But sure enough, the best footballer in the world eats it up, practically right out of her hand.
“Sí, To hell with Barcelona,” he spits as he re-buttons his shirt. “I have bigger plans.”
“You know,” she poses, “when you finally buy your new place, I know one of the top interior designers in the world.”
Sebastian creases his brow, frowning at her as though she’s offered to paint his nails or play with Barbies together.
“She designed one of Lionel Messi’s residences.”
The name rings a bell for me but just seems to make Sebastian angry.
She continues on, “and Javier Bardem, not to mention Jay-Z and Beyonce’s home in…oh, I forget which city, but they vacation there often.”
This bit of name dropping, which I now realize is bullshit, plays perfectly for Sebastian.
“Really?” He asks, suddenly interested.
“Oh yes. But…” the woman pouts thoughtfully, “she only works in certain cities and countries, and the waitlist…” she shrugs as if to indicate it may be a while. “I could call and ask if she’d be interested. Barcelona is a bit out of the way for her, though.”
“Not Barcelona,” he leans in closer to her. “Brussels.”
“Son of a bitch,” the man next to me whispers under his breath, so low I barely hear it. I turn to see an impressed smile on his face, as though he’s just been made privy to some exciting revelation.
“Really?” The woman responds, eyes widening innocently. “I’m certain she could manage that city quite easily.”
Sebastian seems to suddenly regret revealing so much, his mouth turning down in a frown and an angry crease coming to his brow.
“But only you know that,” he says, pointing one warning finger her way.
As though everyone on this half of the table didn’t hear it all.
“My lips are sealed,” she says with a wink, pretending to turn a key in her mouth.
Sebastian sits back in his chair, seemingly placated. I don’t miss the knowing smirk she gives to Simon sitting next to me.
What the hell was that about?
* * *
“For those of you interested, there will be post-dinner brandy and cigars in the sitting room downstairs,” Magnus announces.
With the exception of Simon next to me and his wife across the table, everyone seems enthusiastic about the idea, especially Sebastian. The husband and wife make their goodbyes and leave, Simon seemingly satisfied with his takeaway for the night.
I personally have had enough of El León to last a lifetime, as entertaining as he is. Besides, I’ve never smoked cigars, and for once, I’m trying to limit my alcohol intake. Other than the introductory champagne, I’ve only had a single glass during our meal.
Like a good hostess, or at least the partner of the host, I follow them down to the lower level. Sebastian’s two cohorts are performing like geishas, cutting and lighting his cigar, and bringing him his brandy. One even comes around to massage his shoulders while he takes his first puff.
Ruben is well past three sheets to the wind, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he managed to go out like a lightbulb in the middle of smoking his cigar and set the boat on fire.
I walk further out to the deck for some fresh air and to enjoy the marvelous view. With my back turned on the rest of the party, I once again find myself in awe of the city spread out above me.
New York is comparatively flat and even the bright lights of that city—at least beyond Times Square, which is almost gleeful in its overly-stimulating commercialism—still manage to have an industrial feel about them. You know that each one of those lights on the skyline of the Big Apple is some worker bee putting in extra hours because that city never sleeps.
Just the name Monte Carlo seems to tinge each one of those lights above me with a majestic air. No pushing paper or slaving over computers up in those dotted hills.
“It does tend to mesmerize, doesn’t it?”
I turn to find the woman who was sitting across from me walking out, holding two champagne flutes. She hands me one. “It helps that at least the champagne is quality.”
I eye it for only a moment and, realizing that my prior drinks have yet to have much of an effect on me, I take it. It can only enhance this surreal experience.
“Lara,” she says by way of introduction. “I didn’t get a chance to introduce myself what with El León regaling us over dinner.”
A diplomatic way of putting it. I turn to look inside at the men doing their manly thing. Sebastian seems to be holding court, with Magnus seeming to pay attention to his every word, and Ruben in a half-daze.
“Ruben Bakker seems…interesting.”
She laughs lightly. “You’re too kind. The man is a perfect boor.”
“Hmm,” I say into a sip of champagne.
“You can go ahead and ask,” she says with a cunning smile.
I blink in surprise and look at her in a new light.
“So, you’re a…?” I avoid saying the word, not wanting to offend her.
“Yes,” she says with a smile.
I surreptitiously look her up and down again. Lisette had more of a sex kitten vibe about her.
Lara, wearing a long, champagne-colored spaghetti-strap gown, has the sort of blue-blooded patrician looks that seem better suited for accompanying a diplomat to a state dinner. Which I suppose is the point.
“I prefer the word courtesan,” she says, no doubt noting my curiosity. “It harkens back to a more refined era when such things weren’t so frowned upon. Once upon a time, women like me were the most powerful women in Europe—and the most liberated,” Lara says, lifting her glass loftily into the air with a slightly ironic gaze.
She turns back to me. “Don’t get it wrong. This isn’t me claiming that grad school or a nine-to-five job is for suckers. I just decided to forgo that form of torture for one that had a bit more champagne wishes and caviar dreams.”
“Can I ask why? You seem like you could do almost
