It Takes Two to Mango

by Carrie Doyle

  “I’m doing you a favor, Jonathan.”

  “Plum, I hired you because no one else would, despite the fact you have a reputation as a tyrant, despite the fact I would have to train you, as you have zero experience in renting villas, and despite the fact you don’t speak a lick of Spanish.”

  “But I have great contacts, excellent taste, and I am able to elevate crap hotels and resorts and make them seem like the most desirable destinations on earth.”

  “You asked me for the job.”

  “To help your little business.”

  “Well, if this doesn’t befit your so-called stature, then you are free to leave.”

  “I just might.”

  “That’s your decision. But you will be missing a great opportunity.”

  Jonathan turned on his heel, walked into his office, and closed the door. Plum was reeling. She spun around to see if Lucia had heard (which of course she had, it was a tiny office) and was mortified to observe a gorgeous man standing in the doorway. And from the look on his face, he had heard everything as well.

  This was where Plum’s innate resilience came in handy. Rather than collapse into blubbering idiocy, she smoothed her blouse, strode over to the man, and put out her hand.

  “Hello, I’m Plum Lockhart, the newest senior advisor,” she said, using the title she had insisted upon during her contract negotiations.

  The man had movie-star looks—thick, black hair, strong tanned face, gleaming white teeth. He was younger than she was—about thirty years old, fit and muscular, and most certainly aware of his effect on women. He glanced up at Plum—who was a couple of inches taller than he was—and gave her the once-over.

  “I’m Damián Rodriguez,” he said, taking her hand and holding on to it a little longer than one usually does, all the while maintaining strong eye contact.

  “Oh, the owner of the hair gel?” she motioned toward his desk, and his eyes followed.

  “I always like to look my best. Especially when there are beautiful women around.”

  His eyes slid down her body unctuously. Plum ultimately extricated her hand and felt her pulse quickening. She sized him up in a hot minute—egotistical, misogynistic, aware of his own good looks, a giant red flag. On his dating app profile, he would undoubtedly feature a picture of himself shirtless to display his abs and command potential dates to “impress me.” And yet, despite that knowledge, he was still able to incite a small flutter inside Plum that made her want to leap into his arms and have him carry her off into the sunset. She repulsed herself.

  “I heard you complain about the location of your desk, but I must assure you that I am very pleased with the new arrangement,” Damián said smoothly.

  From behind him, Lucia emitted a chuckle but then quickly regained composure.

  “Oh, really? How will we get any work done?” asked Plum.

  “True, it will be hard for me to work with such a beautiful woman as yourself next to me.”

  “Okay, let’s stop with the ‘beautiful woman’ bit.”

  Damián feigned offense. “You question that?”

  “I don’t like to be patronized.”

  He put his hand to his heart as if to protest. “I meant you no insult.”

  She didn’t wait for him to finish. “The problem is that you and Lucia will be so close that we’ll be able to hear the person on the other end of the phone.”

  “Ah, I do not talk often on the phone,” said Damián. “I prefer to meet my clients in person. I think communication is best when you can look into the other person’s eyes, no?”

  Plum turned her attention to Lucia. “Jonathan had said that business is booming and he had recently hired a gaggle of people. Where’s the rest of the team?”

  A spark of amusement flashed across Lucia’s face before she answered diplomatically, “Business is doing very well. Damián and I are grateful to have you here to help us achieve the next level of success.”

  Plum frowned, realizing that she had been lured here under false pretenses (and completely forgetting that it was she who had pursued the job).

  “Yes, business is very strong,” said Damián, lowering himself into his desk chair and putting his feet up. “It will be helpful to have someone else to answer my phone and do my paperwork. Lucia can only do so much.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m no good with clerical work. I will need you to do that.”

  “I’m not a secretary,” said Plum sharply. She folded her arms and moved toward his desk, where she could stare down at him.

  “I do not follow titles. I know you are here to help me.”

  “Incorrect. I’m here as a liaison to the real world. To save Jonathan Mayhew’s company from oblivion.”

