Page 27 of Beach Bodies

I stand up and recover my coffee mug. It’s cold now. ‘No. She did.’

Chapter Eleven

Fireworks explode in the dark sky, red and green and purple lights falling like shattered streamers, adding their glow to the fairy lights and tiki torches that encircle the chaos of a thousand people partying hard on the Mambotel’s expansive beach.

I’m sipping a Shirley Temple in one of the open-air bars as I watch Serena try to assemble the staff into a line for a picture in the sand with the ocean and the fireworks behind them. Watching Serena, after all, is the reason I’m here– and not just for Vic’s sake. Magical, isn’t it, when purposes align? And if I run into Daniel while I’m here…I’ll stay away.Because, if I recall it accurately– and I do– during my last interaction with Daniel, I ended up joking around about a night of kinky sex.

The forty-minute chartered boat ride over to Saint Vitalis was a party in and of itself. Serena is all about the pre-game, to the amazement of the staff, who really got into the whole ‘our VP is drinking with us’ mood. I did quietly suggest, ‘You might want to slow down there, boss.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Serena reassured me with a confidential smile. ‘I’ve got it under control.’

‘Yeah?’

She laughed. ‘I know, I know. Got to keep up good appearances for the brand.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Actually, Vic ripped me a new one today. He’s totally bent out of shape about Daniel Black and his big article…’ Her furrowed brow melted into a smirk as she raised her Manhattan. ‘But I know how to work journalists. Anyway, I’ve been thinking about his “big article” too…’

‘Ha-ha,’ I said, deadpan, suddenly unable to summon a smile.

By the time we docked at the Mambotel’s marina, I had accumulated some useful information about Serena. She has a mild allergy to shellfish. A phobia of enclosed spaces. She’s a graduate of the University of Maryland, and her parents work in PR firms in DC. Her top viral TikTok video wasn’t one of her (many) sexy coastal bikini shots, but a video of her slipping on some rocks.

With a few flicks and swipes of her fingers, she pulled it up, and I leaned in to watch. The video wasn’t long; just ten seconds or so. It was of Serena on the edge of the jetty. The ocean was lively, splashing up around the rocks and misting the air with rainbow sprays. Based on the angle, Serena had wedged her phone in the crevice of a rock so that she could record herself posing with the waves spraying up around her, but four seconds in, she slipped and fell on her butt. Tried to get up and slipped again. The next few seconds were a slow-motion replay of her falling, but zoomed into her bug-eyed expression. I had to admit, it was some smart editing.

‘Two million views,’ she said with fake morosity, Martini glass in hand (Manhattan long gone). ‘My friend actually posted it, and I was going to take it down, but… I guess people love to see that I’m actually human, or something. What are you gonna do?’

Whatareyou going to do, Serena?I think, as I watch her try to arrange her tipsy staff for the perfect shot. Whether it’s the inebriation or the mad energy of the party, everyone’s having a little trouble following directions.

‘Let’s rearrange you and you.’ Serena shouts to be heard above the music as she switches Hannah and Kenton in the line. ‘And then, can you guys all move three steps forward?’

The Mambotel’s beachfront stage, the beating heart of the party, is crammed with musicians dressed in shiny shirts, who are all a little too into it, especially the smiling male singer whose hairy chest is mostly bared under what looks like an ice-skating costume: tight black pants and a blowsy shirt with ruffled sleeves that shimmer as he shakes a huge set of green and red maracas.

‘Oh, la-la,’ he sings with exaggerated diction, his smile fierce, his maraca-shake gleefully aggressive. Three ladies in towering fruit hats shimmy to his left. ‘Sing ta-ta…’

If his Ts get any sharper, he’s going to cut someone.

Behind the lighted stage, the Mambotel itself is huge. Sandy-coloured and brightly lit, with searchlights coming out of its centre like a bouquet of light, roving the sky in sinuous circles.

The mood is crazy here. The party has the chaotic energy of a Chuck E. Cheese birthday party, but with way more skin on display. The smells of firework smoke, ocean saltand marijuana make for a heady combination. Mambotel employees circulate around the crowd taking drink orders, dressed in exaggerated costumes: hugely oversized sombreros, grass skirts with coconut bras, the stripper’s version of a flamenco skirt, even the odd pirate costume. Culturally insensitive? Obviously. Effective at drawing a crowd? Hell, yes.

Two open-air bars flank the stage, and both are doing brisk business, judging both by how long I had to wait to get my beverage as well as the giant sixty-dollar fishbowls of electric blue drink with plenty of straws, meant for friends to share. They’re everywhere, and from what I’ve already heard, they’re strong.

I’m quite happy with my Shirley Temple, heavy as it is on the grenadine, watching Serena and my fellow staff members struggle to take a photo.

I haven’t spotted Daniel yet. As a guest, he wasn’t on the chartered boat with us– but I’m keeping my eyes peeled. Just for the purposes of reporting back to Vic, of course.

‘Um, you? On the right,’ Serena barks suddenly. ‘Could you actually get out of the picture?’

A girl places a hand on her chest and mouths ‘me?’ It’s one of the massage technicians, a curvier girl dressed in a hot pink bikini top and harem pants. Even though she is gorgeous, I know exactly why Serena doesn’t want her in the shot.

‘It’s not personal,’ says Serena brightly, ‘but these are for the website, so everything has to be two hundred per cent on-brand. No offence.’

I see the moment the girl realizes what’s going on. That she’s the one curvy body in the otherwise perfect line of sculpted muscle and tiny waists. Her face flushes, and shecrosses her arms over her body and steps sideways in the sand, away from the group, her shoulders caved in.

‘Great. That’s it,’ says Serena, holding up her fancy phone to frame the shot again.

There’s no visceral feeling of hatred rising in my chest towards Serena tonight. All I experience instead is a mental click as I file this moment away, taking note of the details: how casually Serena just humiliated this girl. How this was done in full view of the rest of the staff. How Serena doesn’t even seem aware of what she’s just done. Some narcissists, I’ve found, are strangely innocent about their own toxicity; oddly oblivious to the trail of hurt they leave in their wake.

Leaving the bar area, I stride towards the massage tech, drink in hand, sand shuffling up around my ankles.

‘Hey. You want a drink? My treat?’

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