The Lion's Den

by Katherine St. John

  As we near the bottom of the hill, the road empties into a promenade along the sea where lovers stroll hand in hand and children splash in a fountain. The sun is sinking in the sky, taking with it the heat of the day, and a fresh breeze blows off the water, lifting my hair from my shoulders. A row of restaurants overlook the lapping sea, their outdoor tables filled with laughter over afternoon aperitifs. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, feeling the breeze on my skin, inhaling the salt air, and imprint the scene on my mind, for use at a later date when I’m back in my real life.

  I open my eyes to see that the others are almost at the bay and run to catch them as they scurry across the wooden planks behind Bernard toward a large white motorized tender. A tall, thin guy about our age dressed in a crisp white uniform with a name tag that reads HUGO hands us into the boat one by one. His shoulder-length curly brown hair is pulled back in a ponytail, his eyes hidden behind aviator sunglasses, but his smile is warm as he warns each of us in heavily accented English, “Careful, slippery,” and “Sit in back if you don’t want get wet.”

  I take a seat on the back row next to Summer and turn to appreciate the sight of the town growing smaller as we chug out of the bay. Wendy whips out her phone and begins taking pictures, and all the girls follow suit, snapping a flurry of shots of the town, the sea, and one another. I frame the town with the mountains above and water below, and post it with the tagline “Vacation begins.” I briefly worry that I’ve somehow violated the NDA, but Summer doesn’t say anything, so I’m probably okay.

  Once we exit the slow zone, Hugo shouts over the rumble of the motor, “Ladies, hold on to your hats,” and hits the gas.

  Brittani whoops. I do indeed hold on to my hat as the front of the boat lifts up and we skim over the tops of the waves headed out to sea. Summer leans in and shouts in my ear, “I’m sorry about the food. Believe me, there will be plenty the rest of the trip.”

  “No worries. I’m just glad to be here. I’ve been needing a vacation. The bar is killing me.”

  “Don’t worry. You won’t be there for long. We’ll figure something out. You’re so talented, and now that John’s funding movies, I’m sure we can get you in something soon. I mean, he has the money—he can kinda make them do whatever he wants.”

  As much as I would love to believe that’s true, we both know John would never in a million years stick out his neck for me. “That would be awesome,” I say.

  Wendy scoots over next to me. “What are you girls talking about?”

  “Just plotting Belle’s imminent success,” Summer says. She grabs our hands and gives them a squeeze. “I’m so glad you guys are here. Now we just need to get you appropriate boyfriends.”

  I laugh. “I think our ideas of ‘appropriate’ are a little different.”

  “Whatever,” Summer says. “I’m telling you, you’ve gotta stop dating these broke artists and meet a real man who can give you what you deserve.”

  “You date who you meet,” I say. “And I meet struggling actors, mostly. Dylan wasn’t, though.” I study her for a reaction, but she’s unreadable.

  “You went out with him once,” she laughs. “I wouldn’t exactly call that dating.”

  “Because he lives in a different country,” I protest. “But we still message each other sometimes.”

  She raises her brows.

  “He’s devastated about losing his brother, understandably,” I plow on. I can tell I’m getting under her skin now. “His grandmother lives out here apparently, though? He said he might be visiting, so I told him I’d let him know if we were close.”

  “You probably won’t have time to see him this trip,” she shrugs, keeping her cards close to her chest. “And anyway, if you guys were really into each other, you would have found a way to see each other again before now.”

  She’s not wrong. “Sorry for bringing it up,” I say. I wonder if we both know how far I’m stretching the truth.

  “It’s okay. Just don’t say anything about Eric in front of John.” She looks pointedly at both me and Wendy. “You guys know I’m still messed up over what happened, but the last thing I need is everyone talking about it.”

  “What does John know?” I ask.

  “Nothing. And I’d like to keep it that way. Okay?”

  Wendy and I nod obediently.

  Summer pats my knee, softening her tone. “We’ll be having dinner with plenty of John’s friends this trip. Maybe you’ll meet someone; then you won’t have to worry about getting acting parts anymore.”