  “You have no experience. It is better to watch me and learn…”

  “I ran a major magazine. I’m sure it’s not rocket science.”

  Damián smiled but Plum noticed a quick spark of hostility flash across his face. “The art of renting villas is not easy.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Nothing has ever been easy for me. I’m pretty sure if you can do it, I can do it better.”

  Damián’s eyebrows rose, and a mischievous glint entered his eye. “I admire your confidence. And as a welcome offering, I will present you with Casa Mango. It is a beautiful four-bedroom villa. The owner lives in Switzerland and wants us to manage it. Why don’t you see if you can rent it out for Presidents’ Day weekend?”

  He slid a manila file toward her.

  “No problem.”

  “Damián, she just arrived,” said Lucia disapprovingly. “And Casa Mango…”

  “Don’t worry about me, Lucia,” said Plum. “I managed a staff of fifty. I’m not scared of a challenge.”

  “This is more than a challenge,” murmured Lucia, shaking her head.

  “Ah, yes, perhaps this former editor-in-chief is not ready for a challenge,” teased Damián, pulling the folder back toward him.

  “Of course I am,” said Plum, snatching the file from his fingers.

  “You think you can rent out Casa Mango?” asked Damián.

  “I don’t see why not.”

  “Dios Mio,” whispered Lucia, making the sign of the cross.

  “How hard could it be?” asked Plum.

  “That sounds like a bet,” said Damián.

  “That’s not how I do business, Damián. Professionals don’t tend to be degenerate gamblers.”

  This only made him smile wider. That annoyed Plum to no end. She no longer considered him even remotely attractive and felt nauseous that she had thought so.

  “Very well. You do not have to make a bet with me if you are scared.”

  Plum sighed. “This is amateur hour, and we are not in fourth grade. I’ll rent out the casa, do the work that you are unable to do, and then allow you to buy me a glass of white wine.”

  “Okay. And what will you buy me if you are unsuccessful?”

  “That won’t happen.”

  Chapter 3

  The one-bedroom town house that Jonathan Mayhew had secured for Plum was modest. It was located north of the main road that cut through the resort, in the hillier area near the tennis center. The pungent smell of the ocean faded as she ascended and was replaced by the heady fragrance of the tree lilies. The plantings were lusher, but the neighborhood felt less beachy and more like a jungle. Not to mention it was more remote, despite the fact there were several other town homes scattered around the cul-de-sac.

  Plum was relieved to find that the furnishings of her new home were adequate, although the bathroom and kitchen were in dire need of renovation. Even though this was a temporary situation until she found another job, she did not want to lower her standards. Therefore, she would have to do something about the artwork, which consisted of oversize, splashy canvases of palm trees and crude wi
ldlife that appeared to have been rendered by children who had access to neon paint. The curtains and comforters in the bedroom would also need to be chucked out as well and replaced with a color palette that reminded Plum less of vomit. Lastly, she would have to procure air-conditioning as soon as possible. She was okay with sweating pounds out in a sauna or at the gym (although, truthfully, she rarely stepped foot in a gym), but she did not need to do that in her living quarters.

  She immediately unpacked her clothes and shoes, aligning her high heels by style and height—stilettos, kitten heels, pumps, sling-backs, and platform shoes. The two pairs of flats were relegated to the back, next to the sandals and a lone pair of flip-flops for when she got a pedicure. In New York, Plum had subscribed to a fashion curator (as did all editors of glossy magazines) who would select seasonal designer clothing for her to wear to work and events. Unfortunately, Plum had been fired in the winter, so she had not received her latest spring collection, and now that it was no longer subsidized, she had canceled the service. That meant her wardrobe was lacking in the tropical clothing department. She wasn’t completely discouraged—she still had plenty of suits and knits, but when she studied them in her Caribbean closet, they appeared very formal. She sighed, noting that she had no choice but to make do.

