“It was fifty. You left a generous tip.” He smiled. “Right? Right?”
“If you insist.” She sipped from the bottled water before her. “Still, I don’t like that word.”
He shrugged. “Call a spade a spade. Wait. Is that racist? I’m sorry.”
“Probably. Have we ordered yet?”
“Just drinks. It’s family style tonight.”
Her “family” on this trip—if that was indeed what they were—were a motley crew. Eccentric, indulgent egoists. But to Cecilia, they were fascinating. This late in the week, everyone was glowing from their time in the sun. She wondered how others saw them, this international coven with their fabulous accessories and assorted accents.
They were seated on the terrace, once again, beneath a pristine sky. No glare of lights to mar the celestial view. The moon a slip in the distance. And stretched out before them, the peninsula coastline and the Sea of Cortez.
All twenty-three were jammed in around an extended table. Bluevotives and boughs of bougainvillea in between bowls of chips and guacamole and ceviche. Elliot was in one corner chatting up Rafaella and Hugh. Bas was snuggled between Paola and Katrine. Didier and Beatriz were at one end of the table, Jean-Luc and Rafaella at the other. Maren, almost unrecognizable with her hair down and in a black linen dress, was flanked by Italians.
“Italians love the blonds,” Sarah had informed Cecilia the day they shot on the boat. “Do you see them falling over themselves for Katrine and Maren?”
“Hmm,” Cecilia had murmured in response. Didn’t theworldlove blonds?
She’d come into the cabin to set up a light for Sarah and Santiago in the space where they’d planned to do their touch-ups. And when Sandro, the marketing VP, had poked his head into the room and, finding no models, just as quickly shuffled out, Sarahtsked.
“Quite certain I know who that one’s looking for. Third time he’s popped up randomly. Anyway,” she’d continued, leaning into Cecilia, and lowering her voice, “the blonds, they don’t age well, pet. You and I will be much better off. You’ve got more natural protection and us redheads wear hats. Still,sunscreen. If I can give women any advice, it’s to wear sunscreen. Hydrate. And don’t smoke. Also, sleep. Sleep is good. Do you use eye cream yet?” She’d changed tack.
“I’m twenty-six.”
“Start now. I have a lovely new one from Japan, I just gave two jars of it to Jaya. But I’ll ask her to give you one. Start now,” she’d repeated. “Time goes faster than you think.”
“She went to the bathroom,” Marc said now.
“Who?”
“Anouk. I assume that’s who you’re looking for.”
“Actually, I was looking for the waiter, so I could order a drink.”
Marc nodded slowly. “Well, I guess you’re in luck.”
They appeared almost simultaneously. The waiter with a laden tray, and Anouk in a rust-colored halter dress that Cecilia found stunning against her complexion.
“Ça va?” Anouk smiled, sliding into her seat.
Cecilia could smell whatever it was she’d used on her skin or hair. Faint notes of amber and spice.
“Señoras, something to drink?”
“Please. A margarita. On the rocks. No salt.”
“Una margarita también. Pero… frozen…y con fresas.” Anouk beamed up at the waiter. “They don’t have these in France,” she commented to Cecilia. “It’s really good. Like candy,non?”
“Like candy. Yes.”
For a moment Anouk held her gaze. A curious expression painted on her face. Part inquisitive, part amused. Cecilia wished that she could read it. That she could better understand the French.
“C’est joli, tes cheveux,” Anouk said, eventually.
“Thank you.” Cecilia blushed, tucking her hair behind one ear. She had worn it down for her.
“I was afraid you weren’t going to come.”
