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)
It hits me like a slap: what the fuck kind of place builds a long-ass bridge to a bungalow and has nothing but a flimsy rope for a handrail? Does no one ever bring children or disabled or elderly people here? Are the guests who come here so obsessed with capturing the perfect *vibes* in their Instagram post that they don’t want fucking guardrails ruining their shot?
West walks in a few circles, hugging his nephew and talking quietly to him and I’m temporarily distracted from my disgust. My ovaries stand up and exit my body with a forlorn salute, launching themselves into the monster soup.
“Is he okay?” I ask, coming up and resting my hands on GW’s shoulders. “You okay, buddy?”
“He seems fine,” West says, and meets my eyes. “I’m sure he has no idea how dangerous that was, do you, kiddo?”
“This bridge is so treacherous,” I whisper to West. “What are they thinking, putting the kids in a bungalow?”
“It’s fine,” West mumbles back, and I’m sure he’s seen a million private islands with all kinds of inaccessible features. I’m sure this is nothing. “They just have to keep a closer eye on him.”
GW snuggles into West’s neck and says, “I went for walk.”
“Yeah, you did.” He looks at me over his nephew’s shoulder. “I’m going to take him back over to Alex and Blaire’s. I’m sure they’re freaking out wondering where he is.”
* * *
I EXPECT WEST TO be back and hanging out on the deck when I come out of the shower, but the bungalow is still empty. I do think he’s right, though; if the most important thing in our plan is to be convincingly married so his family has no reason to start digging into our lives, then we need to step it up a bit.
I’m not sure, but I think women in rich circles are good about knowing things about the people they’ll meet at parties. At least that’s the way it goes on Real Housewives. The Wi-Fi on the island is, perhaps not surprisingly, incredibly slow but it works, and I pull a page from my sketchbook, writing down information on the names I remember West saying: Danny Shoe, Patrick Lemon, and Nicola Ricci.
But I don’t just go to their LinkedIns or Wiki’s; I dive deeper. If there’s one common skill every adult woman possesses, it’s how to scope out a friend’s prospective or cheating love interest on the Internet. This knowledge is half of why I have zero Internet presence. (The other half is laziness.)
And thank God I dive deeper, because after some Instagram cross-referencing between West, Jake, and Charlie, I realize that Danny Shoe is in fact Danielle Xiu. She posted an airport selfie yesterday with the caption IAD > SIN, along with several airplane and bridal emojis. She is also quite the Barbie aficionado, and I send a silent thank-you to the universe that nobody keeps anything private anymore.
Just as I wrap up my glacially paced but successful googling, an email pops up from my manager, Melissa.
Dear Anna,
Amazing news! I have placed three of your paintings at a gallery showing in Laguna Beach! They will need to be picked up tomorrow; I’ll send a courier. What is a good time to meet at your apartment?
The price will be set at $200 each—how does that sound to you?
Call me if you have any questions.
Best,
Mel
I stand up, do a few circles in place, not sure what to do with my hands, my feet, my face. Excitement is helium in my bloodstream; I feel jittery, high, floating outside my own body.
Where is West? Did he go and sacrifice a virgin on my behalf? If so, it was not necessary but so appreciated. This is not the kind of email one wants to receive alone! This requires celebration, shouting, maybe some hot making out—no, Anna, stop that. At the very least, I need a high five.
I high-five myself, and then type out a quick reply.
I’m out of town but will make sure my roommate is there to meet the courier. This is so exciting! The price sounds perfect. Thank you, Mel!
xo
Anna
I text Lindy and ask what time she can be home tomorrow and whether she can bring the three paintings to the living room. She replies immediately, and I forgive her for eating my tagine. Ladies and gents, things are looking good for Anna Green!
With West still MIA, I have nothing to do but venture out to the beach to potentially get accosted by a member of the Weston family or get dressed for the cocktail welcome party tonight. Everyone will be excited for their first day here, so I decide to go all out.
By the time West’s footsteps sound along the bridge, I’m finishing the final curl in my hair. My initial primping enthusiasm has worn off and now I fear my vibe is less “beachy hot” and more “desperate D-lister on red carpet.”