The Lion's Den(17)
“These clothes are gorgeous!” Wendy exclaims.
Claire shows me the price tag on a swimsuit, wide-eyed. Six hundred fifty euros. For a strip of fabric no bigger than my hand. I sit in a chair in the front corner of the store, looking longingly out the window at curvy Italian girls licking gelato from waffle cones.
Upon seeing the armfuls of outfits Summer is taking into the dressing room, the shopgirl pops open a bottle of prosecco and pours us each a glass. The bubbles caress my tongue and the alcohol hits my stomach like a fireball, warming me from the inside out. Without a morsel of food in my belly, soon I’m fuzzy and starting to enjoy myself. The shopgirl keeps the bubbly coming, and before long, we’re all merrily sloshed.
When we finally leave the store, Brittani and Rhonda are restyled in the tasteful new dresses Summer bought them and Bernard is overloaded with Summer’s giant shopping bags. I’m a little surprised that he’s willing to be her cart horse, but I guess he doesn’t have much choice. We stumble down the cobblestone street behind him, the impractical four-hundred-euro white silk scarves Summer bought each of us draped around our necks, our laughter echoing down the narrow pathway. The sight of the restaurant where our Suburbans are parked reminds me of how hungry I am, and I immediately feel the downturn of the champagne buzz already beginning to morph into a headache.
Wendy grabs my arm. “Do you smell that? Fresh pizza.”
I inhale the scent of baking crust, bubbling tomato sauce, smoked meats. I know I’m supposed to just go with the flow, but my hunger gets the better of me. Weak at the knees, I turn to Summer. “Please can we just stop in and grab a slice of pizza? We’re famished.”
“Oh! I totally forgot you guys were hungry! Was there not enough fruit and PowerBars in the car?” she asks.
All of us from the second car shake our heads no. “We didn’t have anything,” I say.
“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry!” Summer exclaims. “We had them, so I figured you did. We have to get you something to eat.”
Bernard looks up from his cell phone and shakes his head. “We go to the boat. John wants you there when he arrives.”
Summer sighs and looks at us with genuine pity. “I’m so sorry. You can have whatever you want as soon as we get to the boat,” she promises.
We force smiles and nod.
“The tender is down at the water.” Bernard points toward the water, a few hundred yards away. “The cars are too big. We’ll walk.”
We follow Bernard down another picturesque cobblestone street, the reflected light between the buildings turning gold as the sun makes its daily journey toward the sea. The only one of us talking is Brittani, loudly telling Amythest a graphic story about a guy she was having sex with at a fraternity party and managed to throw up on, then passed out naked on his bed, only to wake to two guys standing over her, pouring beer on her. It’s nauseating. I want to slap some sense into her, for the sake of womankind. But I know that would be an exercise in futility. I briefly wish my thoughtful, clever little sister were here in her place. Ha! As if Lauren would be caught dead playing the role of eye candy on some billionaire’s yacht.
As we near the bottom of the hill, the road empties into a promenade along the sea where lovers stroll hand in hand and children splash in a fountain. The sun is sinking in the sky, taking with it the heat of the day, and a fresh breeze blows off the water, lifting my hair from my shoulders. A row of restaurants overlook the lapping sea, their outdoor tables filled with laughter over afternoon aperitifs. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, feeling the breeze on my skin, inhaling the salt air, and imprint the scene on my mind, for use at a later date when I’m back in my real life.
I open my eyes to see that the others are almost at the bay and run to catch them as they scurry across the wooden planks behind Bernard toward a large white motorized tender. A tall, thin guy about our age dressed in a crisp white uniform with a name tag that reads HUGO hands us into the boat one by one. His shoulder-length curly brown hair is pulled back in a ponytail, his eyes hidden behind aviator sunglasses, but his smile is warm as he warns each of us in heavily accented English, “Careful, slippery,” and “Sit in back if you don’t want get wet.”
I take a seat on the back row next to Summer and turn to appreciate the sight of the town growing smaller as we chug out of the bay. Wendy whips out her phone and begins taking pictures, and all the girls follow suit, snapping a flurry of shots of the town, the sea, and one another. I frame the town with the mountains above and water below, and post it with the tagline “Vacation begins.” I briefly worry that I’ve somehow violated the NDA, but Summer doesn’t say anything, so I’m probably okay.
Once we exit the slow zone, Hugo shouts over the rumble of the motor, “Ladies, hold on to your hats,” and hits the gas.
Brittani whoops. I do indeed hold on to my hat as the front of the boat lifts up and we skim over the tops of the waves headed out to sea. Summer leans in and shouts in my ear, “I’m sorry about the food. Believe me, there will be plenty the rest of the trip.”
“No worries. I’m just glad to be here. I’ve been needing a vacation. The bar is killing me.”
“Don’t worry. You won’t be there for long. We’ll figure something out. You’re so talented, and now that John’s funding movies, I’m sure we can get you in something soon. I mean, he has the money—he can kinda make them do whatever he wants.”