Island in the Sea

by Anita Hughes

  “I attended Cambridge and my schoolmates were too busy making out with girls to do more than share a pack of cigarettes.” He stopped and smiled. “One couldn’t blame them, most of them had never been within fifty feet of a female except for their nannies.

  “Then we met Gideon and arrived in Los Angeles and everything changed.” He sat on a leather armchair. “Here was someone who appreciated a cashmere overcoat and a bottle of Martell Cognac. Someone I could play checkers with and argue whether Mick Jagger was a better songwriter than Keith Richards.

  “‘Going to Catalina’ stayed at number one on the charts and the album flew out of the stores. Samantha and I stayed in the bungalow at the Beverly Hills Hotel because she still desperately wanted to return to England. But she was at the top of her medieval literature class at UCLA and her legs became golden brown.

  “We spent weekends driving up the coast to Santa Barbara and Big Sur. I glanced at her in the passenger seat with her oval sunglasses and silk scarf and felt like Dustin Hoffman and Katherine Ross in The Graduate.

  “Then Gideon called me into his office and poured two shots of Stolichnaya. He handed one to me and presented me with a dilemma worse than in Sophie’s Choice.” His eyes clouded over and he stretched his long legs in front of him. “And of course, I made the wrong decision.”

  * * *

  “I spent the afternoon at Harry Winston’s on Rodeo Drive.” Lionel slipped on his sunglasses. No matter how much time he spent in Gideon’s office, he couldn’t get used to the blinding sun streaming through the windows.

  “That’s why I don’t have a serious girlfriend.” Gideon took a green apple from the pewter fruit bowl. “Donovan keeps a safe full of sapphires earrings and diamond pendants. He says the best way to stay in a girlfriend’s good graces is to give her a ruby ring or emerald necklace before she tells him what he did wrong.”

  “Donovan is as likely to have a girlfriend as my mother is to go on Star Search,” Lionel replied. “He’s as gay as they come. Have you seen the way he holds a teacup? He may as well have gone to finishing school in Switzerland.”

  Lionel fished in his pocket and took a blue velvet box. He opened it and displayed an emerald cut diamond on a platinum band.

  “I’m going to ask Samantha to marry me,” he continued. “We’ll have the wedding at St. James followed by a luncheon at the Savoy. We’ll hold the evening reception at Claridge’s with a five-course sit-down dinner and a twelve-piece orchestra. I’m going to ask Elton John to perform ‘Candle in the Wind,’ it’s Samantha’s favorite song.”

  “You can’t get married, you’re America’s sweetheart,” Gideon protested. “Do you think your female fans will throw their bras at you if you have a wedding ring on your finger?”

  “My fans aren’t old enough to have bloody training bras.” Lionel took a gold cigarette case out of his slacks. “And I don’t care what they think. Samantha and I are getting married and moving back to London. We’ll rent a flat on Belgravia Square with a dalmatian and a key to the garden. I’ll write songs all day and she can attend university.”

  “‘Going to Catalina’ is still on top of the charts and you’re about to release your second album,” Gideon protested. “You can’t stop now, you’ll become one of those Jeopardy! questions no one can answer.”

  “I can write songs anywhere and I promised Samantha we would only be here for a year.” Lionel lit a cigarette with a pearl lighter. “The Beverly Hills Hotel is lovely but Samantha doesn’t like having her underwear delivered with a satin bow and I’m going to gain weight from the chocolate truffles on the pillow.”

  “Think about the legends of rock ’n’ roll: Eric Clapton and Bryan Ferry and Paul McCartney. They couldn’t retire to their country house after a year and still expect to be a success. You have to keep your face in front of your fans or they’ll replace you with the next guy with dark curly hair who looks good in jeans and a T-shirt.”

  Gideon finished the apple and tossed it in the silver garbage can.

  “Go on tour with Amber for three months and then you can do whatever you like.”

  “You’re mad,” Lionel spluttered. “We can’t go on tour. Amber doesn’t sing a note.”