  I laugh, a little offended. “I’m not in it for the money.” But she could never understand that. “And anyway, I’m good being single right now, just having fun.”

  “You don’t wanna wait too long or it’ll be too late,” Summer warns. “We’re not getting any younger. Once we reach thirty, it’s over.”

  “Oh God, don’t remind me!” Wendy wails.

  I’m more worried about my career as I move toward my thirties than my marriage prospects—Hollywood isn’t exactly known for its supply of amazing roles for women who don’t look like teenagers. Nevertheless, I’m interested to hear her reasoning. “Why thirty?”

  “Because guys know that girls over thirty want to have babies, like, yesterday.”

  “God forbid anyone want a family,” I say.

  “I can’t wait to get married,” Wendy sighs. “I’ve had my wedding planned since I was in kindergarten.”

  “We know,” says Summer.

  “A vineyard, Vera Wang,” I chime in, laughing. “It’ll be beautiful.”

  “Unless his family insists on a church, of course,” Wendy adds.

  “John has a vineyard,” Summer offers. “And a church.”

  “I think Wes is the One,” Wendy says dreamily.

  “You’ve thought that about all of them,” Summer ribs.

  “Well, of course I did. Or I wouldn’t have wasted my time with them.”

  “Just because a relationship doesn’t last forever doesn’t mean it wasn’t successful,” I say.

  “Ha! A successful relationship is one that ends in marriage,” Wendy declares.

  I nudge her playfully with my shoulder. “I’m sorry, what decade are we living in?” I tease. “I’d say a successful relationship is one you learn from, no matter how it ends.”

  “You’re both crazy,” Summer says. “It’s one you gain from. Duh. Qui n’avance pas, recule.”

  Well, at least she’s honest about her point of view. I don’t think that’s the intended use of the proverb, but I guess the point of a proverb is that it can apply to many different situations.

  “What does that mean?” Wendy asks.

  “It literally translates to ‘who does not move forward, recedes,’” I say, then smile at Summer. “Somebody remembers her high school French.”

  “It was rusty, trust me, but we spent some time in Paris in the spring, so I was able to brush up.” Summer returns my smile without a hint of acknowledgment of my reference to our shared past.

  “I didn’t know you guys could speak French,” Wendy says, impressed.

  “We took it together in high school,” I explain. “Though I think we spent more time ogling our teacher than doing conjugations.”

  Summer laughs.

  “Smile.” Rhonda points a camera at the three of us. We pose, and she clicks.

  The sea is full of yachts. Colossal as cruise ships and streamlined as spaceships, white and black and silver; each is resplendent in her own right. Our tender approaches a sleek white one, large by anyone’s standards, but medium in comparison with the others on the horizon. She looks to be about three stories high, sizable enough to have a couple of Jet Skis and tenders docked underneath, not quite big enough for a helipad. THE LION’S DEN is etched in gold block letters across her stern.

  “We’ve ordered a new one with a helipad, but they take forever to build, so we’re still in this one,” Summer sighs. “So we’ll just have to tender everywhere. Sorry.”

  I
stare up at the floating palace. “It’ll do.” A rush of blood to my head. A week on this thing, huh?

  Wendy points to the name and laughs. “Kinda perfect, since you’re a Leo and all.”

  “Oh, you’re right. I didn’t think about that,” Summer muses. “John named it. He kinda has a thing with lions. Because of his last name, I guess.”

  Two white-uniformed crew members rush over to help secure the tender and assist Hugo in handing us up the ladder onto the lower deck of the boat, where the rest of the crew stands in a semicircle, smiling, their hands clasped behind their backs.

  “You have to take your shoes off,” Summer instructs as one of the crew comes around with a basket, into which we all deposit our shoes. “Don’t worry. We have a pedicurist coming tomorrow morning.”

  “Good thing,” Brittani guffaws. “I think I have something growing under my big toenail.”

  I cringe.

  “Welcome to the Lion’s Den,” Hugo says. “Your home for the week. I introduce to you our French crew.”

