Des had looked a tad glassy-eyed, too, before the men had headed off to play golf and the women had settled to be massaged and beautified in their suites by a bevy of therapists Colette had employed on the Saturday afternoon. That had gone down very well, she thought, satisfied. And tomorrow she was going to have one of the therapists come over and massage her from head to toe, and give her a de luxe facial and to hell with the cost. She had worked her ass off this weekend being the perfect hostess. She deserved it.
Her taut, flat stomach gave a delicate little rumble and she realized she was hungry. She had had hardly any appetite for the rich food served by the chef who came with the villa, being far too stressed to actually enjoy a meal. That was no bad thing. She had to keep a strict watch on her calorie intake, she was determined to maintain her superb figure. Despite her spinning and cardiovascular workouts, and her jogs around the reservoir in Central Park, her tush was not as high and pert as it had once been.
There was some salmon and lobster left; she could have that with a salad but she’d have to get it herself. She had sent the staff home when they had cleaned up after the delicious lunch they had served to her departing guests. She’d eat soon and this time she’d enjoy every morsel of her food. How liberating not to have to talk to anyone, or keep an eagle eye out to make sure glasses were replenished with champers, costly wines and brandies. No one to worry about but herself. A rare and prized occurrence. Bliss!
She lay languidly in the balmy trade-wind breezes listening to the rhythmic, soothing swish of the gentle waves lapping against the curve of white-sanded beach fringed with palm trees and watching a gleaming white cruise liner glide serenely towards North Caicos. Colette drifted off to sleep.
When she awoke the sky was crimson, the setting sun a globe of molten gold dipping into a gilded sea, the fronds of the darkening palm trees silhouetted against the sky. She had slept for over two hours and she felt surprisingly refreshed. She slipped her sandals onto her feet and wrapped her sarong around her. She was starving.
What she’d really love was one of Ishmael’s kebabs, Colette thought longingly, remembering the mouthwatering late-night feast she and Hilary had often shared on Baggot Street, after a night out in one of the ritzy nightclubs on the Lesson Street strip. The spicy sauce dripping from the wrap into her mouth. Colette smiled, remembering how sophisticated they had thought they were queuing for Zhivago’s in a dingy lane off Baggot Street, or waiting for Maurice peering out through the peephole in Samantha’s to give them the once-over. Barbarella’s, Sloopy’s, Lord John’s: the nightclub names from her youth came flooding back and she suddenly felt a fierce wave of loneliness for home.
Where had that come from? Colette wondered, wishing she had Hilary here to share memories with and to confide how drained she was and how disenchanted she was becoming with life in the Big Apple. Hilary was the only one in the world she could admit that to and not feel a failure. There was not one friend or acquaintance on this side of the Pond that she could make that pronouncement to, secure in the knowledge that it would not be wafted along in Chinese whispers to all and sundry. Hilary would hate her lifestyle, Colette thought, remembering how her friend would far prefer to go to a trad session than a sophisticated nightclub.
They hadn’t been in touch for ages. They had drifted apart over the past few years, having nothing much in common, each of them immersed in their own busy lives and careers. What she wouldn’t give to have Hilary here now sharing a bottle of wine, and a meal on the moonlit deck, so that she could have a good old moan about Des and his never-ending, relentless pursuit of wealth and success. And to confide that she and Jasmine had just as prickly a relationship as Colette had with Jacqueline. Her teenage daughter was in boarding school in Upstate New York preparing for university. They were currently fighting about which one she should apply for. Colette had suggested Sarah Lawrence but Jazzy wasn’t having any of it. ‘I’m not going to a finishing school for young ladies,’ she sneered dismissively. ‘I want to go to Berkeley.’
‘You are going to an East Coast university, miss, so you can forget about Berkeley,’ Colette assured her, much to her daughter’s disgust. When Jazzy had heard that Des was renting a jet to come down to the islands she had thrown a tantrum and insisted she wanted to come on the jaunt, despite it being term time. Another row had ensued, and now she wasn’t talking to either of her parents. Did Hilary have as much trouble with Sophie and Millie? she wondered. The last time she had seen them, a few years ago, they were so sweet and polite and she had been mortified by Jasmine’s thoroughly bad behaviour in comparison.
She walked past the shimmering pool and masses of fragrant flowering shrubs towards the villa, wondering why she had thought of Hilary and their carefree, giddy nights of so long ago. It seemed like another lifetime, and so far removed from the world she inhabited now.
She knew why she had thought of the succulent kebabs of her youth. She knew what this whole weekend had been
