But when my alarm went off at the ungodly hour of seven so that I could move my car, Summer was gone. Thankfully, so was the white Mercedes. I parked my car where it belonged, making a mental note to put up a RESERVED sign. But as I turned toward the apartment, I spied the Mercedes coming up the driveway.
I stood there in my glasses and pajamas with my hands on my hips, an intimidating presence I was sure, staring at the car as it slowly pulled toward me. I prepared to give the driver a piece of my mind as the window rolled down.
A manicured hand emerged holding a Starbucks latte, and then I recognized the blond hair. “Hey,” Summer said brightly. “I was up early so I picked up coffee.”
I stared at her. “Whose car is that?”
“It’s mine!” She beamed. “John got it for me as a signing bonus. He knew I didn’t have a car. Wasn’t that sweet? I have so much to tell you. But can you move your car so I can park in the spot? I don’t wanna leave it on the street. It’s brand-new.”
I grabbed the coffee and walked toward the door. “I’m sure it’s insured.” The door slammed behind me.
I’d finished my coffee and gotten ahold of myself by the time she entered ten minutes later, carrying a bag of croissants. “God, parking in this neighborhood is a nightmare.”
“Tell me about it,” I agreed. “It took me half an hour to find parking at midnight.”
“Oh, sorry about that. I figured you were gone for the night.” She put the croissants in the oven to heat and sat across from me at the breakfast table. “So. I have to tell you about my trip.”
“You slept with him.”
She smiled confirmation. “How did you know?”
“Um, he bought you a Mercedes? Your pussy must be made of solid gold, because I’ve never had a man buy me a Mercedes after one week. Or ever, actually.”
“It was two weeks, and they were the most insane weeks of my life,” she raved, her cheeks flushed. “I mean, I’ve seen wealth, but nothing like this. He owns, like, half the world. He knows all these powerful people. It’s like they’re in a club—princes and prime ministers and CEOs and movie stars. Insane. A Mercedes is nothing to him. I could have asked for a Bentley and he would have bought it, but I didn’t because I don’t want him to think I’m in it for the money, you know?”
“Yeah,” I said dryly. “Wouldn’t want him to think that. Wait. Didn’t you say he was married?”
“Yeah, his third wife. But they live separate lives—I’m not the first affair he’s had, obviously, but he says he’s never felt the way he feels with me—and anyway, she’s, like, fifteen years older than me. They’re getting divorced in the next couple of months. It’s just too expensive right now.”
“Does he have kids?”
“Yeah but they’re grown and he totally wants to have more with me.”
“I thought you didn’t want kids.”
“I mean, I never have before.” She shrugged. “But with him it would be different. I would have, like, a nanny for each kid. They would have the best of everything, and I could just be there for the good parts.”
She didn’t seem to be kidding. “Sounds healthy. How old is he?”
“He’s sixty. Well, sixty-three. But, like, a young sixty-three. He plays polo, he swims, he does mountain climbing—he’s super well rounded.”
“Isn’t that weird? I mean, you’re twenty-six. Do you even know any of the same cultural references?”
“It doesn’t matter. We talk about art, and business, and wine. . . .”
I laughed.
“What?” she said. “I really like him. I do. And you should see the clothes he bought me. We went shopping in Singapore—the shopping there is insane; it’s the best in the world—and they shut down an entire floor of a luxury department store so that I could shop. He’s so sweet!”
Amazingly, she sounded serious. Or maybe she’d convinced herself of how much she liked him in order to take advantage of all a relationship with him stood to offer. Regardless, her complete devotion either to the man or to the lie she was telling herself was pretty impressive.
“Oh, he got me these, too.” She stroked the giant diamond studs in her ears. “And when I got back, that car was waiting for me.”
“And how was the sex?”
“It was good!” she said. “I mean, not like Eric good, but nothing is going to be Eric good.” She shivered. “And Eric didn’t buy me a car. He never bought me a damn thing. And anyway, I’m not thinking about him anymore. He’s not worth my time.”
