Island in the Sea

by Anita Hughes

  He didn’t hear from Samantha or Gideon and drowned his pain in a diet of bourbon and cigarettes and minibar pretzels. He called Gideon’s secretary from every city, but Rosemary said he was in Brazil or signing a new metal band in Finland. He rustled through his pockets and found the phone numbers girls shoved at him and almost picked up the phone. But he pictured someone seeing the misery in his eyes and tossed the notes in the garbage.

  How could Samantha cheat on him with his best friend? They were like characters in a daytime soap opera. Then he pictured her smooth blond hair and long legs and felt the emptiness well up inside him. He stubbed out his cigarette and thought no matter what she did, he had to find a way to forgive her.

  * * *

  Now he carried his scotch into the bedroom and debated whether to take a nap or a shower. He gazed at the pink marble bathroom with its plush towels and silk robes and thought wealth and success had their virtues.

  He walked into the closet and hung up his Hugo Boss blazer. He noticed the hangars were empty and Samantha’s white Keds were missing. He pulled open the drawers and couldn’t find her bras and cotton panties.

  He walked into the bedroom and felt his heart pound. He saw an envelope propped on the bedside table and tore it open.

  Dear Lionel,

  I have gone back to London, please don’t follow me. I was relieved when Donovan replaced me in the video; I never wanted to be onstage. But I remember sitting across from you at the café in Stratford-Upon-Avon and knew I couldn’t stand in your way. You were like an astronaut determined to land on the moon and nothing was going to stop you.

  You can be headstrong and stubborn so I think it’s best we make a clean break. Please don’t try to contact me, I have given Georgina strict instructions not to give out my number. And you don’t want to knock on the door and cause a scene in front of Abigail.

  I called you at every tour stop in Rosemary’s schedule, but you were always checked out. I finally had to give up and admit we weren’t the invincible couple I imagined.

  You’re not the first man to fall for a pretty face or large bust but I thought you were better than that. I can’t say it didn’t hurt to see you with Amber but I should have expected it. After all we are all human and you are more human than most. You can’t write love songs if you are flawless, there would be nothing to write about.

  Deep down I believed we were different but I guess all lovers do. We both read enough D. H. Lawrence to know anyone is capable of illicit lust and enough Tolstoy to realize every love story has a beginning and an end.

  I can’t say quite yet I wish you well because I am angry and hurt. But someday we will look back and remember eating spinach omelets at the Polo Lounge and seeing Casablanca at the Roxie Cinema. I loved you very much and I will miss you.

  “What the bloody hell.” Lionel crumpled the paper. Suddenly he saw a copy of People on the bedside table. He glanced at the glossy photo and bold headline and his stomach turned over.

  The photo was of him and Amber standing under the Empire State Building. She wore a low-cut pink dress and her honey blond hair tumbled over her shoulders. His hand circled her waist and his lips brushed her cheek. The headline read: “IS AMERICA’S FAVORITE SINGING DUO NOW A ROMANTIC COUPLE?”

  It was the photo for the cover of their new album and he wondered how People got hold of it. Now he knew why Samantha went back to England. She thought he was having an affair with Amber.

  Surely she would have contacted him and demanded to know what was going on? He and Samantha were madly in love and she must realize gossip magazines made an innocent kiss seem like a trip down the aisle. And if she did call him every night, why did he never get the messages? Rosemary had a detailed itinerary of the tour dates and hotels in every city.

  He thought about Gideon and knew there was only one way to find out. He grabbed his keys and slipped on his leather loafers. He drove to Century City and took the elevator to Gideon’s office. He strode past Rosemary at her sleek walnut desk and burst through the door.

  Gideon looked up from his desk. He wore a blue silk Armani jacket and cream slacks. His hair was perfectly highlighted and he wore a gold Patek Philippe watch.

  He nodded. “You look well, being on tour agrees with you. Donovan said the numbers were fantastic, you played sold-out shows in Tampa and Dallas.”

  “You ruined my life,” Lionel stormed. “You are my best friend, how could you sleep with Samantha?”

  “I haven’t seen Samantha since the three of us had dinner at Mr. Chow.”

