The Writing Retreat(23)

“Um, no.” My voice was shaking and I steeled myself. “Of course not.”

Ian raised his hands. “Ladies, I should’ve warned you all. Roza likes to play little tricks sometimes. You really can’t take half the things she says seriously.” He shook his finger at her. “These beautiful, talented women don’t know you yet, dear. You’re going to make them want to run off before the damn retreat begins.”

“Ian, shut up.” As if my humiliation had revved her appetite, she picked up her knife and fork and dug into her steak. “They’re not children.” She looked up at me, chewing and considering. “Alex, darling. Can you forgive me? Maybe I was too cruel.”

“No, it’s totally fine.” I managed a chuckle. The relief was like cool water down a parched throat. But it also left me feeling unsettled and upset. How could she do that: treat me like a dog she raised her hand to, just to see if it would flinch? Keira caught my eye, her forehead lined with concern.

“By the way.” Roza motioned to me with her fork. “Alex, I absolutely loved your story. I almost missed a flight reading it. You’re incredibly talented and I’m so delighted you’re here.”

The words warmed me and I tried to force myself to relax as Roza and Ian started bantering about Roza devastating a potential suitor Ian had sent her way in Rome. Maybe I was overreacting. Roza was known for being unpredictable, and most definitely not for being a kindly, caring, Mother Goose–type mentor.

Roza Vallo wasn’t nice. And that’s how she’d gotten where she was.

Maybe I could learn something from her.

When Roza pushed her half-eaten plate away, Yana was immediately there to collect it.

“So.” Roza pulled something out of her pocket: a mother-of-pearl inlaid cigarette case. She popped it open and brought out a thin, hand-rolled cigarette. “Let’s talk.”

An air of expectation arose as Chitra appeared, setting down small, delicate cups of espresso and trays of truffles and fruit.

“I know I was being a bitch before, but I really am glad you liked the necklaces.” Roza jutted out her chin as she lit her cigarette with a silver lighter. “They’re twenty-two-karat, so be gentle with them.”

“They’re beautiful,” Poppy said earnestly.

“Where’d you get them?” Wren asked, touching hers.

“India.” Roza blew out a thin stream of smoke. The scent of weed, piney and pungent, suffused the dining room. She handed the joint to Poppy, who took it uncertainly. “A long time ago. I knew I’d need them someday. And the set of five worked out perfectly.”

“How’d you choose who got which animal?” Taylor studied her charm, holding it up in the candlelight.

Roza shrugged. “I just had a feeling.”

“Really?” Taylor smiled, flirting. “A rabbit? Is this a commentary on my sex life?”

“Regeneration,” Roza said playfully. “Like a phoenix, my dear, only cuter.”

“And the pig?” Poppy held back a cough and handed the joint to Taylor.

“Pigs are a sign of luck,” Roza said.

“Snake?” Wren asked.

“Knowledge, of course.” Roza stared at me. “What was yours?”

I cleared my throat. “A spider.”

“Resourcefulness,” she said sagely.

“Are you making this up?” Ian asked.

“Of course!” she cried, and we all laughed.

Roza took a sip of her espresso and set it down on the saucer with a jangle. “Okay, let’s get down to business. Before I’m too stoned to think.”

Keira passed the joint to Ian without taking any.

“That’s strong,” Taylor remarked, her eyes pink.

“It’s time for me to tell you what we’re really doing here,” Roza said.

Taylor and Keira caught eyes. Poppy propped her chin on her hand expectantly. I managed not to look at Wren but could feel her shift uncomfortably in her seat.

“This isn’t going to be an easy-breezy, hang-out, write-whenever-you-feel-like-it kind of retreat.” Roza picked up a truffle from one of the trays, chewed it, and swallowed. “This is going to be a little more intense.”

“I like intense,” Taylor said, still flirting.

“Good.” Roza leaned back in her seat, pulling in a knee and setting her heel on the end of her chair. Her jeans had a large tear and skin showed through like a bone poking through flesh.

Ian held the joint out to me. Sitting with my enemy and my idol, my brain spewing morbid nonsense: the perfect time to get high! I pretended to inhale, then passed it to Wren. She kept her eyes on it as she took it. Her nails were bare and her cuticles were ragged. This, more than anything so far that night, took me aback. Wren loved her nails and was never without a fresh manicure.

“Question: How do we all feel about the publishing industry?” Roza asked.

“It sucks!” Taylor called through cupped palms.

“It does suck.” Roza took the joint from Wren, who I was almost certain had taken a faux puff like me. “I got lucky, I published in the seventies. They were open to radical stuff from nobodies back then. You could push the boundaries and they’d take a chance on you. Now you basically have to be running your own brand before they give you the time of day.”