  “Even real artists lip-sync. Do you think Madonna belts out ‘Like a Prayer’ when she’s been up all night drinking tequila?” Gideon shrugged. “The public loves Amber, the video is the longest playing clip on MTV and VHI. We need teenage girls in Atlanta to want to be her best friend and boys in Buffalo to paste her pinup over their beds.” He paused. “Can you picture Amber with her bronze skin and honey blond hair bringing a little California to Wisconsin? The new album will fly off the charts.”

  “It’s like hanging a forgery of the Mona Lisa at the Louvre. I can’t stand onstage and watch her move her mouth.”

  “The song is fantastic but you’re hardly Leonardo da Vinci.” Gideon raised his eyebrow. “Music is a business. If you want to stay on Prada’s preferred mailing list and keep sending Chanel No. 5 to Samantha’s mother, you have to do some promotion.”

  “How did you know I send Samantha’s mother gifts?” Lionel asked.

  “My secretary pays the bills,” Gideon replied. “You’d be on the road for three months, this is your chance to see Yellowstone National Park and the Grand Canyon.”

  “I’m perfectly happy seeing the inside of The Polo Lounge,” Lionel grumbled. “Samantha will hate it, she gets carsick in a taxi.”

  “She’d be bored sitting in the back of drafty concert halls, and she’d get sunstroke at outdoor stadiums.” Gideon fiddled with his platinum watch. “Why don’t you sign her up for a French cooking course and get her tickets to Swan Lake. When you return you can propose and I’ll throw you an engagement party at Château Marmont.”

  Lionel poured another shot of vodka and drank it in one gulp. He felt the alcohol hit his stomach and wanted to throw up. “We’ve never been apart, and I promised we’d return to England.”

  “She’ll understand,” Gideon mused. “Sometimes you have to wait for the best things in life and when you get them, they are even sweeter.”

  “Samantha doesn’t like sugar,” Lionel grumbled. “She thinks it is bad for you.”

  * * *

  Lionel entered the hotel suite and gazed at the ivory sofas and pink silk curtains. He saw the plush white carpet and marble bar lined with brightly colored bottles. He inhaled the scent of lilacs and roses and still couldn’t believe they were in Los Angeles.

  The last year had been more enjoyable than he could have imagined. He loved having front row seats to the Lakers and a standing reservation at the Ivy. He loved walking into Fred Hayman’s and the salesgirl knowing his shirt size. But mostly he loved curling up with Samantha at night and discussing music and poetry.

  How would he survive on the road for three months without her? And what would she say when he told her they would have to delay moving to London?

  “There you are.” Samantha appeared at the door. She wore a white robe and pink slippers. Her hair was tied in a low ponytail and tied with a satin ribbon. “I was about to step in the bath. I have to finish a paper on English gardens and read a poem for my course on romantic lyricism. I thought we could order a Cobb salad and you can recite John Donne.”

  Lionel gazed at her creamy skin and the outline of her breasts and longed to wrap his arms around her.

  “Gideon called me into his office; he’s concerned about the new album. A sophomore album can sink faster than Virginia Woolf with a pocket full of stones.” He took a deep breath and looked at Samantha. “He wants me and Amber to go on tour.”

  “Gideon wants you and Amber to go on tour alone?”

  “We’d hardly be alone. There’d be dozens of sound technicians and the craft service people with their sugary doughnuts and Styrofoam cups of coffee.” He sipped his drink. “Gideon says if we don’t go, we’ll disappear off the charts. I don’t want to stand onstage in front of a bunch of girls barely out of Mickey Mouse e
ars but we’ve come so far. If we stop now, it will have all been for nothing. I have to be a songwriter or I won’t be able to breathe.”

  He pulled her close and kissed her softly on the mouth. He inhaled her jasmine scent and wanted to tell her she was right: Gideon was mad and he couldn’t possibly go on tour.

  But he thought of the great writers and knew nothing would hold them back. Shakespeare performed his plays at the Globe Theater for an illiterate audience who could barely afford the penny ticket, and Dickens printed his stories in a weekly newspaper that most people used to wrap fish. A true artist did anything to support his work. What mattered was that he wrote songs and people heard them.

  “Is it wrong to want to achieve great things?” Lionel whispered.

  “We said we’d give it a year and then go back to London,” Samantha said slowly. “I promised Abigail I’d take her to the zoo on her birthday. I want to visit my sister’s new baby and celebrate my parents’ thirty-year anniversary.”

