The Lion's Den(19)

The sea is full of yachts. Colossal as cruise ships and streamlined as spaceships, white and black and silver; each is resplendent in her own right. Our tender approaches a sleek white one, large by anyone’s standards, but medium in comparison with the others on the horizon. She looks to be about three stories high, sizable enough to have a couple of Jet Skis and tenders docked underneath, not quite big enough for a helipad. THE LION’S DEN is etched in gold block letters across her stern.

“We’ve ordered a new one with a helipad, but they take forever to build, so we’re still in this one,” Summer sighs. “So we’ll just have to tender everywhere. Sorry.”

I stare up at the floating palace. “It’ll do.” A rush of blood to my head. A week on this thing, huh?

Wendy points to the name and laughs. “Kinda perfect, since you’re a Leo and all.”

“Oh, you’re right. I didn’t think about that,” Summer muses. “John named it. He kinda has a thing with lions. Because of his last name, I guess.”

Two white-uniformed crew members rush over to help secure the tender and assist Hugo in handing us up the ladder onto the lower deck of the boat, where the rest of the crew stands in a semicircle, smiling, their hands clasped behind their backs.

“You have to take your shoes off,” Summer instructs as one of the crew comes around with a basket, into which we all deposit our shoes. “Don’t worry. We have a pedicurist coming tomorrow morning.”

“Good thing,” Brittani guffaws. “I think I have something growing under my big toenail.”

I cringe.

“Welcome to the Lion’s Den,” Hugo says. “Your home for the week. I introduce to you our French crew.”

We all turn to face the orderly line of crew members.

Hugo gestures to a stocky white-bearded man who looks straight out of central casting. “This is Bruno. He is our great captain.” Bruno nods at us with just a hint of a smile.

Next to Bruno is a linebacker of a man in his thirties, with a shaved head, his muscles nearly ripping out of his sleeves. “This is Jean; he is first mate. He does all the heavy lifting here, as you can see.”

Next to Jean is a good-looking guy of indeterminate race, dark skin and hair, probably around our age. “This is Alexandre; he is second mate.”

Wendy elbows me. Alexandre flashes a thousand-watt smile and says, “Dre.”

That one I think I’ll remember.

Hugo moves on to the next in line, a wiry little guy in his twenties with brown hair and glasses, who looks like he would work at a tech start-up. “Luc is our engineer, anything technology—you can’t work the stereo, you drop the iPhone, he can help.”

Next to Luc is a well-groomed woman in her late thirties, over-Botoxed, long blond hair in a ponytail, diamond studs in her ears. “This is our chief steward, Julie.” Julie gives us a perfunctory smile and nod.

Next to Julie is a slim brunette about our age with sharp features, full lips, and a pixie cut. “This is Emmanuelle. She is our second stew.”

Last in line is a petite, dark-skinned girl with freckles, her long black hair in a braid that falls over her shoulder. I’m guessing she’s of North African descent, and she can’t be more than twenty. “This is Camille; she is our junior stew. And you know I am Hugo. I am the utility man. Anything you need, we make it happen,” Hugo says with a little bow.

A man in a white chef’s uniform, his salt-and-pepper hair pulled back in a ponytail, appears in the doorway with a silver tray of food in each hand. “Oh,” Hugo says, “I cannot forget Jacques, le meilleur chef. If you like to take your seat at the table, we have some food for you.”

Jacques sets the trays down on a circular table in the shade. “Who is hungry?”

We all slide into the plush white banquettes as Emmanuelle hands out champagne glasses and Julie comes around with a bottle of Dom Pérignon.

“Finally!” Brittani says, reaching over me to snatch a handful of prosciutto and melon.

Silence descends on the table as we fall upon the hors d’oeuvres like a pack of starved dogs. A helicopter buzzes overhead, whipping up the waves as it makes its way to a gargantuan black yacht floating nearby.

“Igor Rajinovsky.” Summer waves her fork vaguely in the direction of the yacht. “Russian billionaire. He’s a friend of John’s. And that one over there”—she points out a white yacht, just as substantial as the black one—“is his wife’s.”

“Why do they have two?” asks Claire.

“They have an understanding,” Summer explains. “On his, he has one floor of Swedish girls, one floor of Thai girls, and one floor of Russian girls. They rotate in and out every week. That’s probably a new shipment coming in now.”

“Hookers,” Brittani clarifies.

“More like a harem,” Summer says.

“What’s the difference?” Claire whispers in my ear.

“Anyway, their kids are on the wife’s boat, so he gets the best of both worlds,” Summer continues.

“Who says you can’t have your cake and eat it, too,” I joke.

“Why don’t they just get a divorce?” Claire asks.

“Cheaper to keep her,” Summer quips. We all look at her blankly. “When you have as much money as these guys, divorce is so expensive and complicated, sometimes it’s just not worth it.”