The Jetsetters

by Amanda Eyre Ward

  “I know I should be looking at monumental works of art,” said Giovanni, “but I lived here for my junior year in college, so I’ve seen them. And I’m too hungover.”

  The waitress returned with a carafe of wine, two glasses, and a blue-and-white bowl filled with pasta. “Pomodoro e basilico e tagliatelle fiori di zucca e scamorza,” she said.

  “Oh my God,” said Regan, tasting the noodles. “This is incredible.”

  “Pumpkin flowers,” said Giovanni, pointing with his fork. “And can you taste that milky, caramelly cheese on the tagliatelle? That’s scamorza.”

  “Scamorza,” repeated Regan.

  “So,” said Giovanni, “where’s your husband?”

  “Oh…” said Regan. Giovanni looked sympathetic, waiting for her to continue. “It’s not a pretty subject,” said Regan.

  Giovanni nodded, his wineglass aloft. “Go on,” he said.

  “Let’s just enjoy lunch,” said Regan.

  “Spill it,” said Giovanni. Regan grinned—he was so different from her family. It had been a long time since she had confided in anyone other than Zoë. But once she began talking, it was hard to stop. She told Giovanni everything, from turning down art school until the moment Matt admitted he was in love with someone else and was leaving her.

  “I’m so sorry,” said Giovanni. “What a bastard.”

  “Can I tell you a secret?” said Regan.

  “Please,” said Giovanni.

  Regan took a sip of wine, remembering the night she first saw Janet—vibrant, young, red-haired Janet. Regan and Matt had brought the girls for dinner at one of their favorite restaurants, the Bonna Bella Yacht Club. (Regan loved the crab fritters.) They approached by water, pulling their boat to the restaurant’s communal dock. As they climbed the wooden stairs to the Bonna Bella entrance, Regan spied a group of young teachers from Savannah Country Day enjoying happy hour on the outdoor deck. Regan sat down with Flora and Isabella at a nearby table, and Matt went to get drinks at the bar. As the girls drew with crayons, Regan heard Matt’s laughter, a rich, delighted sound she hadn’t heard in a while.

  “Daddy’s talking to Miss Janet,” said Flora. “Her red hair is like Ariel’s red hair.”

  The waitress came to take their order and Regan stood to get Matt’s attention. Matt was leaning against the bar, his beer in one hand, Regan’s glass of wine in the other. Regan watched her husband’s expression as he spoke animatedly to an adorable young woman wearing a yellow sundress. He looked delighted, happy, even nice.

  “Miss Janet teaches kindergarten but her husband died,” said Isabella.

  “Oh, no,” said Regan.

  Matt laughed again, a sound that had once made Regan feel at home but now filled her with dread. Janet seemed to be thrilled with whatever Matt was saying, though, and an idea bloomed in Regan’s imagination, a plan unfurling, a golden road out.

  Regan looked at Flora and Isabella and imagined waking in a home without his cutting voice, without his watching, without Matt. They could stay in pajamas all day, and eat cereal for lunch. Hope filled Regan, warm and bright.

  It was only later that she recognized Lee had done the same to Regan, maybe without even knowing she was doing it, placing her squarely in Matt’s path, hoping he would be distracted as Lee escaped.

  That night, as she drove the boat home on the Skidaway River, leaving Matt to “have some fun” at Bonna Bella, Regan pointed out an osprey to the girls. “See?” she said. “It’s the mom, right there, in her nest.”

  “I see it,” said Isabella.

  “I see the baby birds!” said Flora.

  Regan slowed the boat. The air was humid, smelling of marsh. They watched as the mother osprey surveyed the river and the sky, then took flight.

  * * *

  —

  GIOVANNI LISTENED TO HER story, putting his hand over his mouth as she concluded. “Wow,” he said. “Just…wow, Regan. So you set up your own husband’s affair? It’s like Dangerous Liaisons in suburban Savannah!”

  “It wasn’t even my idea to hire a private detective, though I’m sure the pictures will come in handy during the settlement.”

  “I’m impressed,” said Giovanni. He drained his glass and shouted something that made the waitress bring more wine and bowls of truffle ravioli. “So what are you going to do now?”