She’d always raved about how great Eric was in bed, obviously dying to dish the dirty details, but I never bit, Summer and Eric’s sex life being about the last thing in the entire world I wanted to discuss. I much preferred to hear about her not-so-sexy tryst with some old dude. “So saggy-old-man balls are a myth?” I teased.
She sighed, not amused. “I just . . . I’ve been through a lot in the past few months.” She looked at me pointedly, and I knew she was referring to the incident with Three that we’d agreed not to mention. “I’m doing the best I can with what I’ve got, and this could be really good for me . . . ” She took a deep breath, and I saw she was holding back tears.
I reached out and grabbed her hand, realizing I was being insensitive. “I’m sorry, Summer. I wasn’t thinking.”
She nodded, and a tear slid down her cheek. “I just . . . ” Her voice shook. “I need you to be supportive of me, okay?”
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.” I pulled her in for a hug. “I totally support you in whoever you want to date.”
“Thanks.” She grabbed a Starbucks napkin and wiped away her tears.
“So, are you still gonna work for him, or . . . ?”
“He’s gonna keep paying me a salary and benefits, so I’ll technically be working for him, but I’m not actually gonna be working. And you don’t need to worry because I’m never gonna be here. He travels all the time and wants me to come with him.”
“That’s great!” As much as my heart went out to her for what had happened with Three, feigned enthusiasm was about as much as I could muster for her salaried-girlfriend position. I hoped this meant he’d get her an apartment of her own as well, but I kept my mouth shut on that front, not wanting to come off as even more callous.
A rapping at the front door stopped our conversation short. “Who is it?” I called out.
“Eric,” came the voice on the other side.
I choked on my coffee.
Summer buried her face in her hands. “I totally forgot he was coming today. He has a show in Beverly Hills. I asked him to pick me up here.”
“One second,” I called. My heart fluttered like a bird caught in the rafters. Despite our slew of emails, I hadn’t actually seen him since our kiss in his elevator. “I thought you weren’t seeing him anymore,” I whispered.
“I’m not!” she insisted. “I made these plans before I met John.”
“Do you want me to get rid of him?”
She bit her lip. “No. It’ll be fine.”
I stood and pointed my feet in the direction of the living room, reminding myself with every step to act nonchalant in front of Summer. I swung open the door to find Eric dressed in his usual black, the morning sun lighting his green eyes. He smiled, and any annoyance I’d had at him for turning up on my doorstep to collect Summer dissipated. “Hi.” He leaned in to give me a lingering kiss on the cheek. My pulse quickened. “Good to see you. Hey, I finally saw your web series where you’re a junkie in med school. Awesome work. You were so raw. It was—I was blown away. Really.”
I raised my brows, taken aback. “Wow, you actually watched it. Thank you.” Then, remembering why he was here, “Summer’s—”
I turned to see her lingering in the doorway to the kitchen, eyeing us. “Did you see her web series?” he asked Summer. “This girl’s a real leading lady.”
“Not yet. But I’m sure it’s great.”
“You guys ready?” he asked. “The gallery gav
e me a driver.” He gestured in the general direction of the street. “He’s waiting.”
“Belle’s not coming,” Summer said.
“Oh.” He turned to me. “Why not?”
I raised my hands. “I don’t know what’s going on. I hadn’t heard you were in town.”
He looked between us, confused. “We were all going to my hotel to hang out by the pool and then go to the show tonight.”
“Sorry.” Summer smiled. “I just got back from Asia last night. Things have been kinda crazy. I totally forgot. Lemme just grab a couple things.”
She strode down the hallway to the bedroom, and Eric moved deeper into the living room, out of her line of sight. “Did you not get my DM?” he whispered.
I shook my head. “Sorry.”
“Fuck.” He actually seemed upset. “You can’t come?”
Was he crazy? Or did he have some fucked-up idea we were going to have a threesome or something? I laughed. “No way am I hanging out with the two of you and whatever’s going on there.”
We were silenced by the sound of Summer’s stride in the hallway. She appeared looking like a million bucks in heels and a sundress, a new Louis Vuitton overnight bag slung over her shoulder. I’d never in my life wanted to sock her as badly as I did in that moment. “Okay.” She beamed. “Ready.”
