“They were amazing! They were all so friendly, and cool. I had an awesome afternoon.”
Sam grins. “Awesome! You sound like an American!”
“Well, duh! I’ve been hanging out with them all day.”
“So how is Trudy?”
Annie is so excited, she sits forward in the car, her arms resting on our seats. “Mom, she is just the best. And we have so much in common. Oh my God, it’s like, I don’t know, it’s like suddenly finding a sister.”
And I know—I remember—exactly what she means.
* * *
I dress up for tonight. Most of my suitcase was stuffed with casual clothes, shorts and T-shirts, but I packed a couple of silk beaded tunics, gauzy trousers, and large gold hoops, just in case.
I don’t bother blowing my hair straight—in this humidity it is likely to stay straight for about twenty minutes, if I’m lucky. I gather it back in a loose ponytail at the nape of my neck, letting a few tendrils fall on either side of my face. Already my skin is bronze—thank you, Brooks, for the olive skin—and I glide a large brush with luminescent bronzer over my cheeks.
Beaded flat sandals on my feet, I look at myself appraisingly. I look good. I look like I belong.
Sam gives me a wolf whistle when he sees me. “Extremely gorgeous,” he says admiringly. Even Annie comes out to give me her approval. She is in a long skirt but tucks shorts into my bag. “I might see Trudy later, and I don’t want to be in a skirt,” she explains.
* * *
We walk through the restaurant and onto the beach. Our table is on the sand, lanterns casting an apricot glow on crisp white tablecloths as the horizon starts to turn pink, ready for a spectacular sunset, I think.
All around us are the beautiful people. The kinds of beautiful people that intimidate the hell out of me at home. But not here. I’m a stranger here, and I have no desire to fit in. In fact, these last few months I can honestly say for the first time in my life I am learning to be comfortable in my own skin.
“It’s like the Chiltern Firehouse, on sand,” whispers Sam approvingly. I turn to look at him and actually start to laugh at the dreamy look on his face, for pretend as he might that he is happy in a T-shirt and shorts, happy to grab half a sandwich at Something Natural and eat it on an old picnic table, bleached white from the sun, this is his natural habitat. This is where he belongs.
Two women are at the table next to us, with their daughters, all five of them almost ridiculously beautiful, in that way only very wealthy Americans can be, the daughters long haired and long limbed. I look at one of the mothers. She is probably my age, her skin dark, her hair long and tousled, beachy. She wears a gauzy white top, grey flowing pants, a large gold cuff around her wrist, no other jewelry. A part of me thinks how much I would love to look like her, to wear exactly what she’s wearing, to have her style. A part of me remembers all the years I would go shopping, trying to turn myself into someone else, convinced that if I had those pants, that top, that cuff, I would be that person, have that life.
I pick up my glass of seltzer and look at Sam and Annie. “Cheers,” I say. “Here’s to being comfortable in your own skin.”
“Cheers,” sighs Sam. “God, I love it here. Look at that table of perfect boho-chic women. Can we please eat here every night?”
“Only if you’re willing to expense it.” I laugh, and he grimaces, as the waiter shows up and hands us menus.
* * *
We have finished our meal, Annie spending the last ten minutes texting furiously, arranging to meet Trudy and her friends. I try to reprimand her, no texting at the table being our rule, but Sam stops me. “We’re on holiday,” he says. “Besides, she’s making plans.”
I turn to watch a crowd of people weave their way through the tables to their own, a little way off from ours. They seem to know everyone there, a halo of energy surrounding them.
Tall, handsome men. They look like bankers. They all have that golden glow of success, of wealth. The women may be carrying small clutches made out of bamboo and straw, but you know that confidence