  “We’ll send your sister a miniature baseball uniform and a Dodgers cap.” Lionel ran his fingers over her nipples. “We’ll book your parents a suite at the Connaught and tickets to Phantom of the Opera. We’ll take Abigail and her friends to the zoo when we get back and buy them peanuts to feed the elephants.”

  “My parents do love the Connaught,” Samantha mused. “My mother and I had afternoon tea there and they serve the most delicious lemon scones with Devonshire cream.”

  Lionel slipped off her robe and drank in the curve of her breasts. He gazed at the silky smoothness of her thighs and felt like Michelangelo sculpting the Pietà.

  “There’s something very important we have to do first.” He took her hand and led her into the bedroom.

  “What?” Samantha asked.

  “I have to memorize every curve of your body so when I lie on some lumpy mattress in a Motel Six in Toledo, I can picture your ripe breasts and golden hair and the tiny mole on the inside of your thigh.”

  “That sounds like very extensive research,” Samantha murmured, stepping out of her panties.

  “I know.” Lionel unzipped his slacks and drew her onto the bed. “But if we get started now, I think we can cover it.”

  Lionel plunged inside her and felt as if he was being engulfed by a fire. He pulled her arms over her head and came so quickly he couldn’t catch his breath.

  Then he rolled off and ran his hands over her stomach. He slipped his fingers between her legs and found the wet spot deep inside her. He pushed in deeper, feeling like he found an enchanted forest. He watched her grip his shoulders and bite her lip. He heard her small gasps and saw the slick sheen on her skin and knew she was everything he desired.

  * * *

  Lionel padded into the living room and filled a glass with scotch. He thought of his room above Penelope’s garage with its hot plate and packets of digestive biscuits. He pictured nights scribbling at his desk and smoking endless cigarettes. He remembered crumpling paper into the garbage and the heady sensation when he finally wrote a hit song.

  He added a twist of lime and thought once Ford perfected the motorcar, no one rode in horse-drawn buggies. Hardly anyone spent three weeks on an ocean liner when they could fly from London to New York in seven hours.

  Human beings had to move forward; it was as natural as turning twenty-one or losing one’s virginity. Once you had sex you couldn’t spend your nights with a Playboy and a towel, you craved a woman with firm breasts and sleek thighs.

  He didn’t want to write just one good song, he wanted a whole library of hits. He wanted a wall of platinum records and a garage filled with E-type Jaguars.

  Three months would go by in an instant and he would return and propose. They’d drive to Montecito and book a suite at the Biltmore. He pictured sitting on the balcony and eating eggs Benedict and blueberry pancakes. He imagined poring over honeymoon brochures of Positano and Ravello.

  He slipped the jewelry box in the hotel safe. He put the key in the desk and downed his scotch. He walked back into the bedroom and lay down beside Samantha on the ivory silk bedspread.

  * * *

  “Some people think life is laid out in a preordained path and all we have to do is follow it.” Lionel scooped up a handful of pistachio nuts. “But God has better things to do than plot the future of seven billion people like a Choose Your Own Adventure. He gave us a better-developed brain than any other species and more than two thousand years of written history to guide us.” He paused. “And we still manage to bloody mess everything up.”

  “Did you and Amber go on tour?” Juliet asked.

  “I need a shower and shave.” Lionel rubbed his chin. “Let’s continue tomorrow.”

  “I’d rather continue now. Henry asked me to go to Marbella, he’s playing an exposition match at Los Monteros.” Juliet fiddled with her gold bangle. “I’ll only be gone one night, but we really have to finish.”

  “I spent a weekend at Los Monteros,” Lionel replied. “The swordfish is excellent and the wine selection is superb and when you lie on a white chaise longue at La Cabane you feel like King Herod in Jesus Christ Superstar.”

  “He said he’d play better if I’m there.” Juliet hesitated. “Gideon is getting impatient, I can’t keep him waiting.”

  “Take a day off and don’t worry about Gideon.” Lionel finished his drink. “You are a young American in Spain, you can’t pass up a chance to nibble foie gras and rub shoulders with Andy Murray and Roger Federer. I promise when you return, I’ll wrap up my story.”

