The Lion's Den(60)
A ladder lowers, and we shade our eyes and gather bags as two crewmen in crisp white uniforms help us up one at a time. A crew woman offers a tray of champagne, and I gladly accept a glass, briefly wondering what percentage of the world’s champagne is consumed on the Riviera in August. A photographer appears and snaps photos as we toast for the camera.
We’re all looking fresh in the blue hi-lo dresses gifted to us by John. They’re each a slightly different shade of blue, but all the same cut: gauzy fit-and-flare spaghetti-strap with a crisscross low back, save Rhonda’s, which is less revealing—a fact I overheard her complaining to Brittani about through the paper-thin walls on the boat, but as far as I know she has not shared her displeasure with Summer. We look like a bunch of bridesmaids for Summer, who’s dressed in a similar-cut dress by the same designer, in white.
They’re beautiful dresses, and very expensive, I’m sure, but the whole thing is just weird. And blue has never been my color, especially the shade of dusky blue my particular dress is made from. I wouldn’t be surprised if Summer selected it for that purpose. Wendy’s shade would have looked much better on me and mine on her, but Summer wouldn’t let us switch, pointing out that since I was taller, Wendy’s would be much too short on me, and mine too long on her.
Summer notices me check my watch. “I thought I told you not to wear that,” she says.
I meet her glare with a smile. “Sorry. Forgot.”
We both know I didn’t forget.
“You can put it in my purse,” she says.
“No, that’s okay.” I swig my champagne. “I like it.”
I can tell she wants to rip it off my arm, but she is stopped by John, who takes her by the hand.
It’s true; she told me not to wear it when she came down to our quarters to see us in our dresses earlier. Which, of course, was never going to stop me. She was eating something out of a jar with a mother-of-pearl spoon.
“What is that?” I asked, knowing full well what it was.
“Mmm…It’s caviar. So good. I’m starving, and this was the only thing in the fridge in our room. Go figure.” She didn’t offer me any, and I didn’t ask.
She reviewed our jewelry selections and made suggestions as to whether we curl or straighten our hair. “I mean, we need to look our best. You know who Marlena Falgione is, right?”
When we all shook our heads, confirming our ignorance, she gleefully informed us, “She’s only one of the premier artists on the scene right now. Everybody is crazy for her work. John bought a painting of hers last month for one-point-two, which was a steal. And she’s a designer as well, super stylish. The dresses are from her summer line. And her husband, Charles Bricknell—well, you know who he is. He owns one of the biggest tech companies in the world, and John is trying to secure him as an investor for this huge development he’s working on. So, everybody, best behavior tonight. That means you, too, Brittani.”
“Don’t worry, honey. I’ll keep her in check.” Rhonda winked.
Rhonda keeping Brittani in check is like a bear keeping a wolf from mauling anyone, but it seemed to satisfy Summer.
“Why you gotta pick on me?” Brittani said. “Belle was the one hurling behind the restaurant earlier today.”
Summer feigned surprise. “What?”
“From seasickness, not alcohol,” I clarified. “I guess the pill you gave me didn’t work.”
She didn’t flinch. “Are you okay now? Because you can’t be doing that tonight.”
I nodded and displayed the patch on my neck. “I got a patch. I’m fine.”
After Summer had spritzed us each with her signature Chanel No. 5 and departed for her own quarters, Amythest tried to change back into the predictably short, black dress she had originally selected for herself, but I managed to convince her otherwise. Nothing was to be done about the violet contacts, though. Summer had tried to talk her out of wearing them, but Amythest insisted they’re prescription and she’s blind without them.
As Amythest turns toward me now with the glare of the low sun in her eyes, the rim of her almost black irises is visible around the violet. The effect is startling and a bit unsettling, as though she’s a member of the undead. “Who I gotta screw to get a room on this boat instead?” she whispers.
A stocky crewman leads us up a set of stairs onto the lower deck, with its sleek built-in loungers and tables open to a sunken living room that features an ostentatious chandelier, a grand piano, and a giant fish tank. But he doesn’t stop there, ushering us up a wide exterior spiral staircase that leads to the main deck, where a table for twenty is being set by white-uniformed staff and a couple of musicians are testing their sound equipment.
“Everyone is on the upper deck for the sunset,” he informs us as we follow him into a game room lined with huge TVs, past a pool table, poker table, foosball table, and a bar that wouldn’t look out of place in a restaurant. We ascend another wide spiral staircase, this one carpeted in white shag, with a light sculpture made of crystal orbs running up its center, and emerge onto the open upper deck.
It’s nirvana on the Mediterranean. A long-haired flamenco guitarist picks a melody with his eyes closed, the notes drifting on a gentle breeze that lifts the heat of the day as waiters pass hors d’oeuvres to a handful of elegantly dressed guests scattered across the deck. The shimmering sea is speckled with ships suspended in the tide, and green hills rise from the water, dappled with villas whose windows are lit fiery orange by a setting sun that bathes the entire scene in golden light.