“How’s he doing—after everything?” she asks.
“I really don’t know. That’s why I want to see him.”
“That’s so sweet of you.” She gives me a little hug. “He’s been through a lot. I’m sure he could use a friend right now. Wait, he was superhot, wasn’t he? And, like, successful? Hmmm.” She looks me up and down with a smirk. “No one ever said you weren’t smart.”
Wow. These friends of mine . . . “Thanks.” I laugh. “But I’m not in the man-trapping business. I just wanted to check on him.”
“Mmm-hmm.” She winks. Good God.
My phone dings.
In Ramatuelle, just south of Saint-Tropez for the month
I reply:
So close! Not sure I’ll be able to get away, but
would love to catch up with you if possible. Any news?
“You know Summer’s never gonna let you see him,” Wendy says.
“Yeah, I know. But that doesn’t mean I can’t try.”
My phone dings:
Sorry you’re stuck. If we can’t connect this trip,
I’ll hit you up next time I’m on the west coast.
Love to catch up. X.
No acknowledgment of my question. Which I can assume means no new developments surrounding what happened to Eric—or none he’s willing to share, anyway. But then, that’s not exactly a surprise. I wonder if I saw him face-to-face, would he be more forthcoming?
We bounce along a dusty road, finally parking in front of a restaurant built into the side of a low cliff. As I get out of the car, I can almost taste the salt in the light breeze that blows off the sea, lapping at the rocks below. I instantly forgive myself for saying yes to this trip, no matter how insane the situation might be. I am, after all, allowed to enjoy myself. Or rather, required to.
The restaurant is essentially a patio, naturally shaded by the lip of the cliff above. Driftwood tables look out over rocks rounded by the constant pounding of the surf, lit gold in the afternoon sun. The calm sea reflects the luminous sky, and boats bob in the distance.
Summer, Rhonda, Brittani, and the two goons are already seated at a long table on the far side of the patio, and two Chinese businessmen hover close by, sweating in their dress shirts. I slide into the chair next to Summer.
“This place is magical,” I say with a smile.
“John’s sitting there.” Summer doesn’t return my smile.
“Of course.” I move a seat over.
“Actually, can you sit down there?” She indicates the other end of the table, where Amythest is seated with Bernard and Vinny. “He’ll want to sit next to the men who are here to do business with him. They’ve come all the way from China.”
“No problem.” So much for that. I move down to the other end of the table and open my menu, ravenous.
“Don’t bother looking at the menu,” Summer instructs us. “John knows just what to order—he’ll take care of it all when he arrives.”
Easy for her to say; she probably had a five-course meal on the ride over.
I notice Summer doesn’t object when Wendy takes the seat directly across from her and beckons to the Chinese businessmen, one tall and one short. “Come have a seat.” She flashes a charming smile. “I want to hear all about China. I’ve always wanted to go.”
The men awkwardly sit next to John’s empty seat, and within minutes Wendy has them laughing. I feel a pang of jealousy. This whole trip would be going a lot more smoothly if I had her social skills.
I’m seated too far away from Wendy’s one-woman show to participate, and Brittani and Amythest are taking photos of each other in front of the view, so I attempt to strike up a conversation with Bernard and Vinny.
“So, how long you guys been working with John?” I ask.
Neither of them so much as looks at me, and when after a few moments it becomes apparent to each that the other is not going to answer and I’m not going to stop waiting expectantly until they do, Bernard mutters, “Long time.”
“How about you, Vinny?” I ask.
“Thirty years,” he grumbles.
I let out a low whistle. “So you must know where all the bodies are buried, huh?”
Now I have their attention. Only they’re not laughing.
I read a warning in Vinny’s bloodshot eyes as he leans in to my ear. “Guests are meant to be seen and not heard,” he hisses.
A chill runs down my spine.
Vinny abruptly takes out his phone and begins typing away at the screen as I focus on my breathing, attempting to slow my racing heart. Everyone else carries on with their conversations, oblivious to our tense exchange.
