Page 14 of Beach Bodies

Vic coming in here was just one minute of bad luck. And actually, flip that around and it was good luck, wasn’t it? After all, he didn’t see me, and that’s what matters. As for the Michael Johnson stuff that Becca called about… some sleazy reporter came across that photo of me and Carli and tracked me down with the goal of squeezing me for a soundbite for some clickbait headline, just like the first time, and if I ignore him, he’ll go away, just like the first time…

And how did this guy know you were back at the Riovan?

He didn’t. It was a guess. He was fishing, and he just happened to be right. Who cares, anyway? While I don’t exactly want to broadcast my presence here, it’s also not a state secret.

‘You got this,’ I mutter to myself, as I quietly leave the office.

Finally outside the hotel, with the sound of waves lapping the shoreline below, I run the whole way to Vista West along the dark back paths, intermittently lit, grasses tickling my ankles and the moon impossibly bright overhead, throwing blades of white light on to the ocean. I don’t stop until I’m in my room. Breathless, sweaty, but safe.

For now.

Chapter Seven

The alarm clock goes off way before I’m ready, given that I stayed up until three poring over the guest info, scouring the internet, and taking notes. I dress quickly and take the back paths to the dining hall. In the salty morning air, I try to organize some of the guests’ names in my head, but it’s useless before coffee.

Inside the dining hall, the vaulted ceilings and plush carpeting both expand and soften the sound, blending the conversation, the clink of dishes, and the noise of guests and staff moving around into a kind of underwater vagueness. I make a beeline for the coffee station, tucked into a little alcove above which a decal in scrolling font reads,Healthy Mind, Healthy You!

Suppressing a yawn, I pour coffee into an oversized white mug as the heat curls up, giving a foggy sheen to the silver carafe.

The sizzle and smell of the omelette station is directly behind me, and I can hear the soft murmur of a guest ordering–just egg whites please, and Linda said no salt– but fooddoesn’t tempt me this early. Don’t get me wrong; I’m no food minimalist. I own a catering company, after all. I just need time to get really hungry. Anyway, it’s more fun eating when you’re ravenous.

‘Morning, Lil.’ Vic has come up behind me, and adrenaline shoots through me remembering last night’s close call. Vic likes to circulate during mealtimes, giving out his little encouragements to staff and guests alike. He lays his hand on my shoulder and squeezes. ‘Sleep well?’

‘Yes, thanks,’ I say, giving him a quick smile before hiding my face in the coffee mug. Mmm, strong and bitter.

His voice redirects with Broadway-level enthusiasm. ‘Gloria! So glad to have you back this year! Hope you’re settling in comfortably? Will you be joining our morning yoga? No time like the present to get THIN, you know! Thriving! Healthy!’

Dear God.

‘Inspirational! Natural!’ a female voice trills back as I mentally dig, trying to fill in the rest of Gloria’s information from the guest roster I studied last night. Gloria… Newman? No, Newland. Pre-diabetic, breast cancer survivor. Fifty-something, recently divorced from an acclaimed baritone whose dick– according to Twitter– apparently needed as much attention as his world-renowned voice. I’m paraphrasing, of course. Poor Gloria.

Mug cupped between my hands, the ceramic nearly scalding my palms, I turn, leaning my butt against the counter’s edge, and allow my eyes to rove over the hundred or so people, a combination of guests and staff. They don’t separate us. The staff are the brand, as Serena hammered intous during training last night. Only the training, spa and lifeguarding staff, of course– the ones they make sure are hot enough to be a draw. They make other staff– cleaners, maintenance workers, servers– eat in a dingy little room on a lower level with a view to the parking lot.Your main job isn’t actually to lifeguard, or design a great workout, or give a great massage, though of course we expect excellence there too, Serena said. It’s to embody the values of the Riovan. Be your ideal self. Show our guests what they’re working towards.I suppose that’s why they redesigned the lifeguard swimsuit this year, cut so high it’s almost indecent. Where some might call it a great ass (and it is; thank you, genetics), Vic et all would call it a natural extension of my ‘fully realized self.’ I’d laugh if the fury didn’t choke me. But I’ve become really good at swallowing those burning coals as soon as they’re lit. I’m no use to anyone if I let rage take over. Cooler minds must prevail. Caffeinated cooler minds.

As I lift the mug to my lips for another deep gulp, a woman waves at me from a table across the dining hall– Nayna, one of the few summer staffers from last year who returned. With the minimum wage pay, most never come back, but I’m glad she did. Nayna is a truly striking woman. Dreaded hair, golden skin, clear blue eyes. A rootless flower child who runs an online crystal shop. At the Riovan, she runs the spa bar, mixing personalized lotions, shampoos and aromatherapy oils for guests.