  “I honestly don’t know,” said Regan. “I haven’t really ever applied for a job.”

  “That is rough,” said Giovanni. Regan paused, realizing how amazing it was that Giovanni didn’t seem to need to give her an answer, or even help her in any way. It was rough, but she would sort it out. In Gio’s position, she’d feel as if she had to solve everything.

  “What about you?” said Regan, lifting her fork, resolving to just listen.

  “Sometimes it’s best to move on,” said Giovanni, shaking his head. “Cord’s going to get it together or he’s not going to get it together. I know that sounds cold.”

  “Yeah,” said Regan, thinking of Cord as a boy, of the way his eyes had flashed when Winston yelled. But Cord never yelled back. He just looked down. He just took it. “Our father…” said Regan.

  “Save it,” said Giovanni, holding up his hand. “He’s thirty-six years old.”

  The waitress appeared with a third serving. “Fusilli alla contadina e ai peperoni,” she said. Regan was beginning to feel uncomfortably full, her face flushed. She topped off her glass of wine, and ate.

  “Look,” said Giovanni. “I know you guys had a hard childhood—really hard—but that’s over now. We all have problems. Get therapy, take meds, I don’t know. But for him to still be in the closet…that’s just some shame I don’t know how to handle.”

  Regan nodded.

  “I thought I could make him better. But I tried. And it seems like I can’t.” He shook his head, suddenly mournful. “I don’t want to give up,” he said. “I don’t want to give up on him.”

  Regan took Giovanni’s hands in her own. She wanted to say, “Never give up.” She wanted to say, “Hang on to love, no matter what.” She wanted to say, “In sickness and in health.” But the truth was, she didn’t believe those words. Not anymore.

  “He’s an incredible man,” she said.

  “I know,” said Giovanni. “What do you think I should do?”

  “He’s just so wonderful,” said Regan. “I love him so much.” It was hardly an answer, but it was the truth.

  “I love him, too,” said Giovanni sadly.

  * * *

  —

  BY THE TIME THEY’D had coffees and paid, the piazza (somehow, tipsy, Regan knew what it was called) had become vibrant. Afternoon light bathed the city in a soft glow, and Regan was enamored with the smell of gasoline and garlic that seemed to permeate the air. Giovanni led her to the Arno and they held hands and looked at the water.

  “We should get back on the bus,” said Giovanni.

  “I don’t want to go,” said Regan. They walked along cobblestone streets, Regan feeling languid and fabulous. When she saw a stationery store, she paused. There, in the window, she saw a large notebook bound in deep brown leather. In the back of the store, she saw a man lowering a sheet of paper into what looked like a vat of paint. “Look, he’s marbling,” said Regan. She had tried the technique of mixing paint and glue, then dipping paper to create riotous patterns.

  “Come on, now,” said Giovanni.

  “No,” said Regan. She put her hand on the brass doorknob. The man in the shop lifted the paper upward and Regan saw its blue-and-green print, exquisite fans of color resembling peacock plumages. In her pocket, she could feel the receipt from lunch. She would draw the Arno, paste the scrap of paper, write what she remembered of Florence.

  The leather-bound notebook was so different from the home goods she bought at the Oglethorpe Mall. It was for her, not for so
me life she wished she could inhabit. “We’re going to be late,” said Giovanni.

  The door’s chimes rang as it opened.

  LEE WORKED ON THE contents of the thick manila envelope all day. There were a hundred and fifty probing, awful, and repetitive questions:

  What is your favorite drink?

  What sexual positions do you prefer?

  What are you hoping to find on Sloppy Seconds?

  Do you want to get married?

  Have you participated in an orgy?

  What is your favorite fruit?

  Francine, reached via FaceTime—her visage grainy, orange lipstick arresting—confirmed that the show was indeed called Sloppy Seconds. Lee had sent an audition package to The Bachelor years before (complete with a video Jason had taken of her horseback riding in a string bikini—oh, how it had chafed), and while she’d made it only to the second round, new shows routinely dug through old tapes. Sloppy Seconds was a forthcoming reality show about ordinary people who had been dumped by famous people. Now that Jason was famous, Lee (as the saying goes) was a contender.