  Plum had not eaten all day and was uncertain what to do for dinner. None of her colleagues had offered to take her out on her first night, which she thought inconsiderate. She had always hosted large get-togethers at four-star restaurants for the arrival of whatever staff she had poached from a competing magazine. And here she was, in a foreign country, and no one had even asked to take her to drinks. Although she had made a truce with Jonathan (by pretending nothing happened), he had not extended any sort of welcome invitation. Fortunately, Lucia had been nice enough to stock Plum’s refrigerator with the basic essentials: bread, eggs, cheese, milk, fruit, and Diet Coke, so she set about making an egg sandwich before situating herself on the small sofa.

  Plum glanced at her phone, prepared to dial someone and say she had arrived in Paraiso, but then realized she really had no one to call. Did she really have no friends? She had filled her life with work dinners and travel junkets and had failed at cultivating friendships. Those took time; she had been so focused on her career, she told herself, that she couldn’t afford that luxury. But deep down she knew her insecurity had caused her to hold people at arm’s length. Despite the fact she had ascended the ranks in the magazine world, she had always felt like an impostor. She knew that no matter how she changed, she was still Vicki Lee Lockhart, the gangly poor kid whose own parents wanted nothing to do with her.

  She decided not to dwell on that. Instead she turned on the television. After clicking through all of the channels several times, she was dismayed to discover the programs were in Spanish. In frustration, she shut it off. She tried to go online on her computer but discovered the internet was not working. How would she amuse herself? This isolation was unexpected.

  Well, I can resume my life as a workaholic, thought Plum. Having a singular goal was comforting. She would make oodles of money through commissions and laugh her way back to a high-powered job in Manhattan. She opened up the file Damián had given her on Casa Mango. It was an ugly villa that appeared to have been decorated in the 1970s. The entire house (bedrooms as well as kitchen and baths) was covered in a dingy, off-white linoleum floor with dirty, gray grouting and nary a throw rug in sight. Plum could just imagine trotting from one end of the villa to the other and finding the soles of her feet coated in filth. The kitchen had dark-brown wood, not at all befitting a Caribbean vacation house. There was very little furniture in the living room—only an armchair and a sad, sunken sofa. Plum had thought the fabrics used in her current abode were outdated, but Casa Mango’s decor took it to an entirely new level. There was a blizzard of stripes that appeared to have been ripped off a circus tent and cut up to make drapes and comforters outfitting the bedrooms. Every surface was bursting with unusable and kitschy knickknacks like porcelain clam shells and aquamarine figurines. And one look at the grimy pool and Jacuzzi had Plum instantly shuddering and imagining the wildlife that used it as a crash pad. It was just so wrong.

  However, Plum was not deterred. She had spent a lifetime poring through magazines and studying everything and everyone she thought exhibited class. Her powers of observation were excellent, and she noticed even the smallest details that could make a place more desirable. If Damián had thought she would be intimidated by this challenge, well, he was surely mistaken.

  After a fitful night’s sleep, during which Plum found herself being attacked by invisible mosquitoes that buzzed in her ear but disappeared whenever she turned on the lights to catch them, she set off to work at seven forty-five, ready to confront the day. She lathered herself in sunblock and donned a light-blue suit and cream blouse. She hesitated about what footwear to pick. Her feet were expanding in the heat, and she wanted to slide into her flats (or even sandals!) but knew it was more professional to have some sort of elevation, so she compromised with a pair of sling-backs with a kitten heel. As she floored the golf cart Jonathan had provided for her down to her office (which had it traveling at a frustrating twenty miles an hour), she glanced up at the cerulean sky and felt optimistic. It is kind of nice not to wake up in freezing New York, she thought. Flowers were blooming, and a soft breeze caressed her face. Perhaps this is more my speed, she decided.

  When the rest of the office appeared two hours later, Plum had gone through all the stages of grief, anger, rage, and desperation and was quite certain this was not her speed. Her fury was compounded by the fact the internet was as slow as snails and her silk blouse was clinging to her overheated armpits.

  “Where were you?” she bellowed at Lucia, who was the first to arrive.