I wave back, but don’t join her at the table, though I am vaguely curious about the boyfriend she talked about last summer, and if they’re still together after he told her he wanted to open their relationship to another woman. Butright now it’s time to take inventory of who’s here, so that I can identify the person I’m here to find: the monster.

I have six days left to find them, if I want to stay on schedule.

It’s an exercise a bit like reverse engineering a recipe, which Jessica used to love doing. She’d taste a lobster bisque, for example, squint her eyes tight and say,I’m tasting sherry. I’m tasting herbes de Provence. I’m tasting white wine.I’d jot it all down as she talked her way through it. After she picked apart the flavours, we’d try to recreate it together– well, more like she recreated it while I tried to keep up with the dishes. That was back when food was our happy place, when we were just dreaming up what would eventually become our catering business, Taste of Heaven. A time when dreaming was as easy as speaking and just as cheap. Before the Riovan.

I take in faces slowly as I sip, picking out guests from summer staff from permanent staff.Which one of you is it?I’ve never been a patient person by nature, but I’ve worked on it over the last few years. It’s important not to rush these things.

My eyes alight on Kyle, tucking into an acai bowl topped with sliced bananas. To my surprise, my late night online sleuthing turned up a juicy little tidbit: his company isn’t nearly as successful as he made it sound. In fact, it’s in bankruptcy court right now, which begs the questions: why is he taking a month off during a company crisis, and how can he afford to be here? Not that a guest’s financial situation is relevant to my purposes, but still– it’s good to know that my instinct was right about Kyle. He’s the kind who inflates himself to gigantic proportions, crowding everyone else, takingup more space than he’s worth… but there’s just air inside. And wouldn’t it be satisfying to pop that particular balloon? But there will probably be bigger fish to fry.

I track my gaze around the room to see what other faces I can match with their files. Ooh, at the table by the window, Craig Lancaster, a TV presenter on a gossipy daytime talk show who’s always dishing the dirt on celebs. He’s apparently on leave due to his heart condition, and is here at the Riovan with his husband of two years, Brian, who must be the man sitting across from him.

At another table, I spot Ana Durango-Carter, a reality TV celebrity who got cancelled for saying something appallingly insensitive about her co-star’s weight fluctuations. And there’s handsy Chad Doyle, lead singer for Harvest Moon, who claimed on Instagram that he left the spotlight for a spiritual journey but really– according to a few clickbait articles and a Reddit thread that I unearthed around two in the morning– has been in rehab in Arizona after being accused of domestic abuse by his model wife. It’s amazing what you can find on the internet, given a little time and a willingness to scroll and scroll… and scroll.

A huddle of lifeguards with total bro energy enter the dining hall together, pawing and slapping each other like some kind of bizarre foreplay. I recognize Jason, the freckled Brit, and Kenton, this year’s Team Lead. Hannah trails in behind them with another girl I assume to be her UK roommate, Bridget. Bridget is petite and busty with a sculpted, neat little waist and muscled calves. They head en masse to the smoothie station.

Two people clad in black enter next. Instantly a humvibrates through the room, exploding into smatters of applause. Guests are getting to their feet. Ah– this summer’s fitness gurus. Tim and Shayna, smiling, waving, gracious. They used to host that reality TV weight loss showTake it Off. Jessica and I would watch it together in her apartment as she studied for midterms or we dreamed up recipes. Shayna was the tough one who shouted in people’s faces as they cried and threw up and literally fell to their knees during the brutal workouts. ‘Do you want to die?’ she’d screech, leaning over them with no pity in her eyes. ‘Do you want to live to see your grandchildren? Do you want to change or not?’ Jessica thought it was hilarious. I’d pretend to fall, fainting, as Jess shook me and shrieked, ‘Do you want to die?’ We nearly peed ourselves laughing.

I have to stop myself from actually shuddering. I can’t believe I used to find that shit funny. Chalk it up to being twenty.

Tim was the one who gave the calmer ‘reality check’ talks. But the crowning moment ofTake it Offwas, of course, the season finale, when the contestants would come in dressed in their old fat clothes and pull them off in front of a live audience as everyone chanted,Take-it-off! Take-it-off!Then the contestants would reveal their new, thinner bodies, clad in spandex, as they wept on stage. After some journalist exposed the show’s questionable practises, Tim and Shayna disappeared from the public eye. Here they are five years later, out of hibernation, looking untouched by time. Presumably they’ve been informed that here, we don’t use the words fat or thin– unless it’s an acronym for something else, apparently. We don’t say weight, or size. I used to thinkthat was more virtuous. That was back when I hadn’t heard of gaslighting.

I track these two as they move towards the food. Shayna serves herself an assortment of fruit while Tim ladles out some oatmeal and sprinkles it with fresh berries.Are you the monster?

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