“That’s lovely, thanks,” Victory said, thinking a Bic pen would have done just fine. But Bic pens weren’t good enough for Lyne Bennett . . .
She took out “The Schedule,” which she and Susan and Walter had taken to carrying with them everywhere, and referring to as often as possible, in order to annoy Lyne. She turned it over, and on the back, wrote:
“Top ten things I would do differently if I were a billionaire instead of Lyne . . .”
She paused for a moment. Where to begin?
“Number one,” she wrote. “Do not make the help wear white cotton gloves. It’s creepy, and disrespectful to the help.
“Number two: Do not make a schedule and force guests to adhere to it.
“Number three: And what about that refrigerator stocked with Slim-Fast? What kind of weirdo assumes guests want Slim-Fast for breakfast, lunch, and afternoon snack? Plus, what is the point of being a billionaire if you can’t eat real food?
“Number four: Do not make guests take a shower before they enter the pool. If you’re so worried about guests’ cleanliness, why did you invite them?
“Number five: Do not spend
mealtimes on the phone doing business, especially when you have forced guests to have lunch with local real estate agent.
“Number six: Do not attempt to kill guests.”
She paused, and then underlined the word “kill,” remembering yesterday’s “boating event.” Boating debacle was more like it. Lyne had insisted not only on showing off his new cigarette boat, but in driving it himself. And then attempting to race a small local fishing boat. Afterward, Susan swore she would never return to the island.
Victory looked up at Lyne, who was standing in the middle of the court, squeezing a tennis ball in his hand. His face was red—he looked as if he was about to have a heart attack. “This ball is dead!” he screamed.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the ball boy said. “I just opened a new can—”
“Well, open another one!” He threw the ball onto the ground, where it bounced up and over the net.
“Number seven,” Victory wrote. “Make an attempt to behave like a normal human being. Even if you’re not.”
And just at that moment, her cell phone rang. She looked at it, praying that it was Nico or Wendy.
“Victory?” Muffie Williams demanded in her spidery voice. “Where are you?”
“I’m in the Bahamas . . . with Lyne,” Victory said. There was something in Muffie’s tone that suddenly made her feel guilty about being away and taking time off.
“Can you get to Paris tomorrow morning for a meeting? It’s with B et C,” Muffie said.
Victory glanced over at Lyne. He was no longer on the court—one of his errant tennis balls having dislodged a bees’ nest, he was now waving his racket furiously and screaming as he ran across the lawn, followed by the tennis pro and the two ball boys.
“No problem, Muffie,” she said into the phone. “I’m just leaving.”
Lyne was furious.
“I’m not cutting my weekend short,” he fumed.
“No one’s asking you to,” she said, throwing her things into her overnight bag.
“If they’re that desperate to have a meeting with you, they can wait until Tuesday.” He was probably right, but he didn’t understand how desperate she was to get out of there.
“What’s the meeting about?”
“How should I know?” she said.
“You’re running off to a meeting in Paris—leaving the Bahamas on a Sunday morning and ruining the weekend—flying overnight to get to some meeting you don’t even know what it’s about?”
“That’s how I do things, Lyne,” she said.