Bernard excuses himself to take a phone call, and as he stands, a pill bottle falls from his pocket, rolling beneath my chair. I bend to pick it up before he realizes what’s happened, sneaking a peek at the label as I hand it back to him. Diazepam. It sounds familiar, but I can’t place it. He snatches it from my hand without meeting my eye and shoves it in his pocket as he stalks away.
I take out my phone and google “diazepam.” Oh right, it’s Valium. Bernie’s on Valium? I guess that makes sense; it’s probably pretty stressful working for John.
I return my focus to my phone and open my email, landing on a new message from Lauren_Carter812:
Hi Sis!
How’s the sailing? Hope the weather there is as beautiful as it is here. Did you get my last email?
Love,
Sis
I quickly type:
I got your last email and downloaded the Shakespeare quote—didn’t have time to reply—was interrupted by Bernard looking over my shoulder. I got in trouble because apparently we aren’t supposed to download anything while using their computers. In other news, they lock us in at night, so that’s creepy. This whole trip is kinda bonkers. We’re being paraded around like Summer’s chorus line, and John is super controlling. Yes, it’s beautiful here, and the food’s delicious (at a restaurant overlooking the sea currently, entertaining some Chinese businessmen John is working with)—but I wouldn’t call it fun. I’m writing more freely b/c I’m on my phone, maybe delete this message when you get it so that it’s not in the system next time I log in to the boat computers. Xo
Wendy catches my eye and looks pointedly at my phone and then nods toward my bag. I dutifully put it away, irritated she’s taken it upon herself to monitor my behavior.
When at last John and his two Italian polo friends arrive and he orders the long-awaited food, it is every bit as divine as the vista. Plates of prickly sea urchin, salt-crusted sea bass, succulent melon with perfectly cured prosciutto. The rosé from the restaurant’s sister vineyard is like sunshine in a glass, so smooth I could drink a bottle on my own without blinking.
I rest my arms on the table and eavesdrop as John and the polo guys schmooze with the Chinese, complimenting them on the success of what sounds like an entire city they built in China, persuading them that what they accomplished there will do even better here. From what I gather, the development John is planning is on the Italian Riviera overlooking the sea, complete with all-new high-end homes, condos, a resort, a spa, shops, restaurants, golf, a marina, and the crown jewel: he’s secured a gambling license, apparently a real feat, which the polo guys are somehow involved in.
The womenfolk aren’t invited to take part in the conversation, of course, but I’m paying attention nonetheless. Here are the titans of industry in their natural habitat, the delicate balance of power shifting among them as they court one another, vaunting their authority and leverage like birds engaged in a bizarre courtship dance. It’s fascinating.
What’s even more interesting is the fact that the men seem to have zero regard for the seven women seated at the table––as though it would be impossible for us to hold opinions on anything they’re discussing. While there’s clearly plenty that’s being left unsaid, I’m amazed by how pragmatically they speak about issues like environmental impact and minimum relocation costs—it’s all numbers to them; the
y’re not in the least bit concerned about the very real damage to the planet or the disrupted lives of the people forced to relocate to make way for their monster resort.
I don’t claim to be well versed in the ins and outs of Italian (or for that matter, American) business regulations, and sure, none of this may be exactly illegal, but their casual entitlement displays an unmistakable moral bankruptcy. Then again, I suppose it’s par for the course. It’s not like I haven’t seen the Russian billionaire keeping a separate yacht for his wife and kids right next door to his boatload of hookers.
After a good hour of smiling vacantly and downing copious amounts of wine in an attempt to drown out my growing ire, I’ve got a strong enough buzz that I can almost forget the who and why of my situation and simply enjoy the where. But my reverie is interrupted by John, who seems to have remembered that we’re here after all.
“Let’s talk about our mothers,” he instructs us between bites of squid-ink pasta.
Though this edict is directed at the table, it’s clearly intended for those of the female persuasion, for the purpose of entertaining the men—which is, in this world, our sole purpose. Our mothers being a safer subject than our fathers, I assume, who are younger than the majority of the men present.