  “A few nights before I left on tour I went to your house and Samantha’s car was in the driveway,” Lionel continued. “I waited for Samantha for two days but she never came home. Rosemary said you were out of the office at a confidential location.”

  Gideon stood up and walked to the sideboard. He selected a mushroom quiche and took a small bite.

  “I was in China having talks with the government about opening a recording studio.”

  “What was Samantha doing at your house?” Lionel asked.

  Gideon shrugged. “Maybe she was asking Inga to borrow her potato pancake recipe.”

  “You left a message on the answering machine saying it was safe to come over. You said there was a roasted chicken and a bottle of Rémy Martin and Lionel would never know.”

  “You’re suffering from overexhaustion from the tour.” Gideon raised his eyebrow. “I can’t stand bloody answering machines, I never use them. Perhaps she ordered a surprise going-away dinner from Wolfgang Puck’s and the maître d’ called to say she could pick it up.”

  Lionel clutched the People magazine and felt the sweat prickle on his forehead. Gideon was so calm and collected; he didn’t know what to believe.

  “I haven’t talked to her in three months. I was too furious to call and she said she tried every hotel and I had always checked out. She left a letter that she went back to England.” He tossed the magazine on the desk. “How did this photo end up in People?”

  Gideon shrugged. “You know those tour schedules, they’re always changing. I’m sure Rosemary sent her an updated one but we add venues at the last minute.” He picked up the magazine.

  “Amber looks wonderful in pink and your shirt brings out your eyes,” he mused. “Donovan’s research studies showed fans reacted favorably to your being a couple. Your popularity quotient rose ten percent after the photos were released in US and People.”

  “There are more photos?” Lionel gasped.

  “Seventeen did a photo spread and you made the inside cover of Hello!” Gideon poured a glass of papaya juice. “Think about Mick Jagger and Jerry Hall or James Taylor and Carly Simon. Everybody likes a love story between stars, it makes them feel as if they are part of music royalty.”

  “But it’s not true, Amber and I didn’t even play Uno together,” Lionel spluttered. “She has a blond boyfriend on the Olympic water polo team and she’s never read Shakespeare.”

  “Do you think Rock Hudson romanced Doris Day on the set of Pillow Talk? He was too busy making eyes at the male grip,” Gideon insisted. “Movie audiences lapped it up and they were one of the most successful duos in cinematic history.”

  “Samantha believed it and now she doesn’t want to see me.” Lionel walked to the door. “I have to go to London and explain. Tell Rosemary to book me on the first flight to Heathrow. I’ll go back to the hotel and get the engagement ring out of the safe.”

  “You might want to wait.” Gideon opened the desk drawer and took out a newspaper. He walked to the marble bar and filled a glass with vodka. “And you might want to drink this.”

  Lionel glanced down and saw a photo of Samantha wearing a white lace dress and clutching a bouquet of peonies. Her hair was covered by an ivory veil and she held hands with a man in a gray morning suit.

  “Prominent London economist Brian Phillips marries socialite after a whirlwind romance.”

  Lionel took the vodka and swallowed it one gulp. He sat on the leather cha
ir and read out loud:

  “Brian Phillips and Miss Samantha Highbridge were married today at St. Matthew’s Church followed by a lavish reception at the Connaught. Mr. Phillips is a renowned economist who lectures at London University and Cambridge. He and Miss Highbridge met a month ago at a Princess Diana fundraiser at the home of Georgina Towers. The previously confirmed bachelor remarked:

  “‘I never thought I’d get married; statistically love is a terrible investment. But the minute I saw Samantha I knew I had won the lottery.’

  “The couple will reside in Chelsea and Cambridge.”

  * * *

  Lionel threw the paper on the desk and ran his hands through his hair.

  “Samantha isn’t a socialite, she’s the bloody nanny! How could she marry a mathematician?” Lionel demanded. “And she’s only been back in London for two months, that’s not enough time to get back her dry cleaning.”

  “Some women love whirlwind courtships, maybe he swept her off his feet,” Gideon said. “And he’s a world-famous economist; not a mathematician. His algorithms were used at the economic conference at Davos.”

