one of you—whether a player donating time or a business leader donating funds—is contributing enormously to our AIDS treatment and prevention efforts.”
Charlie filed every detail away, preparing to text everything to Piper when she got back to her cabin. When Bono and the rest of the band left during dessert to set up for a jam session in the screening room, Jake sounded like he might pass out.
“A jam session? How can they even call it that? It’s U2, for god’s sake. U2!”
When they’d made their way to a banquette on the outermost part of the deck, another hostess materialized to bring Charlie more Pellegrino and Jake a martini.
“I could get used to this,” she said, taking a sip. “Do you think they’ll help me shower?”
“Definitely. Just ask. Actually you probably don’t even have to ask. Just think it and it’ll happen.” They laughed together.
The Singles Game Page 29