  We all turn to face the orderly line of crew members.

  Hugo gestures to a stocky white-bearded man who looks straight out of central casting. “This is Bruno. He is our great captain.” Bruno nods at us with just a hint of a smile.

  Next to Bruno is a linebacker of a man in his thirties, with a shaved head, his muscles nearly ripping out of his sleeves. “This is Jean; he is first mate. He does all the heavy lifting here, as you can see.”

  Next to Jean is a good-looking guy of indeterminate race, dark skin and hair, probably around our age. “This is Alexandre; he is second mate.”

  Wendy elbows me. Alexandre flashes a thousand-watt smile and says, “Dre.”

  That one I think I’ll remember.

  Hugo moves on to the next in line, a wiry little guy in his twenties with brown hair and glasses, who looks like he would work at a tech start-up. “Luc is our engineer, anything technology—you can’t work the stereo, you drop the iPhone, he can help.”

  Next to Luc is a well-groomed woman in her late thirties, over-Botoxed, long blond hair in a ponytail, diamond studs in her ears. “This is our chief steward, Julie.” Julie gives us a perfunctory smile and nod.

  Next to Julie is a slim brunette about our age with sharp features, full lips, and a pixie cut. “This is Emmanuelle. She is our second stew.”

  Last in line is a petite, dark-skinned girl with freckles, her long black hair in a braid that falls over her shoulder. I’m guessing she’s of North African descent, and she can’t be more than twenty. “This is Camille; she is our junior stew. And you know I am Hugo. I am the utility man. Anything you need, we make it happen,” Hugo says with a little bow.

  A man in a white chef’s uniform, his salt-and-pepper hair pulled back in a ponytail, appears in the doorway with a silver tray of food in each hand. “Oh,” Hugo says, “I cannot forget Jacques, le meilleur chef. If you like to take your seat at the table, we have some food for you.”

  Jacques sets the trays down on a circular table in the shade. “Who is hungry?”

  We all slide into the plush white banquettes as Emmanuelle hands out champagne glasses and Julie comes around with a bottle of Dom Pérignon.

  “Finally!” Brittani says, reaching over me to snatch a handful of prosciutto and melon.

  Silence descends on the table as we fall upon the hors d’oeuvres like a pack of starved dogs. A helicopter buzzes overhead, whipping up the waves as it makes its way to a gargantuan black yacht floating nearby.

  “Igor Rajinovsky.” Summer waves her fork vaguely in the direction of the yacht. “Russian billionaire. He’s a friend of John’s. And that one over there”—she points out a white yacht, just as substantial as the black one—“is his wife’s.”

  “Why do they have two?” asks Claire.

  “They have an understanding,” Summer explains. “On his, he has one floor of Swedish girls, one floor of Thai girls, and one floor of Russian girls. They rotate in and out every week. That’s probably a new shipment coming in now.”

  “Hookers,” Brittani clarifies.

  “More like a harem,” Summer says.

  “What’s the difference?” Claire whispers in my ear.

  “Anyway, their kids are on the wife’s boat, so he gets the best of both worlds,” Summer continues.

  “Who says you can’t have your cake and eat it, too,” I joke.

  “Why don’t they just get a divorce?” Claire asks.

  “Cheaper to keep her,” Summer quips. We all look at her blankly. “When you have as much money as these guys, divorce is so expensive and complicated, sometimes it’s just not worth it.”

  “And she’s, like, totally okay with this?” Wendy asks, incredulous.

  “It’s not exactly her call,” Summer says. “And anyway, she gets a three-hundred-foot yacht and the cachet of being his wife, so you can’t exactly feel bad for her.”

  “If my husband gives me a three-hundred-foot yacht, he can cheat on me as much as he wants,” Amythest chimes in.

  She and Summer clink glasses.

  “As long as you get to pick the crew, of course.” Wendy cuts her eyes toward Dre, who is doing something with a rope, his sleeves pushed up, muscles glistening in the sun.

  “I think somebody has a crush,” I chide.