  “He is at least ten years older and has a nose like a ski slope.” Lionel slumped in his chair. “Everything’s ruined, I can’t show up and tell her she made a terrible mistake and needs a divorce. Samantha would never go back on her word. And she got everything she wanted, a terrace house in Chelsea and access to King’s College library.”

  “I’m very sorry. I never meant for any of this to happen, but maybe you weren’t meant to be together. Screaming fans and adoring women are part a musician’s life, and you have to completely trust each other.” Gideon dusted crumbs from his jacket. “Perhaps it’s better it ended now before you become a huge star. You’re going to have everything you dreamed of. The tour was so successful I’m in talks with booking agents in Australia and Asia.”

  Lionel gazed at the glaring sunshine streaming through the window. His shoulders sagged and his skin felt like sandpaper. He walked to the door and turned around.

  “I may as well, I’ve always wanted to learn how to use chopsticks.”

  * * *

  Lionel sighed, sipping a Bloody Mary. “Alcohol gets a bad rap but it can be a great comfort. I would never have survived the next few months without a glass of 1986 Château Lafite-Rothschild at dinner and a snifter of Rémy Martin before bed. Speaking of fine wines, how was your evening with Henry?” Lionel asked. “Did you patch up your differences and make up?”

  Juliet sat stiffly on the sofa. “I’m going back to California in less than a week and Henry will be traveling all over the world. I told him we should stop seeing each other.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Lionel said slowly.

  Juliet fiddled with her gold necklace. “Gideon sent me another e-mail this morning. He wants to know when he’ll receive his songs.”

  “I haven’t finished telling my story.” Lionel refilled his glass. “Even if I did want to fulfill the bloody contract, I don’t think I could write more love songs. Love is the biggest Ponzi scheme in the world, everyone believes it but it’s a scam.

  “How many millions are spent on pink roses and chocolate truffles on Valentine’s Day, only to be tossed in the garbage when the husband comes home with lipstick on his collar or the girlfriend writes a Dear John letter? How many diamond rings are exchanged at the altar only to be used as the down payment on a condo post divorce?” Lionel stirred his drink. “You’re almost thirty and have never been in love, and I thought Samantha and I were a modern-day Anthony and Cleopatra. All it took was one magazine photo to tear us apart, we were no better than teenagers playing spin the bottle.”

  “You’ve written the most popular love songs of the last twenty years,” Juliet protested.

  “It was the only thing I knew how to do.” Lionel sighed. “I would have rather been an accountant or a doctor. At least when you set a broken bone, you can tell if you’ve fixed it. You could spend your whole life figuring out love and not be any wiser.”

  “Do you mind if I get a glass of water?” Juliet stood up and walked to the kitchen.

  Lionel sipped his drink and heard a loud crash. He raced into the kitchen and saw Juliet lying on the floor. One of her sandals had come off and her knee had a purple bruise.

  “Are you all right? I should have warned you,” he gasped. “Gloria just waxed the floors. It’s like a bloody skating rink.”

  He knelt beside her and inhaled her lilac perfume. He gazed at her smooth hair and blue eyes and suddenly froze. He felt his heart pound and his throat was dry. He leaned forward and his hand brushed her cheek.

  “I’m fine, it’s just a bruise.” Juliet stood up and walked to the entry. “I have some errands to run. I know I have to make up some hours, could I come back this evening?”

  Lionel studied her red knit dress and gold bangle. He saw her slender neck and long legs.

  “This evening will be perfect.”

  * * *

  Lionel sat at the Regency desk in the living room and sifted through the bill from his London tailor and the tax notice for his flat in Chelsea. He gazed at the negative number on his charge account and the receipt for his order from Waterstones.

  He sipped his Bloody Mary and wondered how he was going to pay Gideon back. Then he remembered Juliet’s smooth cheeks and pink mouth. He groaned and thought he was in more trouble than he could imagine.

  chapter twenty-three

  JULIET STROLLED THROUGH THE outdoor market in Sóller and gazed at the baskets of fresh peaches and apricots. She saw rows of thick sausages and lamb cutlets. She felt the sun on her cheeks and felt strangely light and happy.