  Juliet smoothed her hair and walked to the door. She turned around and smiled. “I’ll bring you a signed tennis ball.”

  * * *

  Lionel stood in front of the mirror in the marble bathroom and rubbed his cheeks. He had showered and shaved but his head still pounded and he had circles under his eyes.

  He slipped on his pajamas and poured a glass of sherry. He pictured Juliet in white slacks and a brightly colored sweater. He saw her standing courtside at the tennis match wearing soft leather loafers. He swallowed his sherry and felt something uncomfortable shift inside him.

  chapter nineteen

  JULIET ADJUSTED HER SUNGLASSES AND fiddled with her gold necklace. She glanced at the turquoise Mediterranean and whitewashed buildings and the distant outline of Africa. She saw waiters in white dinner jackets and inhaled the scent of hibiscus and felt like Grace Kelly in To Catch a Thief.

  * * *

  She had sat on the airplane with Henry’s hand grazing her thigh and felt a lump in her throat. They hardly knew each other and she was going away with him. What if she forgot her toothbrush or ran out of things to say?

  She closed her eyes and thought of the times in her life she had been terrified: her first day at Sony when she bumped into Mariah Carey in the elevator, moving to Los Angeles and learning to drive on the I-405, coaxing a lead singer whose girlfriend just left him onto the stage.

  Then the plane landed at Málaga airport and the green mountains and shimmering coastline were laid out like a photo spread in a travel magazine. The skyscrapers of Torremolinos and elegant villas in Marbella sped past the window of the Bentley. The sultry breeze hit her cheeks and she inhaled the scent of the ocean and her shoulders relaxed.

  * * *

  Now she strolled through the grounds of Los Monteros and thought she had never been anywhere so elegant. Women wore Courrèges slacks and silver Prada sandals. Men wore silk blazers and paste-colored shirts. She saw pink flamingos and marble fountains and ponds filled with neon-colored fish.

  “There you are.” Henry appeared in the garden. He wore a striped shirt and white shorts and long socks. “I wanted to introduce you to my coach, the match starts in thirty minutes.”

  “I didn’t want to get in the way.” Juliet hesitated.

  “You couldn’t get in the way.” Henry grinned. “You’re the best thing about being here.”

  * * *

  Juliet sat on the sidelines and watched Henry lob the ball over the
net. She felt the hot sun on her cheeks and suddenly wished she had a glass of lemonade.

  “You must be Juliet.” A man approached her. He was in his mid-fifties with salt-and-pepper hair and leathery skin. He wore a polo shirt and slacks and leather loafers. “I’m Stefan, Henry’s coach. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “Thank you for inviting me,” Juliet replied. “The resort is spectacular, I feel like a movie star.”

  “Henry insisted you be here, it’s an important match.” Stefan sat beside her. “Henry has the strength of Boris Becker and a stroke like John McEnroe, but once you’ve been out it’s hard to get back on top. You think of all the matches your opponent won while you were away and lose your nerve. Nothing is more important in tennis than believing you are the only one who can hit a ninety-mile-an-hour serve.”

  Juliet nodded. “Henry is an incredible player.”

  “A few more months of practice and he could win a Grand Slam,” Stefan mused. “It’s strange after all this work he’s thinking of retiring.”

  “He is?” Juliet asked.

  “All he talks about is hanging up his racquet and starting a family,” Stefan replied. “He asked me about opening a tennis school.”

  Juliet stood up and suddenly felt dizzy. She opened her mouth to say something but her throat was dry and the ground tilted. She grabbed her purse and ran across the courtyard.

  * * *

  Juliet sat at the granite bar and sipped a glass of sparkling water. She ate a handful of macadamia nuts and felt her heart race.

  She hated leaving the court but she was afraid she would faint. Hearing Stefan talk about Henry wanting to retire made her stomach turn over.

  She took another sip of water and thought she had been overheated and forgot to have lunch. All she needed was a sandwich or a piece of fruit and she’d be fine.

  She suddenly remembered Lionel saying human beings had to move forward, it was the most natural thing in the world. She couldn’t just go dancing with Henry or visit art galleries. She had to see if she wanted to wake up beside him and share egg-white omelets.