“This isn’t about me,” said Lee.
“It’s always about you,” spat Regan. She pushed open the ladies’ room door and disappeared. Lee breathed in and out, trying to compose herself. When she felt calm, she walked outside and hailed a cab. She was back in Los Angeles by the next day.
Leewasthe Beautiful One; she always had been. Winston had taught Lee that her looks were her strength. She was still relying on them, hoping to use them to secure a job she wasn’t sure she wanted. She had nothing else: no family, no skills, no home.
CHARLOTTE WAS WORN OUT.Instead of setting an alarm to make the day tour of Florence, she’d slept in, deciding after breakfast to simply wander around the port city. She felt proud of herself as she disembarked. Here she was: a modern gal on her own in Livorno, Italy! It was crowded and, okay, filthy, but a very nice Nigerian man sold her a faux-Gucci purse that sure did look like the real thing. Charlotte longed for Minnie, who would have loved Charlotte’s chutzpah. What Charlotte wouldn’t give to buy a fake Gucci bag for her friend.
Charlotte was walking down a crowded street full of cafés when she spotted Paros, her porter, handsome even out of uniform. He turned in to a coffee shop and Charlotte, feeling brazen, followed. (“You hussy, you!” she heard Minnie exclaim happily.) The shop was filled with young people smoking and eating gelato at the same time. It was strange to see Paros sitting at a small, circular table, his skin pale under fluorescent lights.
“Ciao!” said Charlotte, sashaying toward him and putting her hand on her hip.
“Charlotte!” said Paros. “Please, please join me.”
“Don’t mind if I do,” said Charlotte. Paros wore street clothes, and old ones at that—faded corduroy pants, a jacket that looked like something a farmer would wear, odd shoes. He was, in fact, a farmer, he told Charlotte, after she had ordered an espresso. He had been aretiredfarmer, but then the Greek economy had collapsed, and with it, his savings.
“I had to go back to work,” he said, stirring a sugar packet into his coffee. “My children depend on me.”
“Mine, too,” sighed Charlotte. “Well, I don’t know if they depend on me, but they…” She shook her head, feeling deflated.
“They’re going to be fine,” said Paros.
“I know,” said Charlotte, flustered. “Well, I can sayI know,but to be honest, I don’t know.”
“I’m only glad I have held on to my home,” said Paros, adroitly changing the subject. “I harvest olives and my home is a short walk to the beach.”
“That sounds really nice,” said Charlotte.
“What about you?” said Paros. “Tell me about your home.”
“Oh,” said Charlotte. “It’s small but I do love it. My condo overlooks a golf course, rolling greens. I can drive a golf cart to church and to the grocery store.”
Paros smiled. Charlotte smiled back. There was heat between them, a feeling Charlotte hadn’t known in a long time. Did she dare to try to bring her lips to his?
“Kiss him!” said Minnie. “You’re seventy-one years old! What are you waiting for?”
Like a heroine in a romance novel, Charlotte leaned across the café table, pursing her lips. But—and it almost happened in slow motion—as Charlotte’s face grew close to Paros’s, she saw that he was surprised and flustered, not bedroom-eyed and willing.
Charlotte reared back, humiliated, a small wail escaping her mouth. She stood quickly, rummaged in her purse for a few euros, and dropped them on the table.
“Stop,” said Paros. “Wait, Charlotte!”
But she was halfway to the café exit. Oh, she hated herself.
“Charlotte! Come back,” called Paros, standing up. His voice was so loud that people turned to look.
She rushed outside and began to run through the Livorno streets. Where was the ship? What had she done?That’s what you get,said Louisa,for thinking you’re better than you are.
OH, HER BODY. CHARLOTTEhad spent her life disregarding it—starving it, forcing it through calisthenics as herBody by Jacquescassette tape droned on, bearing children, suckling children, submitting to Winston’s halfhearted ministrations, enduring hot flashes, mammograms, colonoscopies. Eating cheese and drinking wine. Biking once in a blue moon, playing golf. Her body (as long as it was skinny enough to fit into her size four clothes) was an afterthought. Everything worked, so why dwell?
She had never been to a spa. The thought of strangers touching her made Charlotte squirm. What was she supposed tododuring a massage, just lie there? How dull and stressful. She was used to ignoring her body’s sensations, not enhancing them!
And yet her Magnifico package had included an “Evening of Bliss,” so here she was, sitting primly on an oddly warm chaise longue in a Splendido robe, nothing underneath but her Macy’s underpants. To Charlotte, an “Evening of Bliss” would mean Chardonnay and Triscuits, complete with all three of her children and Father Thomas calling and leaving messages, assuring her she was loved and appreciated but not requiring her todoanything for anyone. And then a stranger with not too much chest hair would make love to her—mmmm, moving himself in and out of her, clutching at her, crying out her name. And then he’d tuck her in, kiss her sweetly, and depart.
The thalassotherapy pool, located deep in the underbelly of the ship, was like a sinister disco. Even the word “thalassotherapy” gave Charlotte the creeps. “Charlotte Perkins?” said a stout woman holding a clipboard.
Charlotte rose to her feet. “Hello,” she said awkwardly.
“I am Norma,” said the woman. “You are ready for your combo treatment SpaTopia, Hot Rock Sampler, Fantastic Feet Fantastic You.”
