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“Exactly!”
“What’s the deal with them, anyway?” I ask. “They’re supposed to be Avery’s friends, but none of them seem all that… friendly.”
Brooke gives a sigh. “They’re backstabbing bitches, you mean? Pretty much. Hollywood friendships run shallow. I get the feeling any one of them would shove her off a cliff and walk down the aisle with Robert instead, if it got them closer to thatVoguecover. So, a little backup would be nice,” she adds, batting her eyelashes.
I smile. “I’ll see if I can swing an appearance,” I agree. “After I read the riot act to these damn wedding planners, and make sure we’ve got Raid to spare for the cruise tonight.”
“Better find some Dramamine, too,” Brooke advises.
“Good point.” I make a note. “Haute cuisine and choppy waters don’t mix!”
I spendthe morning making a tour of the resort, making sure everything’s on track for tonight’s big event. The guests are all being boated out to a desert island for a lavish dinner, where they’ll be treated to themed games, food, and entertainment from some Vegas-hot DJs – all on a remote sandbar that has no running water or electricity.
At least, not unless we set it up.
There are about five million things that could go wrong with the plan, so I need to make sure we have five million and one solutions ready. Nils and Nella don’t apologize for the fly swarm debacle, not exactly, but they do agree to send an extra boat over packed with bug-repellant, netting, and enough motion-sickness tablets to feed a small army.
“We’ve got florals covered and they flew in a backup chef to oversee the catering… are the weather reports are still clear for tonight?” I ask Anna, as we go down our list.
“I’ve got a contact at the national weather center, and I’m refreshing the live feed every five minutes,” she reports. “Nothing but clear skies ahead.”
“Good.” I pause on the terrace, and look around. “Wow, it’s quiet.” The pool area and bar are empty, and the place it almost eerily calm.
“The menfolk are still off playing golf, and everyone’s at the spa,” Anna explains.
“Oh, right. Avery invited me to come join them for some treatments. Want to come with?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “I was going to catch a boat over, and supervise the tank installation.”
“Right,” I remember. "That modern artist Robert commissioned.” He’s created some massive fish tank neon art piece that they’re hoisting out to our desert island for the night. “Maybe I should go, too…”
“You’re going to be spending all evening stuck on that damn island,” Anna points out. “You should relax while you have the chance.”
“I’m not sure an afternoon with the bridal party counts as relaxation, but I better check in with them, and see if there’s any fires to put out. Text me if you need anything!” I tell her, and then head down to the spa complex. It’s set on the hillside with gorgeous views of the bay: a series of low, whitewashed buildings arranged around a central open-air pavilion. That’s where I find the bridesmaids: lounging on couches and treatment chairs in thick, fluffy robes, sipping champagne and being tended to by a battalion of beauty therapists.
“Hazel! You’re here!” Ivy intercepts me the minute I arrive, and drags me off to a quiet corner. “Thank God. It’s like I crash-landed on a foreign planet here,” she hisses at me, her face covered in a gritty grey gunk with her glasses perched on top. “These women arenotthe same species as me. Or tax bracket,” she adds.
“Nice mask,” I grin, looking around. “Where’s Brooke?”
“Off somewhere with Avery, taking ‘candid’ pics. I’ve had nobody to protect me,” she adds. “Once they found out I was here with Reeve, it was open season. Half of them think I’m a jumped-up nobody, and the other half want me to make him cast them in his next movie!”
One of the therapists comes over, a brisk-looking woman in a spotless white smock. “Would you like an exfoliating scrub, too?” she asks, with a Russian accent. Behind her, Ivy shakes her head vigorously.
“Umm, no thanks,” I say quickly.
“Mummy wrap? Hot stones? Pedicure?”
“The last one,” I blurt, since it sounds the least painful.
She nods. “I’ll fetch the biting fish.”
“The what?!” I exclaim, but she’s already gone. I turn to Ivy. “She was joking, right? Right?”
“I guess we’re about to find out!”
I accept a glass of freshly-squeezed papaya juice and make a beeline for the buffet. There are trays of untouched snacks set around the room: delicate desserts, and exotic fruits, and charcuterie boards that look like works of art. I only had time to grab a croissant from the kitchens this morning, so I load up a plate before settling in a treatment chair and digging in.
“I’m sorry about last night and the attack of the flies,” Ivy comments, sipping her own coupe of champagne. “Did you get any sleep in the end, cleaning up that mess?”