  She was going to Lydia’s for lunch and she wanted to bring her a jar of preserves or a bouquet of sunflowers.

  Ever since she left Casa Rosa she felt something stirring inside her. At first she thought she was shaken by slipping on the kitchen floor. Then she pictured Lionel leaning down to help her up and a shiver ran down her spine.

  She thought of all their previous sessions when he talked about music and poetry. She pictured his hand brushing her cheek and sucked in her breath.

  She hadn’t gotten ill with Henry because she didn’t believe in love. She was falling in love with Lionel. She sampled a plum and felt almost dizzy. She was being ridiculous; he was older and famous and probably had a Rolodex full of women he could call if he needed company. But she pictured him in his silk pajamas and John Lobb slippers and knew that wasn’t true. Lionel was too serious; he didn’t do anything casually.

  She filled her basket with dates and persimmons. She added a bunch of purple daisies and took ten euros out of her purse. First she would go see Lydia and then she would figure out what to do about Lionel.

  * * *

  “Juliet!” Lydia exclaimed. “This is a treat. When you called I thought there was nothing I’d rather do than sit in the garden and eat baguettes and Mallorcan cheeses.”

  “I have something to tell you, I didn’t want to talk on the phone.” Juliet entered the living room.

  “That sounds ominous.” Lydia frowned. “I found there’s nothing that isn’t made better by a delicious green salad and a bowl of gazpacho. Come onto the terrace, I poured two glasses of lemonade.”

  “I told Gabriella about the recording contract.” Juliet sat at the wrought iron table. “She’s furious, she won’t speak to me.”

  “I was curious why she didn’t return my call.” Lydia smoothed her hair. She wore a cotton blouse and white capris and orange loafers. Her lips were coated with red lipstick and she wore emerald earrings.

  “I told her you saw Hugo in the café and she said the woman was his cousin. Hugo and Gabriella picked out a diamond ring and as soon as he pays it off he’s going to ask her parents for her hand in marriage,” Juliet continued. “She said now Hugo will think she doesn’t want to marry him.”

  “Why would he think that?” Lydia asked.

  “She’s afraid he will think he’s hold
ing her back,” Juliet replied. “I don’t know how to make her forgive me.”

  “When Felipe was seven I met a banker from Hong Kong.” Lydia nibbled spinach leaves and round red tomatoes. “James was British with sandy blond hair and blue eyes and the softest English accent. He rented a villa in Palma for the summer and we went sailing and danced at Bar Ábaco.

  “We drove all over the island in his red Aston Martin and visited the Castell d’Alaró and the Alfabia Gardens,” Lydia continued. “He described his penthouse apartment in Hong Kong with its hundred-and-eighty-degree view of the harbor. I imagined wearing sleek black dresses and attending cocktail parties and elaborate dinners.

  “One afternoon we strolled through the old section of Palma and stopped in front of my favorite jewelry store. James wanted to buy me a sapphire pendant but I protested we hardly knew each other and I couldn’t accept a serious piece of jewelry.

  “The next night we had dinner at Tristán’s in Puerto Portals. It was the only Michelin star restaurant on the island, and James ordered salmon tartar and marinated scallops and a bottle of Möet & Chandon. He pulled out a black velvet box with a large emerald cut diamond and asked me to marry him.

  “I was shocked and asked him to give me some time.” Lydia paused. “Then I went home to Felipe and asked how he would feel about moving to a new city.

  “We pulled out an atlas and studied Hong Kong on the map. He traced the distance from Hong Kong to Majorca and his eyes filled with tears. He loved his grandparents and the cows and sheep on the farm. He didn’t want to live in a skyscraper and eat strange foods and go to a school where he didn’t know anyone.

  “I told James I couldn’t marry him.” Lydia dipped a baguette in olive oil. “He said we could wait until Felipe was older but he still wanted to be together.

  “But I didn’t want to spend my days waiting for James to return each summer. I told him it was best if we made a clean break.” Lydia stopped and looked at Juliet. “Perhaps Hugo isn’t the one who would hold Gabriella back.”