The Lion's Den(25)
She raises her glass and everyone chimes in, “Thank you, John!”
John throws Wendy a wide smile, pleased. Wendy’s good like that. She always knows when to stroke whose ego and how to strike just the right note so that she doesn’t come off as obsequious.
“Now…” Her gaze lands on Summer. “I met Summer through Belle, who I met in college.”
“We were all at UCLA together,” Summer says.
Not true.
Recognizing the danger in that direction, Wendy seamlessly changes course. “I’ll never forget how Summer took care of me after my accident. I broke my leg last year jumping,” she explains. “Horses. My parents couldn’t come out for my surgery because my father’s a senator, and it was right before the election—which he won, thank God.” I notice she’s failed to mention he’s a state senator, but no matter. “Summer was there for me, though. She was right beside me in the hospital when I had the pins put in my ankle, holding my hand.”
Okay, no, that was me. Missed a callback for a guest-star role on a network show to be there. Summer was supposed to be there, too, but at the last minute she got a date with some guy she was into and bailed.
Wendy casts a glance about the table. Am I imagining it, or is she avoiding my eyes? “She got me such a big arrangement of sunflowers—my favorite—that it barely fit through the door.”
I scrutinize Wendy’s countenance, looking for any sign as to whether she’s totally lost her memory or is intentionally spinning lies. Surely she hasn’t forgotten I sent those flowers. She was so overwhelmed she actually sent me a snail-mail thank-you note.
But she has not finished assigning my kindnesses to Summer. “Then, afterward,” Wendy rattles on, “Summer was there every night, bringing me home-cooked meals, driving me around to doctor’s appointments. I saw what it means to be a real friend during that time, and I’ll never forget it.”
Okay. Summer has never made a “home-cooked meal” in her life, and she didn’t even have a car at that time. She was sleeping on my couch (or rather, in my bed) while she got her life together after the guy she was living with kicked her out when he found out she was cheating on him. Admittedly, I was far from the only one who drove Wendy to doctors’ appointments—she has a plethora of friends—but if Summer ever did, in fact, drive her anywhere, which I highly doubt, it was in my car, which she borrowed.
Wendy’s poker face is so strong, I can’t tell whether she believes her own story or has related it to ingratiate herself with Summer and John, but regardless, it’s worked. John pats Summer’s hand as she beams at Wendy, saying, “Oh, it was nothing. That’s what friends are for!”
I manage to maintain a pleasant demeanor but am quiet the rest of dinner, still flabbergasted by Wendy’s convoluted version of events. No one notices my silence, though, as John and his men dominate the conversation with a discussion about the best strategy for convincing some Chinese investors to partner with John’s company on what sounds like an incredibly complicated development project. I try to follow along, but all I can gather is that John seems bent on meeting with the men before showing them the property, and Bernard and Vince disagree. John, of course, wins.
When dinner is over, John presents Summer with an emerald set: a necklace, bracelet, and earrings to match. It’s gorgeous, if your tastes run toward “Russian matron at the opera.”
Afterward, I head to the upper deck and log in to my email on one of the computers under the watchful eye of John’s portrait. I send a quick message to Lauren_Carter812:
Hi sis,
Made it to the boat! It’s ridiculous. We’re somewhere near the border of France and Italy, headed toward Saint-Tropez. Summer’s a little removed from all of us, attached to John at the hip, but is at least being nice to me. I’m rooming with a girl named Amythest (yep, you read that right) that Brittani brought. She has eyes to match her name, in case you were wondering. Rhonda’s here too…hasn’t changed. John has two of his men with him, Bernard and Vinny, who are everything you would imagine in a billionaire’s henchmen. There’s no cell service and no Wi-Fi on the boat (writing from one of their hardwired computers, remember those?), so tell Mom and Dad not to worry if they can’t reach me immediately.
Weather’s beautiful, and I’m feeling good, regardless of not sleeping much on the plane. Nothing else to report for now.
Will keep you posted.
Love,
Belle
It’s hard to feel totally relaxed sending messages I’m sure are being read, but I remind myself that no matter how creepy his painting, John has no reason to care what’s in my emails. No more reason than he does anyone else’s, anyway. Given John’s concerns about privacy, the hardwired system is probably mainly for his own protection, to prevent hackers from being able to access his servers without physically being on board. Still, it makes me uncomfortable, so I log off without checking social media. A shame, because I bet the pic I posted from the tender got a boatload of likes.
I despise social media, but the sad truth is that it’s necessary for my career these days. Some actors even put their followers on the top of their résumé. That would make me Isabelle Carter: 21.5K Insta, 34K Twitter, 6K YouTube. Not great, but not horrible. Most of my followers are fans of a cheesy sitcom on the Family Channel that I had a supporting role in a few years ago. I know I should work on growing my following—I could get free stuff for posts, or money. And I need money. But I’m a terrible millennial. I just feel so gross being all, “Hey, look at me!” I didn’t get into acting for the fame. I got into it for the art.