The Lion's Den(53)
One of the sons is probably sixteen, and I never get a clear look at him before he dashes for the beach with friends whose parents are installed at a neighboring table. The younger son, who I’m guessing is the painful age of thirteen, sits next to his nanny on my left and gives me a weak smile before permanently turning his acne-pocked cheek toward his gaming device. To my right is their bodyguard, a large man in a black suit who I am told does not speak English. It seems to me that he should be closer to his employers and facing the action to be worth a damn in a crisis, but I guess this is not an area of high alert. Regardless, I’m glad I don’t have to worry about making conversation with either of them. All I want is to make it through lunch with as little interaction as possible and get back to the boat, where I can take a nap. I could seriously put my face down on the table and snooze right now. I can’t fathom eating.
Brittani and Rhonda have been husband-hunting at the bar for the past hour, and when Vinny escorts them back to the table, they are already on the downhill of a slippery slope, giggling all the way. Their jovial state does not escape Summer, who deftly steers them down to my end of the table, as far away from the Latvians as possible. I steel myself for an hours-long installment of “Brittani and Rhonda Do Europe” as Amythest takes the seat across from me.
Amythest, my violet-eyed best friend. And to think I was initially annoyed I had to room with her. Now I am thrilled I don’t have to room with anyone else.
The waitress sets a shot of vodka in front of each of us, a gift from our dining companions. The man says something about how they drink it in their country for good fortune and that this bottle is two hundred years old. That can’t be right. I’m probably seated too far away to hear properly. At any rate, everyone, including the thirteen-year-old, takes the shot. I need a shot of vodka like I need a shot to the head, but I see Summer’s eyes slide to me and I toss it back, just to prove to her that I’m totally fine, regardless of whatever the hell kind of pill she gave me this morning.
My stomach immediately revolts, but my mind smooths out nicely. Mind over matter. Mind over matter. Mind over…Nope.
I stand, my eyes scanning the back of the restaurant for the exit to the bathroom. Amythest starts around the table to escort me, but Wendy steps in and grabs my hand, leading me across the restaurant. The din of conversation, plates, music, and waves all grows to an unbearable roar in my ears; my head spins. Keep it together, Belle! Keep it together.
I put one foot in front of the other, forcing myself to breathe deeply, all the while tightly gripping Wendy’s hand as she leads me through the strangely dark bar and out the back door, down a shrub-walled path covered by a trellis. Why did I drink that vodka? What was I thinking? Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
“Are the bathrooms on the moon?” I grumble.
“They’re really locker rooms. They serve the people using the beach club, too,” Wendy explains, pushing open the door.
It’s all cool white marble inside, and somehow miraculously I’m not throwing up. I feel like I might, but I’m not. I lean against the wall in the handicapped stall, my head in my hands, breathing slowly, while Wendy strokes my head.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I shouldn’t have taken that shot.”
“Yeah, that was dumb,” she says with a little laugh. “It’s okay. It’s not your fault. Once we get you some Dramamine, you’ll be a lot better.”
“I have Dramamine!” comes a high, British-accented voice from the adjoining stall. “I’m sorry for eavesdropping, but I turn green at the sight of a boat. It’s the absolute worst!”
“You’re an angel!” I say.
A pale hand with perfectly manicured bright-blue nails appears under the stall with what looks like a little round Band-Aid.
“It’s a patch,” she says. “Just put it on your neck; it’ll fix you right up.”
“Thank you so much,” Wendy says, taking the patch.
She opens it and hands it to me. Too sick to turn down drugs from random strangers in bathrooms right now, I place it on my neck. The toilet next to us flushes. “Good luck,” the voice says.
“Bless you!” I call after her.
“You think you’re gonna be okay now?” Wendy asks. “We should get back to the table before Summer thinks we’ve run off.”
I nod. “I figure her thinking we’ve run off is probably better than me hurling all over the table.”
“I had no idea you got so nauseous,” she says.
“Me neither. But then, I’ve never spent a week on a boat before.”
“Those things are supposed to work wonders, though.”
I don’t know if it’s psychosomatic, but even as she says it, I am starting to feel better. The walls have stopped shifting. I can feel my feet on the floor. I step out of the stall, and the world doesn’t crumble.
I splash my face with cold water and blot it dry with a hand towel while Wendy touches up her face and fixes her hair. Once she’s satisfied with her own appearance, she turns her attention to me. “We’ve gotta get some color back into you.”
She fishes in her makeup bag, coming up with five different lipsticks, none of which she deems appropriate for my skin tone, then finally locates a translucent rose stain she says will have to do. I obediently dab my lips and cheeks with it. “Not bad,” she says, spritzing me with perfume.