“Wendy, you start,” he says, unfurling his Cheshire-cat grin.
“My mom is Sandra, and she’s amazing.” Wendy smiles broadly at the table. “You know, my dad’s a senator in Ohio”—yep, there it is—“so she has a lot of social obligations. She’s head of the Cincinnati Country Club Association, the PTA when I was in prep school, and she and I were actually both president of the same sorority. And she has the best taste—I am always raiding her closet when I go home. She’s almost as good at tennis as Summer, and she’s an amazing cook.”
This is all true, though Wendy confessed to me in a moment of weakness facilitated by painkillers after her horse-jumping accident how hurt she was that her mother hadn’t come out for her surgery. She admitted that Sandra rarely had time for her and has always been much more interested in her social status than her only child. Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, I guess.
Summer raises her glass. “To Sandra!”
We all raise our glasses. The polo players sit next to Wendy, and I am on the other side, so it falls to me to speak next.
“My mom is Beth, and she’s also amazing, but in a different way,” I say. “She’s a nurse, and even when she’s not working, she’s always taking care of everyone. When we were little, we would go to this community pool, and any of the kids who couldn’t swim, she would teach to swim. If a baby bird fell out of a tree, she was feeding it with a bottle till it could fly. And she loves to garden—she can make anything grow.”
“I remember she was always out there with her hands in the dirt,” Rhonda chimes in. “Wearing a sombrero and overalls like she fell off the turnip truck.” She cackles at her own wit.
Oh. Rhonda is drunk. Drunk and throwing shade at my mom. Great. “Well, we can’t all be as fashionable as you, Rhonda,” I say dryly. Oops. Clearly Rhonda’s not the only one who’s had a little too much wine. I paint on a smile and soften my voice, grateful for my acting experience, and continue. “I remember when you guys first moved in, my mom baked a lemon meringue pie from the lemons in our lemon tree to welcome you to the neighborhood. You remember, Summer? We ate the whole thing watching Pretty Woman, and then we were sick to our stomachs. We’ve been friends ever since.”
For a beat no one speaks, and I wonder if I’ve said something wrong again, but I’m relieved when Summer smiles. “I could go for some lemon meringue pie right now.” She shifts her gaze to John. “Should we order limoncello?”
“That’s a great idea,” Wendy agrees, and we all nod.
John orders the limoncello, then turns to Amythest. “Amythest, tell us about your mother.”
Amythest squirms a little in her chair. “My mom came over from the Philippines with me when I was six. She had a really hard time. I mean, she didn’t speak the language or know anybody or anything.”
“Tell about your foster moms, though,” Brittani interjects. “That’s some crazy shit. Amythest had some fucking crazy foster moms after her mom ditched her.”
Amythest stares at Brittani, at a loss for what to say, the look on her face a mixture of hurt and surprise. “I don’t . . . She didn’t . . . ” Her voice trails off.
“She’s an addict. She OD’d and was put in a halfway house,” Brittani announces to the table, “and poor Amythest had to go live with just whoever they assigned. It was really fucking shitty. She even got molested. So awful.”
It’s as though the air has been sucked out of the scene. Everyone is still. Amythest blinks quickly, her face drained of color.
I push my chair back and stand, dropping my napkin on my plate, and glance around the table with an upbeat smile, my gaze landing on Amythest. “I’m going to run to the ladies’ room. Does anyone care to join?”
Amythest half nods and shakily stands to her feet while the rest of the table remains still as statues. I take her arm and steer her across the uneven stone toward the bathroom, never once dropping my smile.
Once the bathroom door is safely closed behind us, I glance under the two stalls, ensuring we’re the only ones inside. Amythest leans against the wall, staring out the small open window that looks over the sea, her fingers absently pulling at a piece of hair from the back of her head.
“She’s drunk,” I say.
She nods, tugging at her hair until strands come loose and flutter one at a time to the white marble floor, leaving a pattern of tangled black lines.
