Page 35 of The Cruiser
Morgan explains the protocol to me once they’re done. “Fernanda is the gatekeeper—a necessity at these events. Everyone wants to look. We go by appointment only, especially since the owner isn’t here.”
A shame for the attendees, because who doesn’t want to look? I’ve seen yachts in magazines and movies and never felt even a slight tinge of interest. But it’s altogether different when an improbably ginormous and gorgeous work of art bobs before my eyes. I feel the pull of it, a new and intriguing sensation. Morgan helps me on board and despite her size, Catch Me rocks gently with the current. I’m glad I wore flats.
Morgan gives me a quick tour of the yacht, sharing anecdotes about various design features and why he chose certain things. From the hull design to maximize mileage to the colour scheme of navy and arctic white to appeal to the Finnish roots of the owners, he considered every detail. The master bath is a knockout with a rare marble soaker tub surrounded by windows. I see myself drinking wine by candlelight while watching the moon. Back in the bedroom, I admire a Damien Hirst painting of cherry blossoms framed in gold. It adds just the right pop of color.
“Stunning all around,” I say. “You did the exterior and the interior?”
“Start to finish."
“Your aesthetic is a perfect balance of masculine and feminine. Not easy to accomplish.”
“Thank you.” Sensing more than generic interest, he adds, “Interiors are challenging. I have to understand the owner, how they live, how they entertain. How they love. The personal details make all the difference.”
“I bet.” I run my hand along the shimmering bedspread, a masterpiece of woven silk. If any bed screams take me down, it’s this one. I wonder if that made it into the design brief.
“You’re smiling,” Morgan says.
“It’s very much my taste.”
“Wait until you experience the Liberté.”
My eyes flicker to his. “I imagine she’s your most intimate creation.”
“Design perfection,” he says, mouth curling into that seductive smile. “If there is such a thing.”
Is it me, or is it suddenly very warm in here? Like maybe we shouldn’t be standing so close together in case I spontaneously combust. At the very least, he should button up his shirt. A slab of golden pecs staring me in the face all day will not make my job any easier. But Morgan isn't a fan of ties or socks, I discovered. When I asked earlier if he had forgotten them, he said they remind him of land and all the constraints that come with it.
“Let’s go upstairs,” he says. “I’ll introduce you to everyone and show you the top deck.”
Morgan's team has set up shop in the upper salon, a sophisticated, tasteful space perfect for discussing deals worth millions. A circular dining table large enough to be a dance floor has pens and notepads laid neatly on crisp napkins in front of each of the ten chairs. In the far corner sits a baby grand piano, the white lacquered surface shining like an ice rink in the sun. Bouquets of blush roses scattered about lend a touch of fragrance to the air. Morgan introduces his junior designer team, two young men who arrived yesterday with Fernanda to get things in order. Henri, French and fabulous in a pinstriped suit, and Alessandro, all mussed hair and Italian charm. They take me in with well-mannered curiosity. I get the impression a woman is a rare sighting within the upper echelon of Royal Morgan Yachts. Morgan addresses them in rapid-fire French that sounds more like orders than friendly conversation.
With last-minute preparations underway, Morgan leads me up a curving stairwell. A pool on the top deck with a 360-degree view leaves me laughing at how outrageous it all is.
This isn’t luxury. It’s super luxury. The best of the best.
"Okay, I'm hooked," I say. "If this was mine, I'd never leave."
“It’s freeing, no? Knowing you can take off and leave everything behind.”
Standing at the prow, he points out the shipyard across the harbor, two ocean liners docked for repair. Beyond that, to our left, waves roll out to the horizon. The subtle, soothing motion of the ocean beneath me is like sitting in a comfy rocking chair. Not once did I ever consider living on a boat, but against the backdrop of the sea and dazzling sun, I can see it now. Zoom calls in bikini bottoms. No traffic to fight. A glass of champagne at sunset, skin warm and salty.
“Morgan?” Henri’s voice calls up from the salon. “Giancarlo’s on his way.”
I turn to find Morgan studying me. Like he’s trying to figure something out. “You’ll like Giancarlo,” he says. “He’s a character.”
“How did the relationship start?”
“My VP Olivier knew his cousin and introduced us. You’ll meet Olivier in Monaco. He came down with a bug and isn’t here this weekend.”
We make our way back to the stairwell, me descending first. “Has he been with the company for a while?”
“Five years, although we go way back. We met at boarding school. I lost a few deals in my twenties because of him,” he admits. “Yacht brokers are a nefarious sort. They pit designers against each other and act as a go-between with us and the client. I decided to close the gap. Hire the enemy.”
“Has that been a good strategy?”
He stops on the bottom stair and something in his face changes. “More or less.”
I get the vague notion his reply is layered, although there’s no time to unpack details. Back on the salon level, Morgan indicates where he and I will sit at the table for the meetings. I’m a silent observer today, jotting down questions for clarification later. A tanned and pony-tailed female crew member appears from the lower deck, nods politely, and sets heavy crystal glasses and frosty bottles of San Pellegrino on the table. Morgan mentioned earlier the captain and crew remain with the yacht for security reasons while she’s docked here. Morgan pours us both a glass of water just as Henri reappears. Strutting beside him is a buff, olive-skinned man with piercing eyes and dark, flowing hair pretty enough to be mine.
Giancarlo Berretti. An Italian Formula 1 racer.
On his third wife. Second boat. The first appointment of the day.
Morgan flashes a megawatt smile although his outstretched hand hangs in space, unshaken. Giancarlo gawks at me like a fat kid lusting after a lollipop.
I smile and introduce myself and Henri settles at my side with his Moleskine notebook. Across the table, he and Alessandro share a look.
Today just got interesting.
