The Lion's Den(70)

“It’s okay,” I say. “I’ll go to Western Union for you.”

She looks up at me in disbelief. “Vraiment?”

“Yes, it’s no problem,” I say. “I understand. They’re working you too hard. You know, I have a job a lot like yours back home.”

She eyes me sideways, incredulous. “Vous? Une serveuse?”

I nod. “Je suis une serveuse.” I mime holding a tray. “A waitress and a bartender.”

She pats her face with the napkin, laughing in disbelief. “I know,” I say. “The stranger thing is that I’m here.” I nod to Amythest. “I’ll wake her up. You go get the money, and I’ll send it in Saint-Tropez today.”

“Merci,” she says, quickly running her fingers beneath her eyes and smoothing her hair. “Merci beaucoup.”

“De rien.” I smile.

Camille slips out the door, and I shake Amythest’s shoulder until she surfaces from dreamland, staring at me like I’m evil. “What’s happening?”

“We have to wake up,” I say. She sighs and closes her eyes. I grab a cup of coffee from the tray and wave it under her nose until she sits up. “We’re going shopping today.”

“I don’t want to go shopping,” Amythest grumbles. “I have no fucking money.” She flops back on her pillow and pulls the covers up over her head.

I check my watch. “We have thirty minutes to get ready.”

“Didn’t you guys fucking go shopping yesterday?”

I shrug. Was the bikini shop only yesterday? The days are all beginning to blend together. Through the wall we share with Brittani and Rhonda, I can hear Brittani singing a Beyoncé song, terribly off key. I shove the cup of coffee into Amythest’s hands, gulp down a cup myself, and hurl my aching body into the shower.

Summer has still not appeared as the boat pulls into the Saint-Tropez harbor, but the rest of us are all miraculously dressed and I have Camille’s envelope in my purse, ready to be posted. We stuff our faces with croissants and fruit on the deck while we slowly make our way through the port. Julie, seemingly fully recovered from the loss of Emmanuelle, cheerfully points out boats belonging to princes and movie stars as the rest of the crew busily readies the boat to dock, then carefully guides it into a front-row slip facing the shops and restaurants of the town.

Vacationers stroll by on the promenade an arm’s length away, craning their necks to see who we might be. “These are the best slips,” Julie says.

Summer arrives looking like death warmed over just in time to give us our marching orders before the crew lowers the plank. She’s not coming with us, she explains, because she and John need some alone time. She sweeps her gaze across each of us, poison in her eyes. “He was very disappointed in the way you behaved last night. Especially you.” Her manicured finger points at me.

“Me?”

“Oh, don’t act stupid,” she scolds. “Prancing around singing, drawing attention to yourself, doing drugs.”

“It was just hash! Marlena was smoking it, too,” I protest.

“Don’t act like she’s your friend. You never would have been there without me.”

“None of us would be here without you,” Wendy pipes up.

“And you.” Summer swings around to Wendy. “Throwing yourself at Leo Martin, making out with him in front of everybody. I’m disgusted.”

Wendy looks like a bucket of ice has been thrown in her face. “I’m sorry,” she splutters. “I got carried away.”

“You’re supposed to be my friends,” Summer reprimands, “and yet none of you gave any thought to how bad you were making me look. This isn’t Hollywood. You can’t just act like tramps. Our behavior reflects on John.”

A solitary tear rolls down Claire’s cheek.

“We’re sorry, honey,” Rhonda says, patting Summer on the back. Summer recoils from her touch.

“Yeah, sorry,” Brittani says.

“Sorry,” the rest of us mutter.

“I apologize,” Wendy says. “It was thoughtless of me.”

“I’m this close to sending you all home.” Summer opens her fingers a centimeter. “After all we’ve done for you. So disrespectful.” She turns on her heel and stalks back to her room, leaving us all staring after her, traumatized.

Julie clears her throat, and we collectively shift our dumbfounded gaze to her. “Everybody stick with your roommate and be back at noon,” she instructs us, her voice stubbornly cheery.

We gather our purses and deboard in silence, our eyes downcast. Once we’ve joined the throngs of tourists that stroll along the boardwalk, I catch Wendy by the arm. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” she says, stricken. “She’s right. We should have behaved better.”

I roll my eyes. “We were fine. She’s just pissed because Leo turned her down and he went for you.”

“You think he likes me?” she asks hopefully.

“Obviously. Though I wouldn’t hold my breath. According to Michael, he has a reputation as a bit of a playboy.”

She looks out at the floating palaces lined up in the sun. “Yeah, I know,” she admits. “But a lot of men are playboys until they meet the right girl.”