Page 25 of The Cruiser
ChapterTen
Curbside,the Monaco Yacht Club is unassuming. Minimalist entrance, a major thoroughfare just outside, cars roaring past. Nothing to suggest yachts worth billions bob in the marina behind it. But inside, one of the world’s most famous marine clubs lives up to its lofty reputation. Airy and chic with travertine floors so pristine, I almost check my shoes in case I carry in a speck of dirt.
Lunch is on the third floor, on a covered outdoor deck with a prime view of the harbor. A waiter leads us past tables full of middle-aged men, well-groomed with expensive watches. Their conversations are quiet with the hush of serious money. One or two nod in cool acknowledgment at Morgan; another gives the French version of a stink eye. None stand to shake hands or engage in pleasantries. They have no trouble staring at me though.
Our table is in a cozy corner, no one at the tables next to us. “Will you be dining from the buffet or á la carte?” our waiter inquires.
“Two buffets,” says Morgan. “And a bottle of the Domaine Vacheron Sancerre.” The waiter nods and pulls my chair out, but Morgan advises him we’ll seat ourselves. “I want to show you something before we eat,” he explains.
As he steers me to the deck railing, his hand on the small of my back feels territorial, a response to the hard, unfriendly looks following us.
“This is Port Hercules. Home base for the Monaco show,” he says. “And that’s one of my designs.” He points to a dramatic, grey-hulled yacht in a nearby berth. “Le Debut.”
The sinuous lines are, for lack of a better word, sexy. She’s also massive, dominating every other vessel, which is no small feat in a harbor filled with boats of staggering sizes.
“They’re all gigantic,” I marvel. “Is yours that big?”
At that exact moment, all other sounds cease, and my voice carries to the farthest reaches of the deck. A few titters rise from the lunch crowd and Morgan, mercifully, says nothing. But he’s smiling a little as he draws my attention to a yacht of less exotic design.
“You see that one with the helicopter on the deck? That’s eighty meters. Boat sizes are measured in meters,” he explains. “Mine is fifty meters. A baby in comparison.”
“What is that in feet?”
“It’s about half the size of an American football field. Big enough, no?”
His smile opens up, a man comfortable enough in his own skin to drop penis jokes on day one. Technically I started it, and at this rate my foot will be firmly lodged down my throat by the end of the trip.
“Ma cheri! Long time no seeing.”
The bemused twinkle in Morgan’s eyes dims as he looks past me. I glance over my shoulder at the mini-me version of Gigi Hadid strutting over. She drapes a bracelet-laden, chummy arm around Morgan, and I can smell the Chanel No. 5 coming off her in waves. I own the same Hervé Léger bandage dress, although she fills it in with boobs two bra sizes bigger than mine. Like those who-wore-it-better pictures in US Weekly, I concede defeat.
By the slimmest margin.
Morgan ducks the woman’s pouty-lipped kisses, simultaneously shrugging off her arm. “What are you doing here?”
“Same as you,” she coos. “Living la dolce vita.”
Morgan rolls his eyes. “Vandana, this is Perla. She’s Monaco’s local gossip queen.”
Perla swats him with her YSL clutch. “I am not. I just know everyone and everythings.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say, certain her mane of blonde locks owes a debt to the extension industry.
Perla sizes me up in similar fashion. “You the American. The PR agent.”
“Co-president of a PR company,” I correct her, wondering if, and why, Morgan told her about me. I can’t place her accent, but her look is Eastern Bloc bedazzled.
“We’re about to have lunch, but Gregoire is over there if you’re on your usual prowl.” Morgan dismisses her, pointing at some indeterminate table across the deck.
“Prowl? I seem to recall I provide comfort?” Her heavily lined eyes land squarely on Morgan, and never have I seen such a reductive stare. There’s obviously some history between them, judging from Morgan’s sudden interest in the teak flooring. One down, Perla’s gaze sharpens on me next. “I don’t understand fascination with American women. So … in your face.”
Wow. There’s nothing I despise more than women who treat other women with disrespect. But if she’s going for full bitch mode, challenge accepted. “Perhaps being capable, strong, and successful is out of your wheelhouse,” I say, sweetly. “People fear what they can’t understand.”
I indulge in Perla’s reassessment of me while Morgan’s slack jaw does a bad job of hiding his surprise.
“I understand fine,” she says with a flip of her hair. “You’re on learning curve. Have fun. And don’t be disappointed.” She pats Morgan’s shoulder consolingly. “Maybe hope she’s miracle worker. Khaled commission is anyone’s game.”
She flounces off and loudly pronounces, “Ciao, Gregoire,” before plunking herself down in front of a bearded man nibbling on lobster.