“Careful.” I gently pull her hand away from her hair.
She looks at her reflection in the mirror over the sink and spies the canister of cigarettes sitting next to the peppermints and perfume on the counter. She strikes a match from a box marked with the name of the restaurant and lights a cigarette, inhaling deeply.
“God, I’ve been wanting a cigarette for days.” She exhales.
I light one in solidarity and inhale, then cough. This happens every time I try to smoke cigarettes. It always seems like a good idea in the moment, and then I’m sorry.
We lean against the wall on either side of the window, blowing smoke out at the sea. She drums her bedazzled bloodred nails on the windowsill.
“How’d you get that?” I ask, pointing my chin at her nails. “We were on strict orders, red or pink, no decorations.”
She titters. “I bring my own bling. Just in case.”
She looks out at the view and sucks her cigarette deeply, then exhales smoke through her nose. “I’m pretty strong, but some things just . . . I never tell people about my shitty life. I trusted her.”
“You guys are pretty good friends, right?”
“I mean, yeah, we party together. We have fun.” She shrugs. “I just don’t understand why she’s being such a bitch.”
“Sometimes people behave differently in different situations. Especially around money.”
She nods. “But then, like, why the fuck did she invite me here?”
It strikes me that perhaps Brittani invited her here expressly for the purpose of fucking with Summer, her golden sister. But I’m not about to say that. “If it makes you feel any better,” I say with sympathy, “I’ve been wondering the same thing about Summer.”
“Well. If she wants to play games, I can play games.”
She grinds her stripper heel into her cigarette butt and marches out of the bathroom. I stub mine out as well and follow.
We emerge from the ladies’ room to find the rest of the girls posing in front of the view while one of the polo players snaps photos on a phone and the other directs them with cries of “Show us Charlie’s Angels! Now Blue Steel!” I catch myself before anyone sees me rolling my eyes for the umpteenth time.
John sits at the table with the rest of the men, clearly in the midst of a serious discussion.
I casually peruse the wall of framed p
hotographs featuring famous people visiting the restaurant while covertly tuning in to John’s conversation. They’re speaking French now, and I was right—what they’re discussing hardly sounds legal.
The taller Chinese guy is speaking in tones low enough that I can only hear part of what he’s saying and some of the words I can’t understand, but I’m able to translate “ . . . end of week the tariff on steel imports will . . . Good time to adjust your position before . . .”
“Helpful . . . connections,” John replies. “ . . . last development . . . able to cut building costs . . . materials that wouldn’t have been approved for anyone else. But . . . no problem.”
I pretend to drop my gold ring in the shape of California on the ground beneath a neighboring table and inch closer to their table as I reach my arm out to retrieve it. The shorter Chinese guy clears his throat, and I worry for a moment he’s seen me. But they’re leaning in toward each other, oblivious. “We like to keep the cost low,” he says, “but not sacrifice safety.”
The men go silent. Finally John speaks, switching to English. “I understand your concern, but it’s unnecessary. The collapse was tragic, but it was the fault of the contractor, who altered the plans after they had been approved. Lionshare was cleared of any wrongdoing.”
From where I’m crouched next to a chair retrieving my ring I sneak a glance up to see solemn nods around the table.
“What are you doing?” Wendy says from right behind me. I start, knocking my head on the table, and she laughs. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
She’s holding my bag, Claire at her side, the photo shoot over. “I dropped my ring,” I say, displaying the ring on my finger, “but I found it.”
Wendy hands me my purse. “Did you hear? John has a surprise for all of us!”
“It’s in town,” Claire offers.
“Great!” I hope for the best as we make our way toward the Suburbans.
The polo players triple-kiss us all goodbye before climbing into their white Lamborghini and roaring off in a cloud of dust, and for once John’s men stay with him and the execs, leaving us girls nearly unaccompanied, save our drivers. A minor miracle.
The Lion's Den: The 'impossible to put down' must-read gripping thriller of 2020 Page 13