And meet Melissa the Radiant with her British TV star sidekick, oozing perfection over spinach and egg white omelets? I don’t think so.
The bath was wet, and there were half-empty mini bottles of shampoo and body wash, one of which had its prime ingredients—ginseng and extract of pomegranate—laid out in faux French. Well, maybe it was actual French, but you know what I mean: the kind of French chosen to feel chic (!) without actually being a barrier to anyone who didn’t speak French. Basically, just English words with a few accents and a couple of letters rearranged, like in some restaurants that offer salads with “bleu” cheese dressing, which they then pronounce blue. Anyway, I took some, and my irritation at the Frenchified marketing made me feel less bad about using it without asking. It smelled nice—not synthetic, like you might expect—and I gave it a closer look, upending the bottle to read the embossed stamp in the base: FABRIQUé à PARIS.
So . . . not your Great Deal knockoff after all. Awesome.
I dried myself off, donned a towel, and made the sprint back to my room, whose stale air was even more obvious now that I had been out of it. I needed to find one of those window keys. As I had crossed the landing, I’d heard desultory conversation from below. Brad, I thought. So at least some of them were still there.
I put on another sundress and tried to recall if anyone had floated a plan for the day. I couldn’t remember. The whole evening was foggy and vague. Either I had been really tired, or I’d drunk more than I thought. Probably both.
I drifted down slowly, cautiously, keen to see who was there before they noticed me, though I wasn’t sure why. Brad and Kristen were sitting at the kitchen table, and Melissa was going through a cupboard on the far side by the stove.
“Morning,” I said.
Brad and Kristen looked up and smiled.
“Hey,” said Melissa. Except that it wasn’t Melissa. It was Gretchen.
Damn my worthless, shortsighted eyes and damn my moronic impulse to wear my glasses in the sea straight to hell.
“Was it you creeping around upstairs last night?” she asked. “About gave me a heart attack.”
“No,” I said. Gretchen’s room, like Brad and Kristen’s, was on the floor below mine. “I thought I heard something but figured it was just my imagination. You know, unfamiliar place . . .”
“No,” said Gretchen, very sure of herself. “I heard someone. It wasn’t Brad or Kristen.”
“Maybe it was Marcus,” I said.
“I don’t think so,” said Gretchen.
What the hell did that mean? Like she’d know where he’d spent every second of the night? I didn’t believe it.
“And the master bedroom is on the other side of the house,” said Gretchen, conspiratorially. “With its own bathroom.”
“So you think what?” I pushed. She was annoying me.
“Someone is obviously telling porkies,” said Gretchen.
“Porkies?” said Kristen.
“Pork pies,” said Gretchen. “Lies. You know. Rhyming slang.”
“Oh,” said Kristen vaguely. “Right.”
“Are you saying I’m lying about not sneaking around the house last night?” I demanded, my spine stiffening.
Gretchen turned to me. Her face was both baffled and shocked.
“Of course not,” she said. “I was kidding.”
I stared at her, feeling the color rise in my face.
“Oh,” I said. “I’m sorry. I . . . God, I’m still really tired. I don’t know what I . . . sorry.”
Her uncomplicated smile flicked on and the confusion was gone.
“Know the feeling,” she said. “Coffee?”
“Oh God, yes.”
“Just a heads up,” said Brad. “Greek coffee is terrible. It’s either instant Nescafé, which tastes like gray Kool-Aid, or it’s the Turkish stuff that should be spread on roads.”
“She has been here before, dear,” said Kristen, not looking up.
“Just pour me a cup,” I said.
He grinned and shrugged.
“Your funeral,” he said.
“Morning darlings!” called Melissa from the foyer. She was leading Simon in by the hand. They both looked slightly tousled but wide awake and brimming with health. “Lots of fun things packed in for today!”
“Good God,” I said, “can’t you be like regular people for once?”
“It’s a glorious day,” said Simon, grinning from ear to ear.
“And we’ve been up hours,” Melissa stage whispered. “You should see him when he wakes up. Like a bear in January.”
“Is Marcus not up?” I asked.
“Went for a walk,” said Brad. “Wanted to see the sights. Trees, presumably. And stones. There are lots of stones. It’s awesome.”
“OK, Mr. Grumpy,” said Kristen. “Time to shake it off.”
“Well, I hope you can get a taste for stones,” cooed Melissa, “because we’re gonna see lots of them today.”
“Uh-oh,” said Brad. “I don’t like the sound of this.”
“It’s gonna be great,” said Melissa.
“What is it?” asked Brad, still dour.
“Finish up your breakfast and we’ll head out,” said Melissa. “Bring your bathing suits.”
“Seriously, Mel,” said Brad. “What is it?”
“Just get your things together—” Melissa began.
“What if we don’t want to go?” said Brad, an edge to his smile. “I mean, we were flying for about a week yesterday. I thought we’d have a lazy day.”
“We can do that tomorrow,” said Melissa. “Last time we were here we barely left the hotel bar. This time . . .”
“Oh God,” said Brad. “If I’d wanted a tour I’d have booked one of those geriatric educational cruises.”
“Mel’s laid on some great stuff,” said Simon loyally. “Gonna be fun.”
“I’d just like to be able to provide a little input—” said Brad.
“It’s a mystery tour!” said Melissa. “Trust me. Gonna be a blast. And there’ll be plenty of time for lounging and drinking later.”
“Too bad there’s no pool,” said Brad, gazing out onto the patio. “Bit of a swim, no salt sticking to you for the rest of the day. That would hit the spot.”
Melissa turned to Simon, and her face, which had been so full of light, looked fractured, as if she was barely holding in a sob. It was so surprising I didn’t know what to say, but Kristen saw it too, and turned abruptly to Brad.
“Let’s get ready, Brad,” she said. “I think you’ve had enough coffee.”
There was something in her voice that I hadn’t heard before. Her soft British vowels and tight consonants were almost gone and she sounded like an American, all the Mary Poppins falling away. It made her sound sharp, forceful. Brad said nothing but got to his feet. I focused on stirring my coffee, as if I had stumbled onto something embarrassing.
“What crawled up his ass?” Simon muttered once they were out of earshot.
“Simon!” Melissa scolded.
“He’s being a prick,” said Simon. “Was he always a prick? I don’t remember.”
I wanted to say yes, he always kind of was, but we liked him anyway because he was usually funny with it and was mostly a prick to other people. He was the one with the snide remarks about the fat German on the beach, the one who teased the cab drivers for the age of their cars and mocked the waitresses for their patchy English, using words he knew they wouldn’t understand, then translating with even harder words. He did it gently, playfully, always with a smile so no one could take offense, but yes, he’d always been sort of a prick. The only thing that was new was his directing it at us. I wondered why.
“I’m gonna go get ready,” said Melissa. “Don’t take all day.”
“Absolutely, your highness,” said Simon. Melissa tapped his cheek lightly as she walked by, and he grinned after her just as her voice came back from the foyer.
“See any birds?” she called as she made for the stairs.
“A few.”
It was Marcus’s voice. Gretchen winced, suddenly small and chastened, and I turned to see that he had just walked in, looking braced and happy.
“What a day!” he said.