Page 49 of That Birthday in Barbados
“Celeste. Antoine. I pop in whenever I’m on the island for a shoot. Are you staying with-”
I don’t let her finish the sentence, “Oh, no. I was just leaving, in fact. If you don’t mind, I’ll grab your taxi.” I wave a hand at the white van thathas started to back out of the driveway.
“You don’t have to go-”she calls out behind me, but the driver has stopped, and I’m running across the pavement to slide open the side door, climbing in with a quick, “Can you please take me to the Sandy Lane Hotel?”
He looks at me from the rearview with a question in his eyes, but says politely, “Of course. Not a problem.”
I glance at the front door where Anders is now standing with the beautiful Celeste, watching me go with a look that gives away nothing of what he is thinking. It is impossible not to notice what a magnificent pair the two of them make, young and absurdly gorgeous. Perfect for each other, in fact.
And as the van winds its way back down the drive to the main road, I stare out the window, feeling every bit my age. And then some.
*
BACK AT THE hotel, I really don’t know what to do with myself.
In my room, I stand before the bathroom mirror, studying my reflection under the undeniable realization that I have been acting like someone I am not, a woman I have never been. Had I really thought there could be something between Anders and me?
Heat splashes up my neck, reddens my face. I force myself to note the color in my cheeks because I am fully aware that I have made a fool of myself. What had I been thinking? Had I been that starved for attention? Suffering from a neglect so intense that I had no problem offering up my dignity in return for the feeling that a man like Anders might be attracted to me?
I drop my head back, let out a long sigh. In this moment, I really hate myself.
Did I do this deliberately? Set myself up for another round of humiliation?
I lift my head, stare down the mirror.Get real, Catherine. Life is not a book. Life is not a movie. There really aren’t any happy endings. Interludes of things that look like they could go that way, maybe. But if the price to be paid for such temporary self-delusion is another crack in the heart, it’s not a price I can afford.
I’m a divorced forty-year-old, on vacation, alone. It’s time I started acting like one.
Chapter Twenty
“Honesty is the fastest way to preventa mistake from turning into a failure.”
?James Altucher
Anders
WE’VE BEEN A casual thing, Celeste and I.
We met at a party on a yacht full of Europeans spending a week docked in Barbados. I’d been invited by a couple staying at the hotel for a few days. Celeste had been traveling for a couple of weeks with the owners of the yacht who were old friends of her parents in Paris.
Neither of us was interested in anything other than casual, and by mutual agreement, we spent time together whenever she was in the area. I had never minded the other times she dropped in out of the blue, and I certainly can’t be unhappy with her for doing so today. Until now, I’ve had no reason to mind.
We’re standing in the kitchen, making awkward small talk. She walks over to the fridge, pulls out the half bottle of white wine she’d left unfinished her last visit, grabs a glass from the cabinet and pours it three-quarters full.
With her back to me, she takes a long sip, then turns to face me with a question in her eyes. “Would you rather I go?”
“Celeste, I’m sorry. I-”
“It is okay. I did not tell youI was coming.” She lifts her shoulders. “I am understanding of our agreement.” She leans against the kitchen counter, crosses her arms and holds the glass high to the right. “We have not asked commitment of one another.”
“No,” I agree. “We haven’t.”
“Maybe I should have, hmm?” she asks with a small smile and a flirty look.
We study each other for several drawn out seconds. “I don’t really know what’s happening with me.”
“You are interested in her?”
Even if I answered yes, it wouldn’t change the fact that it has no hope of going anywhere. “She’s only here on vacation.”
