‘Ah,’ he exclaims, catching my train of thought. ‘We don’t need the car! It’s not far, we can walk. It’s just along the beach.’
Only then does it dawn on me that the enormous yacht in the nearby marina belongs to him.
Following Alex outside, I discover a beautiful, illuminated stone path running from our house right down to the marina. The marina itself even has its own parking lot, already almost completely full with the expensive accoutrements of an elite life, including limousines. But it’s only when I hear the waves of pumping electronic music coming from the yacht docked in the bay that I realize there’s a party going on.
Another bloody party!
My mood doesn’t just fall, it plummets, and I immediately think of the tickets again.
*** ‘Surface’ by Aero Chord ***
The boat trip turns out to be a pretentious affair with exactly the same purpose as all the previous ones – to talk business in an informal setting. The yacht is spectacular, intended for events like these rather than for family use, and it really does belong to Alex, judging by the way the captain gave his report to him. What’s more, there’s another one tucked away in the marina – much smaller and cozier. It seems this is the one Alex uses for private boat trips with friends and family.
I feel lousy: first, because I’m so disappointed this isn’t the cozy little tête-à-tête I thought it was going to be; and second, because I feel like Cinderella (which I hate) due to my more than modest attire amid all these expensive clothes and diamonds. Every single woman here is well-dressed, well-groomed, coiffured, perfumed, while I feel like a cross between Cinderella, a fool, and a waitress.
One of the bohemian fairies actually hands me her empty glass and orders me to bring her another. I’m not offended, but simply suggest she asks a waiter and advise her to pay more attention in future. She looks at me in confusion and with genuine contempt.
This yacht and all this luxury belongs to my husband, I think to myself, which means it also belongs to me – that’s how we understand marriage in Eastern Europe, at any rate. So why am I standing here alone feeling humiliated in cheap jeans and a sweatshirt, with no one paying me any attention? Well, except for being asked to clear away the empty glasses, perhaps. And why do I get the feeling that people are deliberately mistaking me for a waitress, given that I don’t look anything like one in my sweatshirt?
Expensive alcohol is once again flowing freely, hors d’oeuvres have been provided by exclusive restaurants, waiters are scurrying back and forth, helpfully freeing guests of their empty glasses and handing them freshly filled ones, a professional DJ is taking care of the music, and orchestrating the whole event is a party organizer named Brittany.
Brittany is keeping herself very busy because Brittany is also flirting with my husband and managing to look amazing, all at the same time. She is wearing what is clearly a diamond necklace over a long-sleeved emerald dress and has a mane of bright red hair, scarlet lipstick and long black eyelashes. She is absolutely flawless, like a porcelain doll. Flawless and brazen, because, when greeting Alex, she doesn’t stop at the traditional kiss, but quickly drops her hand down to his groin area, making him jump, then removes it just as quickly with a laugh before he even registers what happened. At that exact moment, his eyes find mine and I know that he has slept with her. Or is sleeping.
Alcohol often fixes a situation and puts your thoughts in order – not always the right one, but at least provisional. I decide to start with Martini and, just half an hour later, the situation already looks decidedly less horrific. We are sailing offshore, and Alex is in the depths of the yacht, intently discussing important matters with arrogant business sharks just like him.
Suddenly, someone gives me an affectionate kiss on the cheek, and I’m startled for a second, but then immediately breathe a sigh of relief: it’s Mark.
‘Hey, beautiful, cheer up! Why the face?’ he asks, smiling from ear to ear, his arm around my shoulders.
‘Oh my God, Mark! You can’t even imagine how pleased I am to see you! A human face at last!’
‘That’s not true; your husband is here too! So why are you looking so sad?’
‘Life is sad.’
‘Come on! Everything’s good and will only get better! The worst is behind us, that’s the most important thing!’
Mark has clearly already had a few and we’ve only been on the boat for an hour. There’s still half of Saturday to go.
‘What’s he doing?’ I ask him, nodding in the direction of my husband.
‘The same as always – manipulating the sharks to his own advantage, waving bloody human flesh in front of them, then providing contracts that clearly state in black and white: “Sharks don’t count as fish, so they can be mercilessly and zealously destroyed”! In a nutshell, he’s preparing a merger deal. But actually... and this is just between us,’ says Mark, whispering conspiratorially in my ear, ‘it’s really an acquisition! Another one.’
‘Jesus! It wasn’t so long ago he had one foot in the grave, and now he’s swallowing people up!’
‘He’s a shark himself, trust me, a white one – the most dangerous kind!’ Mark admits.
‘I thought that people were supposed to discover some greater meaning when they’re ill, but apparently not.’
‘Well, not him, anyway, that’s for sure. Do you remember what I told you?’ Mark asks suddenly, looking serious and sober. ‘He is ridiculously, ridiculously rich. Greater meanings don’t make that kind of money, especially in such a short amount of time. He hurtles along like a locomotive, puffing as he goes. And I’m not ashamed to admit that I’m by his side, just coasting along on the wave of his momentum and yawning occasionally. But! He can always rely on me and I will always have his back: I know it, he knows it, and it suits us both.’
‘Alex is no longer the man I once knew,’ I conclude, sadly.
‘No doubt about that, but he’s actually cooler now!’
‘And meaner, ruder, tougher, more arrogant, more pretentious, more...’
‘Stop it! You’re just seeing the dark side of everything!’
‘Or maybe that’s all I get from him, Mark, the worst of everything. Anyway, I’ve already bought our tickets home. Can’t see the point in staying here any longer...’
‘I know about the tickets,’ he admits with a deep sigh.
‘How come?’ I exclaim, stunned.
*** ‘Don’t Let Me Down’ (Illenium Remix) by The Chainsmokers ***
Despite my already slightly inebriated brain, I still manage to think: Those tickets were bought secretly and on my Moldovan card. No one could know about them, especially not Mark.