‘No, it’s all right. I’ll just run a bath and watch something cheery. MaybeHappy Valley. Everyone’s been on about it for ages.’
I didn’t correct her – she’d find out soon enough thatHappy Valleywas about as cheery as a migraine. And disappointed that she’d turned me down, I tried to sound upbeat. ‘Good plan, Claude. Call you tomorrow?’
‘Okay. Bye.’
She ended our call halfway through me sayingI love you.
I flopped backwards onto the enormous bed, sinking into the luxurious linens, my eyes drooping. The queasiness from the helicopter ride had receded but fatigue was advancing fast. I could easily have drifted off –ifthere weren’t the pressing matter of my job!
I heaved myself off the bed and wandered over to my tote where I retrieved my laptop. I searched for the WiFi password, finding it on the large oak desk, and was soon logged in.
I scanned Maya’s marketing plan again, then opened the itinerary from Julian’s team – it was packed to the brim. Between photoshoots, filming sessions, excursions, activities, and product promotions – some of them to be live-streamed – I would barely have a moment to catch my breath.
It was probably a good thing Claude wasn’t coming. It had been naïve of me to think there’d be any time for R&R.
‘This isn’t a holiday, Ally,’ I reminded myself.
‘It never is,’ I replied.
Wonderful – not only was I talking to myself, I was replying. But I had a point. Whenwasthe last time I’d been on a proper holiday? I ran through my recent trips, crossing them off one by one when I recalled the work angle.
Six days spent at a resort in Cabo San Lucas: a conference for female leaders. Two days sailing along the coast of Croatia: a photoshoot for an up-and-coming swimwear designer. Three nights in a treetop lodge in Thailand: trialling a yoga retreat for newly single women. I was the only one who didn’t cry the whole time – even the woman running the retreat was in a bad place emotionally. I told so many sobbing womenYou’ll get through thisthat it sparked inspiration for a line of merchandise.
Amazing experiences, each one – but they were far from holidays.
And then I remembered: the last time I’d been on a proper, read-by-the-pool, get-a-daily-massage, sip-cocktails-at-sunset holiday was with Julian aboard his super yacht two and a half years ago. The trip where I caught him in the captain’s cabin with Ebba.
It turns out that catching your husband with another woman tends to take the shine off a holiday.
As I sank onto the plush linen sofa, a realisation landed. It wasmewho needed time on Aetheria to decompress, to rest, toheal… Well, Claude did too, but I was always telling our followers that self-care is not selfish. Maybe it was time I started taking my own advice.
Only when I eyed my laptop again, I sighed. I may have needed a holiday, but Aetheria was not it. I was there to work. Full stop.
So, I tore into the box and started decanting products onto the coffee table, then set up my travel tripod and clipped in my phone. Divorced Diva mode activated, I broke into a wide smile, held up a delicious-smelling beeswax candle from one of our partners, and pressed record.
* * *
‘My god, Ally, you’rebreathtaking.’
There’s something you need to understand about the Divorced Diva. She’shot– a total smoke show, as the Americans say.
She wears figure-hugging dresses to dinner, low-cut jumpsuits with tailored jackets to work, matching crop tops and booty shorts to the gym, and bikinis by the pool.
Her body is sculpted by Pilates, her skin smoothed by treatments, and her platinum-blonde hair kept silky and lush thanks to £600 salon appointments. Makeup flawless, accessories on point – bags, shoes, jewellery – and she smells divine, as if anointed by Aphrodite herself.
And yes, I’m aware that describing oneself in the third person is almost as troubling as talking to oneself, but I’ve come to think of the Diva as a persona – someone separate from the real me. Abrand.
When it’s just me – no cameras, no followers about – I’m happiest in old trackies, an oversized hoodie, and Uggs, my hair in a messy bun and zero makeup.
But Wonder Woman has her gold tiara and lasso of truth, Black Widow has her leather catsuit and pistols, and the Divorced Diva? She’s armed with a bold red lip, a slinky dress, and killer stilettos.
So, when I say I showed up to Julian’s island ready to work, I shouldn’t have been surprised that I took his breath away. But I couldn’t have him hyperventilating whenever he saw me –especiallyafter that flirtatious greeting. Maybe our well-established boundaries would need to be reinforced.
I gave him a friendly smile as he pushed my chair in, then reached for the menu, salivating as I scanned the offerings.
‘This all looks incredible, Jules,’ I said, my eyes not leaving the menu.
‘Itisincredible. The chef – she’s a genius – she hastwoMichelin stars. I had to pay her an obscene amount of money to convince her to leave Athens.’
