“What have you been in?” she asks.
A logical question, which shouldn’t bother me nearly as much as it does. There’s no good way to answer, and though I know intellectually that I’m still building my career, it only ever makes me feel like a failure. None of the movies I’ve done are big enough that she would have heard of them, and the parts on television are small enough she wouldn’t remember me. So instead I say the one thing that I’m actually proudest of, which will be the least interesting to her and hopefully shut her up. “I’m nominated for a Webby Award for a web series I did,” I say. “It’s called Junk, and it’s about—”
Aaand I was right. She doesn’t even let me finish before beckoning to her friend. “Come meet Summer’s sidekick!”
A week on a boat with Brittani. Didn’t fully consider that when I accepted this invitation.
Her friend has long dark hair streaked with purple and is dressed more like she’s going to Ozzfest than the Riviera. A black jean mini-skirt rides low on her hips, held in place by a heavy studded belt that matches her black-and-silver spiked platform heels, and her limbs are laced with ink. She’s not wearing a bra under her slinky black tank top, but she doesn’t need anything to hold her sizable boobs in place. They’re high profile.
As she saunters over, I can see she’s quite beautiful, with smooth, tan skin and delicate features, and there’s something exotic and rebellious about her. But most remarkable are her startling violet contacts.
Strange. I knew Summer was allowing Brittani to bring a friend “to keep her occupied,” but I’m more than a little surprised this is the friend she sanctioned. Summer’s always been image-conscious, and has become rigorously so as John’s girlfriend, meticulously cultivating a facade of sophistication to conceal her less-than-cultured upbringing. Wendy and I fit into her aesthetic, sufficiently attractive and socially graceful enough to make her look good, but not quite so beautiful or accomplished as to be rivals.
I can understand inviting Claire, who she hardly knows—Claire’s agreeable and well mannered, pretty in a nonthreatening way, a safe solution for filling six slots on a boat when you only have two friends. Brittani and Rhonda are family, of course, who’d have given Summer all kinds of hell if they weren’t invited (and Summer’s already disclosed to me her plans to adjust their wardrobe once we’re on the boat). But this girl . . . It’s not just that her style clashes with Summer’s; the bigger offense is that she’s undeniably, unforgivably sexy.
I extend my hand to her with a smile. “I’m Belle.”
Her many bracelets jangle as she awkwardly shakes my hand. “Amythest.”
“Like the stone?” Wendy pipes up.
“But spelled different,” she clarifies.
I can’t help but wonder which came first, the name or the purple contacts.
Rhonda stretches the neck of her leopard print and blows down her shirt. “Hot out here.”
I give her a moist hug. “I know; it’s terrible. This is Wendy, and Claire.”
“Oh, Wendy, I’ve heard so much about you!” Rhonda says.
Wendy adjusts the brim of her big white hat, laughing. “All good, I hope!”
“Summer won’t shut up about you. It’s so great to finally meet you.” Rhonda turns her attention to Claire. “Tell me your name again,” she says, throwing an arm around Claire’s shoulders.
Claire begins to speak, but Rhonda cuts her off. “No wait, I know it! It’s Abby!” Claire shakes her head, embarrassed. “Amy! Ashley! Amber!”
“Claire,” Claire says quietly.
“I could have sworn it started with an ‘A.’ And how do you know—”
Wendy takes Rhonda’s arm as though they’re old friends, effectively rescuing Claire from her focus. “We’re all gonna have such a good time!”
We troop through the arctic cool of the tiny terminal, where our passports are checked against the passenger list, then out the double glass doors onto the roasting tarmac. The jet’s crew is nice enough to take our bags, but a stout flight attendant in a structured khaki dress who can’t be much older than we are politely informs us that it’s strict policy not to allow anyone on the plane until Mr. Lyons arrives.
So back we go across the asphalt toward the terminal. But before we can reach the oasis of air-conditioning, she heads us off. “My apologies. Mr. Lyons prefers for guests to be ready to board as soon as he arrives so that we can take off promptly.”
“Okay, great. We’ll be ready.” Rhonda throws a thumbs-up as we continue toward the terminal.
“So much for a girls’ trip.” Wendy sighs.
I laugh. “He hardly lets her out of his sight. You really think he was going to send her to the Riviera on his jet without coming along?”
The stewardess rushes ahead of us, flustered. “No, no, I’m sorry,” she calls, sweat glistening on her brow. “What I mean is that you should stay put. They’ll be here any minute.”
No one moves. “You mean here in the sun?” Brittani asks, incredulous.
“Yes. It’s better that way,” the stewardess insists, a hint of desperation in her voice. “Please, come this way. You can stand in the shade over here.”
Which is how we wind up sweltering in the shade under the nose of the plane for close to an hour.
By the time the white Bentley arrives, I have to pee something awful and sweat is pooling in the underwire of my bra. Summer emerges from the driver’s side looking like she just stepped out of a Bogie and Bacall movie. She’s always been my most glamorous friend, but this is a whole new level. She’s dressed in a beige wrap dress with big dark glasses, a Chanel scarf covering her tastefully blond hair, and she’s positively beaming, completely oblivious that their hour delay has caused us all to wait standing on the tarmac.
Her cool elegance sparks a flame of resentment within me. It’s not too late to bail; I could say I don’t feel well, probably even get most of my shifts at the bar back. No sane person would accompany her on this trip after what she’s done. But no. In spite of everything, I have to be here. I resist the urge to check my watch, douse the plume of sedition, and power up my smile.
Emerging from the passenger side of the Bentley in a bespoke gray suit is her boyfriend, John, not a day over sixty-three to her twenty-six, a wiry slip of a man who may almost reach Summer’s height if you factor in the two inches of perfectly coiffed silver hair and the stacked heels on his handmade Italian leather shoes. Summer’s not overly tall, but I notice she’s in Chanel flats to match her scarf, no longer allowed heels lest she dwarf him.
“Look what John got me for my birthday!” she exclaims, dashing over to us. She pushes back her sunglasses, her eyes like emerald pools sparkling in the sunlight. “Come see! It has my name stitched into the leather!”
Her delight is infectious. We all gather around the exorbitantly expensive vehicle, oohing and aahing appropriately—it is, after all, something magnificent—as the bags from the trunk are loaded onto the plane.
I give Summer a hug, trying to recapture our old familiarity. “It’s gorgeous, and so are you.”