Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 115198 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 576(@200wpm)___ 461(@250wpm)___ 384(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115198 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 576(@200wpm)___ 461(@250wpm)___ 384(@300wpm)
However, for as much as I would say he could use a stiff drink, West barely had anything. He barely smiled, either, but that’s how he’s always been. And as much as I wanted to be sauced the entire time, I took it easy, too, because the closer we come to the gleaming white sand, the more aware I am that I’m on the job. Everything I’ve seen so far tells me that the money Vivi spent on the clothing in my luggage is a drop in the ocean for this family. The ten-thousand-dollar check that was life-changing for me is nothing to the Westons.
That realization is both intimidating and nauseating. The odds are very high of me spilling wine on an article of clothing that is worth more than my life. I can absolutely imagine I will, at some point, crack an inappropriate joke to someone who turns out to be the leader of a NATO country. I’m probably not going to like anyone there, but I must make them like me anyway. I simply don’t know if I possess that level of moxie inside my underfed, lower-middle-class body.
I feel the warmth before I hear his velvety voice. “Gorgeous, isn’t it?”
I turn to see West so close, only a few inches away as he’s looking out the window beside my shoulder. Up close, his skin is amazing. Smooth and clean, with just the right amount of shadow darkening his jaw after our long day of travel. We both took a few minutes to freshen up in the lounge in Singapore, and he smells like soap and that crisp, astringent bite of dude deodorant. He doesn’t look the slightest bit rumpled, and I wonder, for what I’m sure will not be the last time, whether the rich ever get swampy like the rest of us.
“What?” I ask, lost in the realization that he has a perfect nose. Straight and even. His bone structure is unreal. I swear there isn’t a pore anywhere. I’d like to paint him.
To be clear, I mean paint on him.
“This water,” he says, lifting his chin so that I follow his attention outside. “It doesn’t look real.”
He’s right. And to an artist, the view is overwhelming. The crystalline azure water undulates below us, so clear that the coral reefs are visible from the air. It’s like looking at a mirage; one main island orbited by five smaller moons, the surface of each ringed in white sugar and capped in emerald green. As we approach, the island topography rises from a flat canvas. There are rugged bluffs and rocky interiors, a smattering of blue pools nestled inland and sheltered by overhanging foliage.
“It’s beautiful,” I agree quietly. “It’s the kind of view I can’t entirely wrap my head around.”
For some reason, this moment recalls the first time I saw a ranunculus. I didn’t think I’d ever come close to re-creating their delicate wrinkles on canvas, to accurately capturing the soft, tight bunching of the layered petals, the delicate baby-soft hairs down the stem. But I tried over and over until I got close. Being an artist is sometimes about not being afraid to do it badly first.
Is that why, in the end, I chose art? Because it’s forgiving? My brain wasn’t wired for medicine, fine, but was I drawn to art because the bounds are loose and subjective? Because this… this trip… it isn’t something I can do badly at first. There are no loose boundaries. I don’t even know what the boundaries are. I don’t know the rules of this game.
I distract myself, thinking how I’d paint this view if I could, trying to locate my first brushstroke in the sparkling surface of water. It’s overwhelming to imagine trying to paint something so vast, so unending, but the familiarity of the exercise is still better than thinking about everything waiting for me out on that island. I’d mix French Ultramarine Light Extra with Cobalt Green. I’d add small bits of Titanium White and mix until it was exactly the color that remains when I close my eyes.
I visualize painting until, with a tiny jolt and the sound of water rushing all around us, we land on the surface of the ocean. I grip West’s forearm as turquoise waves crest over the yellow rudders; the island is a green and white gem only half a mile away. Okay. It’s really happening.
Think like a millionaire, I tell myself. Cristal. Hamptons. Chanel. Hedge funds. Racehorses.
The flight attendant approaches. “Are you ready to deplane? The hosts are waiting on the beach to welcome you. Your belongings will be brought directly to your bungalow.”
West and I stand, stretching in unison, and I do a few uppercuts into the air. “Let’s do this!”
“The island is wonderful on bare feet,” she says, and it takes me a moment to realize she’s speaking specifically to me; at some point in the flight, West took off his expensive sneakers and put on flip-flops. “Guests are encouraged to enjoy their visit here in sandals, or without any shoes at all.” Although her expression is only warm, when she glances at my strappy shoes, I get what she’s saying: Not even the filthy rich can walk on sand in four-inch spike heels, dollface.