  Hopped up on room service coffee, Lee scrawled answers. She made up tidbits she thought would appeal to the producers, creating a sexy vixen who was a bit unstable but had a heart of gold. She wrote until her hand was sore. She tried to ignore another set of questions:

  Do I want to live in a “Malibu Beach Dream House” with seventeen other people, vying for love and prizes?

  What about my baby?

  Should I have flown to Malta?

  Why am I here in my cabin when I could be in Florence, Italy?

  In what way do I think this job would make me happy?

  * * *

  —

  TO SILENCE THESE PESKY thoughts, Lee went for a walk, heading to the twenty-four-hour frozen yogurt station in the Aqua Zone. She sort of hoped she’d run into someone in her family, but knew they were probably in Florence without her. No one had even called to remind Lee about the tour, she realized, feeling left out.

  Every lounge chair by the pool was filled, and Lee felt twinges of both revulsion and empathy as she gazed over the sea of bodies. It was like a nature movie: humans in captivity. She saw a man on the far deck smoking a cigarette. From a distance, he looked like Matt, and Lee walked toward him.

  Lee remembered the night before Regan’s wedding. Matt and Lee had shared a cigarette outside Elizabeth on 37th, where the rehearsal dinner was still going on. She’d been someone else then: a star shooting skyward, on the brink (she’d thought) of fame. Matt had dropped the cigarette to the ground.

  It was raining lightly. “I’d stop all this,” he said, “if you want me back. Please?”

  “She’s my sister,” Lee said. She remembered being flushed with champagne and indignation, but flattered, too. “Don’t you love her?”

  “It’s not the same. You’re my Beautiful One, Lee,” said Matt, using the nickname he’d given her.

  Regan had taken Lee’s first headshots, arranging Lee’s hair to catch the light, brushing her eyelids with shadow from the Clinique counter at the Oglethorpe Mall. In the days before selfies, Regan had captured Lee’s beauty. There was no question where Lee’s loyalty lay. She had left Matt in the rain, marched into the restaurant. She’d pulled Regan into the ladies’ room and demanded that her sister call off the wedding.

  “Why?” Regan said. “Why would you say this to me? Why would you do this now?”

  “He’s not the right person for you,” said Lee, stopping short of telling her sister about Matt’s betrayal, the way he could be cruel.

  “I see,” said Regan, facing her sister. Her expression was dark, furious. “You can’t even let me have one night,” she said.

  “This isn’t about me,” said Lee.

  “It’s always about you,” spat Regan. She pushed open the ladies’ room door and disappeared. Lee breathed in and out, trying to compose herself. When she felt calm, she walked outside and hailed a cab. She was back in Los Angeles by the next day.

  Lee was the Beautiful One; she always had been. Winston had taught Lee that her looks were her strength. She was still relying on them, hoping to use them to secure a job she wasn’t sure she wanted. She had nothing else: no family, no skills, no home.

  CHARLOTTE WAS WORN OUT. Instead of setting an alarm to make the day tour of Florence, she’d slept in, deciding after breakfast to simply wander around the port city. She felt proud of herself as she disembarked. Here she was: a modern gal on her own in Livorno, Italy! It was crowded and, okay, filthy, but a very nice Nigerian man sold her a faux-Gucci purse that sure did look like the real thing. Charlotte longed for Minnie, who would have loved Charlotte’s chutzpah. What Charlotte wouldn’t give to buy a fake Gucci bag for her friend.

  Charlotte was walking down a crowded street full of cafés when she spotted Paros, her porter, handsome even out of uniform. He turned in to a coffee shop and Charlotte, feeling brazen, followed. (“You hussy, you!” she heard Minnie exclaim happily.) The shop was filled with young people smoking and eating gelato at the same time. It was strange to see Paros sitting at a small, circular table, his skin pale under fluorescent lights.

  “Ciao!” said Charlotte, sashaying toward him and putting her hand on her hip.

  “Charlotte!” said Paros. “Please, please join me.”