  Lucia gave her a quizzical look then went to put water in the coffeepot. “I dropped my grandson at school.”

  “Well, maybe you should have alerted the team.”

  “Why?”

  “So that we were aware that you would be late.”

  “I’m not late. I always take my grandson to school.”

  Plum wanted to make a big show of glancing at her watch, but she did not wear one. There was not a clock on the wall either, which she was certain was by design. She pulled out her phone and held up the screen. “It’s almost ten o’clock!”

  “It is? That is incredible.”

  “Yes,” Plum concurred. “You realize now—”

  “I never get to work at nine forty-five,” Lucia interrupted.

  Plum nodded. “It’s very late.”

  “I’m early,” said Lucia, pressing the button on the coffee bean grinder. “I usually arrive at ten.”

  The rest of the day transpired in a similar manner. Everything took longer, and everyone moved slower, and Plum was quickly learning that the favorite word among locals was tranquilo, which meant that everyone should remain calm and things would happen in the distant future. Her patience was wearing thin.

  Plum ascertained where Casa Mango was and set out to pay it a visit. Electronic navigation systems didn’t work at the resort (bad coverage), so she had to clumsily balance a resort map on her lap while steering her cart. She found herself going in the wrong direction more than once and had to submit to that annoying beeping sound the cart made when backing up. She felt like she was living in the Dark Ages. How she wished for an Uber to take her around.

  The villa was on a cul-de-sac near the heliport, surrounded by thick vegetation, untended flower beds, and rotten mangoes that had fallen from the trees. It was as dire as she had thought. The place had a neglected, dirty air and reeked of mildew. The backyard was no better: the lawn was faded with patchy grass, and the pool looked toxic. She was not discouraged, though. When she had started her journalism career, she had worked for a beauty editor, and one of her jobs was to find the woman on the street to make over. She learned which ladies w
ould make good candidates due to their bone structure, and now she could use that skill on Casa Mango. She made a careful list of everything she would need to spruce it up and called furniture vendors, painters, and landscapers and implored them to start the work as soon as possible.

  By the end of the workday (four o’clock), Plum was so fatigued from begging and wheedling craftsmen that she needed a glass of wine. She asked Lucia if she wanted to head to the bar at the beach, but Lucia mumbled something about picking up her grandson. Jonathan was off to dinner at the hotel manager’s and didn’t extend an invitation. She was desperate and lonely enough to consider asking Damián, but he never returned from his last appointment. Undeterred, Plum set off alone to explore her new neighborhood.

  Playa del Sol, the resort’s beach, was buzzing with activity, Plum noted as she slid her golf cart into the parking lot next to dozens of other carts. She alighted from her vehicle, walked down the pebbled path, and took her first real look at the Caribbean since she had arrived. Bathers were frolicking in the crystal-blue water, lounging on floats, zipping around on the banana boat, and lying on the chaises. The smell of sunscreen permeated the air. Music drifted out of curious rocks in the ground that Plum ultimately grasped were speakers. Beach boys raked the sand and offered towels and drinks to guests.

  As she made her way to Coconuts, the beach bar, she could hear people speaking in many foreign languages. It made her feel at home. Which made her feel jolly. She slid into a wicker stool at the bar and ordered a glass of white wine. The bartender tried to talk her out of it—insisting that the fruity concoctions were better—but she was not interested. She downed the treacly wine quickly. It had a bitter aftertaste, but it didn’t bother her. She ordered another, forgetting that she had not eaten anything since the morning.

  By six o’clock Plum found herself quite drunk, as did those around her. She was slurring her words to the bartender, and when she attempted to talk to the couple next to her, everything came out in gibberish. She thought that the way to tackle the language barrier was to speak as loudly as possible, which only produced alarmed glances from those around her. The bartender tried several times to coax her into eating something by placing tortilla chips and guacamole as well as the menu in front of her, but in her inebriated state, she decided it was best to skip some meals in order to attain the type of beach body she saw flaunted around her. She had gained some weight in recent weeks and felt the need to fast in order to rebalance.