“Have fun, guys!” I buried my resentment under a bright smile, fully aware I had no right to be resentful in the first place. He was, after all, her ex . . . or whatever.
Eric turned to me. “Belle, you really should come, too. It’ll be fun—”
I was saved from coming up with an excuse by Summer, who clearly didn’t want me along, either. “Belle has other things to do.”
“I gotta go work on something.” I excused myself, beelining for the hallway.
But before I could reach my room, Eric called out, “You should at least come to the show tomorrow night. It’s all about botany. I think you’d like it.”
“I’d love to,” I said, “but I’m shooting tomorrow night.”
“Oh, what are you working on?” Eric asked.
“Low-budget thriller. But at least I don’t die in this one. Have a good show.”
“Thanks,” he said. “Stay alive.”
“Same to ya.”
I closed the door to my bedroom, turned on the music, and balled my fists so tightly my nails left crescents in my palms.
Day 6
Thursday morning—Saint-Tropez, France
I’m never drinking again. My head is throbbing, my mouth is dry, and I’ve sweated through the sheets; all I want to do is hide in the dark, cool cabin until the cloud lifts, but someone is knocking at the damn door.
Amythest continues to snore, dead to the world. I wish I could sleep like that.
“Yes?” I call when I realize the knocking is not going to stop on its own.
There it is again. I groan and throw the covers off, pull on a T-shirt, and open the door.
Camille stands in the hallway with a tray of coffee and red, puffy eyes. “Sorry. I must make sure you get out of bed. You go shopping today. We dock at ten.”
“Are you okay?” I ask.
She nods quickly, but the tears that spring to her dark eyes betray her. She tries to hand me the tray so she can leave, but instead I motion her inside, closing the door behind her as she sets the tray on the bed and furtively dries her eyes. I don’t want to pry, but the girl is clearly upset, and I’m worried she’s the latest victim of Summer’s displeasure. “Is there something I can help you with?” I ask gently.
This elicits a fresh round of tears, which she tries in vain to dam. “Dé-désolé,” she stammers.
“It’s okay,” I say, handing her one of the napkins off the tray. “You’re safe here. This is entre nous.”
We both look over at Amythest, sleeping like the dead.
“C’est . . . ma mère,” she says. “I send to her mon chèque, habituellement par Western Union. She depend on it. She is sick. Mais maintenant Emmanuelle go, I must stay here on the boat to do her work. I cannot poster le chèque.” She chokes back a sob. “Désolé, je suis très fatigué. I do not want problèmes.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “I’ll go to Western Union for you.”
She looks up at me in disbelief. “Vraiment?”
“Yes, it’s no problem,” I say. “I understand. They’re working you too hard. You know, I have a job a lot like yours back home.”
She eyes me sideways, incredulous. “Vous? Une serveuse?”
I nod. “Je suis une serveuse.” I mime holding a tray. “A waitress and a bartender.”
She pats her face with the napkin, laughing in disbelief. “I know,” I say. “The stranger thing is that I’m here.” I nod to Amythest. “I’ll wake her up. You go get the money, and I’ll send it in Saint-Tropez today.”
“Merci,” she says, quickly running her fingers beneath her eyes and smoothing her hair. “Merci beaucoup.”
“De rien.” I smile.
Camille slips out the door, and I shake Amythest’s shoulder until she surfaces from dreamland, staring at me like I’m evil. “What’s happening?”
“We have to wake up,” I say. She sighs and closes her eyes. I grab a cup of coffee from the tray and wave it under her nose until she sits up. “We’re going shopping today.”
“I don’t want to go shopping,” Amythest grumbles. “I have no fucking money.” She flops back on her pillow and pulls the covers up over her head.
I check my watch. “We have thirty minutes to get ready.”
“Didn’t you guys fucking go shopping yesterday?”
I shrug. Was the bikini shop only yesterday? The days are all beginning to blend together. Through the wall we share with Brittani and Rhonda, I can hear Brittani singing a Beyoncé song, terribly off key. I shove the cup of coffee into Amythest’s hands, gulp down a cup myself, and hurl my aching body into the shower.