  “Me? No. I’m totally in love with my boyfriend!” Wendy demurs, not totally convincingly. “But I do appreciate a nice view.”

  Summer eyes Dre. “Don’t we all.”

  I stare out over the ocean, my hunger finally satiated, champagne buzz and lack of sleep combining to make me feel slightly removed, like I’m floating.

  Which, of course, I am. On a yacht. In the Mediterranean. It’s all very surreal, euphoric almost—except for the niggling sensation in the back of my mind like a grain of sand stuck in the gears, reminding me I don’t belong here. I shouldn’t be here. And yet here I am, thanks to Summer. My old friend. Could I have ever imagined, when I met her at sixteen, all the events that would conspire to land me on this yacht, in this immensely unlikely scenario?

  “Belle? Belle.” Wendy interrupts my reverie. “Earth to Belle.”

  They’re all standing, trying to move out of the banquette, and I’m blocking the way. “Sorry,” I murmur, sliding out of the seat.

  We each take a cold bottle of water from a basket offered by Hugo and follow Julie’s flaxen ponytail from the outdoor dining area into a large living space with built-in navy-and-white-striped couches that face the sea. “This is the main deck,” she says.

  She leads us deeper into the boat to a more traditional sitting area. The decor is understated luxury, with muted colors, clean lines, and soft fabrics. “As you see, we have two sitting areas and the main dining room.” She leads us into a dining area with a long table and an ornate chandelier hanging over it. I look up at the chandelier and notice a camera in the corner of the room. There’s one in every corner of the room, actually. I wonder who’s watching them.

  “Here to right is the kitchen, where Jacques does the magic,” Julie continues. “No need go there. Anything you need is here in the bar and kitchenette.” She opens the door to the refrigerator, revealing rows of sparkling and flat water, pressed juices, and wine, as well as fresh-cut strawberries, yogurt, cheese, and other snacks. “You ask and we give anything you require.” Julie gestures toward a door down a short hallway past the spiral staircase between the kitchen and kitchenette. “Through this door is Monsieur and Madame Lyons’s room.”

  Apparently the crew has not been informed that the missus is not the wife. Summer gives me a quick wink. “Show it to them,” she says.

  “Of course.” Julie threads her way through the group and opens the door to the master suite.

  The king-size bed, with its polished wood headboard and built-in bedside tables, is centered on the back wall, an assortment of pillows displayed atop a woven gold comforter. His-and-hers closets are to the right and left of the bed, window seats centered under the la
rge windows that look out over the sea on either side of the room, a large flat-screen television mounted on the wall across from the bed.

  Julie opens a door to the left of the television. “The bathroom.”

  The entire front wall of the white marble bathroom is glass with a view of the water, a large Jacuzzi tub positioned underneath to take in the vista.

  Brittani hops into the Jacuzzi. “Holy shit. I’m so taking a bath in your hot tub!”

  On the wall next to the steam shower is a framed picture of Summer. She’s lying on her side, naked. Her arm is draped so it just covers her nipples, her top leg positioned to cover her crotch, bedroom eyes directed at the camera. No surprise there. It’s the bed she’s lying on that draws my attention. The light and focus fall off behind her, leaving the room in soft shadow, but I’d know it anywhere. It’s my bed.

  I also know who was behind the lens. Which is why I’m surprised to see it displayed here.

  I’m careful to hide my reaction, but everyone’s focus has shifted to Summer, whose voice takes on a shrill edge behind us. “Julie, where’s the comforter set I picked out?” she asks. “This quilt thing looks like it belongs in a Holiday Inn.”

  “I will find it for you.” Julie’s smile never wavers. “Always, if there is anything we do to make your stay more comfortable, please to let us know.”

  We trail behind Julie as she exits the room. She gestures to a closed door just outside the master. “Monsieur Lyons’s office. Please do not go there.” She heads up the wide spiral staircase in the hallway. “Your rooms are all just down the stairs. We see after the tour.”

  We follow her into an informal room with comfortable couches and another huge flat-screen TV, as well as a large desk with two sleek computers. “This is the upper deck,” she says.