  “Don’t mind if I do,” said Charlotte. Paros wore street clothes, and old ones at that—faded corduroy pants, a jacket that looked like something a farmer would wear, odd shoes. He was, in fact, a farmer, he told Charlotte, after she had ordered an espresso. He had been a retired farmer, but then the Greek economy had collapsed, and with it, his savings.

  “I had to go back to work,” he said, stirring a sugar packet into his coffee. “My children depend on me.”

  “Mine, too,” sighed Charlotte. “Well, I don’t know if they depend on me, but they…” She shook her head, feeling deflated.

  “They’re going to be fine,” said Paros.

  “I know,” said Charlotte, flustered. “Well, I can say I know, but to be honest, I don’t know.”

  “I’m only glad I have held on to my home,” said Paros, adroitly changing the subject. “I harvest olives and my home is a short walk to the beach.”

  “That sounds really nice,” said Charlotte.

  “What about you?” said Paros. “Tell me about your home.”

  “Oh,” said Charlotte. “It’s small but I do love it. My condo overlooks a golf course, rolling greens. I can drive a golf cart to church and to the grocery store.”

  Paros smiled. Charlotte smiled back. There was heat between them, a feeling Charlotte hadn’t known in a long time. Did she dare to try to bring her lips to his?

  “Kiss him!” said Minnie. “You’re seventy-one years old! What are you waiting for?”

  Like a heroine in a romance novel, Charlotte leaned across the café table, pursing her lips. But—and it almost happened in slow motion—as Charlotte’s face grew close to Paros’s, she saw that he was surprised and flustered, not bedroom-eyed and willing.

  Charlotte reared back, humiliated, a small wail escaping her mouth. She stood quickly, rummaged in her purse for a few euros, and dropped them on the table.

  “Stop,” said Paros. “Wait, Charlotte!”

  But she was halfway to the café exit. Oh, she hated herself.

  “Charlotte! Come back,” called Paros, standing up. His voice was so loud that people turned to look.

  She rushed outside and began to run through the Livorno streets. Where was the ship? What had she done? That’s what you get, said Louisa, for thinking you’re better than you are.

  OH, HER BODY. CHARLOTTE had spent her life disregarding it—starving it, forcing it through calisthenics as her Body by Jacques cassette tape droned on, bearing children, suckling children, submitting to Winston’s halfhearted
ministrations, enduring hot flashes, mammograms, colonoscopies. Eating cheese and drinking wine. Biking once in a blue moon, playing golf. Her body (as long as it was skinny enough to fit into her size four clothes) was an afterthought. Everything worked, so why dwell?

  She had never been to a spa. The thought of strangers touching her made Charlotte squirm. What was she supposed to do during a massage, just lie there? How dull and stressful. She was used to ignoring her body’s sensations, not enhancing them!

  And yet her Magnifico package had included an “Evening of Bliss,” so here she was, sitting primly on an oddly warm chaise longue in a Splendido robe, nothing underneath but her Macy’s underpants. To Charlotte, an “Evening of Bliss” would mean Chardonnay and Triscuits, complete with all three of her children and Father Thomas calling and leaving messages, assuring her she was loved and appreciated but not requiring her to do anything for anyone. And then a stranger with not too much chest hair would make love to her—mmmm, moving himself in and out of her, clutching at her, crying out her name. And then he’d tuck her in, kiss her sweetly, and depart.

  The thalassotherapy pool, located deep in the underbelly of the ship, was like a sinister disco. Even the word “thalassotherapy” gave Charlotte the creeps. “Charlotte Perkins?” said a stout woman holding a clipboard.

  Charlotte rose to her feet. “Hello,” she said awkwardly.

  “I am Norma,” said the woman. “You are ready for your combo treatment SpaTopia, Hot Rock Sampler, Fantastic Feet Fantastic You.”

  It seemed a question, yet was spoken as a statement. “Yes?” said Charlotte.

  “Good. We begin,” said Norma. She turned and plodded down a neon-lit hallway. Charlotte’s heart began to beat audibly in her ears. Why was it so easy for everyone else to forget they were underwater? This knowledge hit Charlotte at random intervals, making her woozy. This is so wrong! Her brain would scream. I am UNDERWATER! HELP ME!