Summer has still not appeared as the boat pulls into the Saint-Tropez harbor, but the rest of us are all miraculously dressed and I have Camille’s envelope in my purse, ready to be posted. We stuff our faces with croissants and fruit on the deck while we slowly make our way through the port. Julie, seemingly fully recovered from the loss of Emmanuelle, cheerfully points out boats belonging to princes and movie stars as the rest of the crew busily readies the boat to dock, then carefully guides it into a front-row slip facing the shops and restaurants of the town.
Vacationers stroll by on the promenade an arm’s length away, craning their necks to see who we might be. “These are the best slips,” Julie says.
Summer arrives looking like death warmed over just in time to give us our marching orders before the crew lowers the plank. She’s not coming with us, she explains, because she and John need some alone time. She sweeps her gaze across each of us, poison in her eyes. “He was very disappointed in the way you behaved last night. Especially you.” Her manicured finger points at me.
“Me?”
“Oh, don’t act stupid,” she scolds. “Prancing around singing, drawing attention to yourself, doing drugs.”
“It was just hash! Marlena was smoking it, too,” I protest.
“Don’t act like she’s your friend. You never would have been there without me.”
“None of us would be here without you,” Wendy pipes up.
“And you.” Summer swings around to Wendy. “Throwing yourself at Leo Martin, making out with him in front of everybody. I’m disgusted.”
Wendy looks like a bucket of ice has been thrown in her face. “I’m sorry,” she splutters. “I got carried away.”
“You’re supposed to be my friends,” Summer reprimands, “and yet none of you gave any thought to how bad you were making me look. This isn’t Hollywood. You can’t just act like tramps. Our behavior reflects on John.”
A solitary tear rolls down Claire’s cheek.
“We’re sorry, honey,” Rhonda says, patting Summer on the back. Summer recoils from her touch
.
“Yeah, sorry,” Brittani says.
“Sorry,” the rest of us mutter.
“I apologize,” Wendy says. “It was thoughtless of me.”
“I’m this close to sending you all home.” Summer opens her fingers a centimeter. “After all we’ve done for you. So disrespectful.” She turns on her heel and stalks back to her room, leaving us all staring after her, traumatized.
Julie clears her throat, and we collectively shift our dumbfounded gaze to her. “Everybody stick with your roommate and be back at noon,” she instructs us, her voice stubbornly cheery.
We gather our purses and deboard in silence, our eyes downcast. Once we’ve joined the throngs of tourists that stroll along the boardwalk, I catch Wendy by the arm. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” she says, stricken. “She’s right. We should have behaved better.”
I roll my eyes. “We were fine. She’s just pissed because Leo turned her down and he went for you.”
“You think he likes me?” she asks hopefully.
“Obviously. Though I wouldn’t hold my breath. According to Michael, he has a reputation as a bit of a playboy.”
She looks out at the floating palaces lined up in the sun. “Yeah, I know,” she admits. “But a lot of men are playboys until they meet the right girl.”
Seeing no reason to murder any more of her dreams this morning, I switch subjects. “Anything in particular you’re shopping for today?”
“I want a pair of those lace-up sandals everyone’s wearing, and I need, like, SPF100 sunscreen. I’m so done getting sun. How about you?”
“I need a dress for the Webby Awards.”
She looks at me blankly.
“It’s the awards for web series. One I had a part in is nominated. I told you about it—Junk?”
She nods. “Oh yeah.” But it’s clear she has no idea what I’m talking about.
“We’re getting souvenirs,” Rhonda says.
“Who knows when we’ll be in France again.” Brittani snorts. “We’re probably too embarrassing to get invited on another trip.”
“Souvenirs!” Rhonda steers her daughter by the elbow toward a tchotchke shop. Brittani gestures to Amythest to join them, but Amythest pretends not to see, turning stone-faced to stare out at the sea. Brittani sticks her tongue out and flips the bird at Amythest’s back before following her mom into the store.
The Lion's Den: The 'impossible to put down' must-read gripping thriller of 2020 Page 21