The helicopter banked and my stomach lurched, but before I could start fantasising about returning to Athens by boat, the resort appeared, hugging the southeast coast. It was the only structure on the island and whoever Julian’s architect was, they’d absolutely smashed it.
Whitewashed villas dotted the wide terraces, their flat roofs gleaming under the Aegean sun and each one cocooned in lush greenery. Stone pathways meandered through manicured gardens, where bursts of bougainvillea and oleander painted the landscape in pinks and reds, visible even from the air. Closer to the shore, sleek cabanas lined the crescent-shaped beach, positioned to gaze out over a single pier that reached into the aquamarine sea. And midway down the hillside, a long, whitewashed building commanded attention, its flagstone patio stretching beside an impossibly long infinity pool.
It was breathtaking – a sanctuary carved into the rugged beauty of the island, clearly designed for those who expected luxury.
After sweeping over the resort, we hovered above the helipad, downwash bending the tops of nearby Cyprus trees, and slowly lowered to the ground. A man was standing off to the side awaiting our arrival and it took me a sec to realise it was Julian.
He looked handsome, as always – his dark-blond hair greying at the temples, his skin bronzed save for the laugh lines around his eyes – but the Julian I knew wouldneverwear head-to-toe white linen orsandals. Oh, the horror! But there he was, the picture of ashram chic, his hands resting in his trouser pockets and one hip slightly cocked.
This was a less buttoned-up, lessaffectedversion of Julian.
The pilot got out and opened the door for me, and I gratefully stepped onto terra firma. Julian came forward, smiling, and grasped both my hands in his.
‘Welcome to Aetheria,’ he said, leaning down to kiss one cheek then the other.
‘Thanks, Jules.’
He smelled great – Julian always does – but this scent was a stark contrast to his signature spicy cologne. It was citrusy with a hint of sea salt. Or that could have been the light breeze that was catching the loose tendrils around my face.
‘You look absolutely beautiful,’ he said, taking a step back to look me up and down. It was impossible to ignore the flirtatious glint in his eyes, which gave me pause.
Typically, Julian respected the invisible border I’d erected when we divorced. But there was nothing typical about this (literally) unbuttoned version of Julian – Julian 2.0. My eyes dropped to his chest, most of which was on display, and when I lifted my gaze, he was grinning cheekily. Oh god, he must have thought I was flirting back. Only I wasn’t.
‘You cad,’ I said with a laugh, adding a half-serious finger wag that would’ve made Claude proud. ‘I’m here for work and that’sall.’
‘Well, you can’t blame a man for hoping,’ he said with a droll smile. His words hung in the air for several seconds, then he broke eye contact and threw his arms out wide. ‘So, what do you think?’
Glad to move on to the reason I was there, I beamed at him. ‘Oh, Jules. It’s just magical. And it clearly agrees with you – you seem almost…relaxed,’ I teased.
He sniggered, clearly chuffed.
‘It is magical,’ he agreed, ‘and this is just the helipad. Come on, let me show you around.’ He offered his arm, and I slipped my hand into the crook of his elbow.
2
Thought of the day…
Putting yourself first is not selfish.
It’s self-care.
(Just tell everyone else to bugger off. But in a nice way.)
I know how privileged I am.
My life is extraordinary by most people’s measure, something I’m acutely aware of. Jetting about, dining in the world’s best restaurants, wearing beautiful clothes, indulging in luxurious experiences like being on Aetheria…
But that doesn’t mean my life is perfect. I’m still human. I have fears and doubts; I wrestle with moments of sadness and longing. A swipe of bright-red lipstick can work wonders, giving me a bold façade of confidence, but there are days when it does little more than stain my lips.
And there’s far more to Divorced Diva than what’s visible on social media. Our charity partnerships typically happen quietly, behind the scenes. For every photo of me with a cocktail in hand, there’s a meet-and-greet with single parents who need help finding a job or a place to live.
The outward-facing Diva funds the causes that matter, the ones that allow me –us– to make a difference. Just like I dreamed of back in the tiny flat I shared with Tommy when we first married and subsisted on beans on toast.
Back then, Tommy was my person, but after we split, Claude became that person. She knows the real me better than anyone – not just the Diva, but the woman underneath.
I don’t know what I’d do without her.
‘Well, how’s it going?’ she asked – as usual, no chit chat, just straight into it.
