Lost in Hotels (25 page)

The Russians have switched back to their native language, and joined onto the soccer player in addition to a painfully stylish gay guy wearing floral trunks a fashionable size too small. His attention, as well as the cluster collected at the end of the table, turns to me and points between Catherine and me.

“I just had to come over here and tell you that you are possibly the most attractive man on the entire island,” says the bold gay guy who is hovering over Alejandro and me. The entire table falls silent.

Catherine grins from ear to ear. “Isn’t he though? He’s just perfection,” she booms, halting her conversation from Chrissie and kisses me.

“And you must be the lucky missus, I assume?”

“Missus? Not. But I’m the lucky bitch who gets to look at him every day in the shower.”

“Oh, I love her. What is your name, darling?” he says with hand on hip.

“Catherine, Catherine Klein.”

“I’m Dave Dan, and I think I’ve found my new summer friends.”

“I know exactly who you are, as a matter of fact, I’m wearing a pair of your shoes right now,” Catherine says.

“Girl, you are everything. Look at those mules. Spring/summer 2011 was a hit, girl.”

“Thank you; it was one of your best collections ever.”

“I like to think my next collection is always the best, but thank you just the same,” he says, hovering above me.

“So I take it you’re in the fashion business,” I say.

“Dave Dan is a CDFA nominee for the past three years,” Catherine says.

“I like you more and more. Just look at your eyes; they are absolutely divine,” he says to me, the skin of his exposed leg now touching my arm as I lean away.

“You know, Catherine is also in the fashion business,” I say to divert the attention.

“I did not. Are you a designer as well with your Hermés sunglasses and glamorous vintage cover-up?”

“No, I am just a journalist.”

“
Vogue
?
ELLE
?
Women’s Wear Daily
?” Dave plops on the seat next to me, his wet skin, and leg hair so trimmed it scratches my leg. I push closer to Catherine.

“No, nothing that prestigious or relevant. I’m the associate editor of a Hachette title,” she says, oddly vague.

“Which one, my dear?”

“I’d rather not say, as I’m trying not to think about work. Anyway, it’s a magazine many designers won’t even show in … like yourself,” she says.

“Oh dear. You know that’s not my fault exactly. It started with Alex McQueen, and I just continued the practice because I thought it was chic to say no to anyone but
Vogue
.”

“And anyway, that really has nothing to do with me; I only plan the covers.”

“And she does a lot of travel writing now. As a matter of fact, this is sort of a work trip for her,” I add.

“In addition to being another opportunity to see David,” Catherine says.

“Well, who could blame her for that? Girl, I feel all tingly down there just sitting next to the man,” Dave says in his most campy voice. His tone makes me uncomfortable negating everything I am or have to say as a person and treating me like some bimbo he’d meet at a bar.

“Will you stand up for me and just let me look at you already? I promised the ladies down there that if I could touch your abs, I would put them in my next runway show. Ready to wear, not couture, of course. We don’t do Russians in the couture shows,” he continues.

“I’m sorry, I’m going to excuse myself from this banter, and make my way to the loo, if that’s all right.” I push myself up and out of the banquette trying not to touch him. I pull away from the table taking his eyes with me, hopeful to lose them at the bathroom.

“Davey, wait a minute.” Chrissie pulls at my arm before I enter the men’s room.

“We need to find some Charlie, like, pronto,” she whispers in my ear.

Chrissie stumbles down a step separating the kitchen from the dining room, one of those short inexplicable steps only found in Spain that Chrissie manages without a fall as Alejandro approaches.

“David, since we left London, it’s been impossible to find. I used to call it in like a taxi, and here, it’s all of a sudden impossible to find.”

Chrissie refers to cocaine as Charlie, something she does with a girlish whine that’s endearing, even to those who don’t have a clue as to what she’s saying.

“So you can’t find it anywhere?” I ask.

“Like a hooker at eight a.m., it’s nowhere to be found, my friend. Get over it, Chrissie.” Alejandro nods his head as a thump of an electronic lounge anthem plays in the background.

“No, wait,” Chrissie says. “The girl in the bathroom says there is another dj working the bar at Las Salinas Beach who has some. What do you say we leave here and head over there for sunset?”

Alejandro defers to me and returns to the dining room. In my mind, I worry how Catherine might react, but at the same time, this is part of the Ibiza world and very much a part of Chrissie and Alejandro.

“I’m not sure, aren’t we having a good time?”

“Oh, come on, it will be fun. And think of how wild Catherine will get on it.”

“I’m not sure she even does it, Chrissie. Not everyone is a fan of Charlie.”

“Darling, everyone likes Charlie. Whether they want to admit it or not is another question,” she says. “I can’t believe how fucking hard it is to score some here. Normally, it’s falling out of the fucking sky.”

“I mean, we don’t have to find it to still have a great time,” I say, despite knowing once an idea is in her head there’s no getting it out.

“Going to Ibiza and not finding coke is like going to Italy and not finding pizza. It’s fucking ridiculous.”

“So listen, let’s finish off this bottle, and then close out. I’ll drive us over there,” I say, eager to lose the current crowd we’ve amassed and willing to accept whatever the afternoon might bring.

“Darling, you’re everything. I adore you.”

I return to the table to find Dave and Catherine fully engrossed in conversation. He is hovering over a photo series while Catherine holds her own phone close to her chest.

“David, David, come here,” Catherine calls me as I make my way to the table.

“David, darling,” Dave says across the table, “Your lovely lady and I have an agreement. If she shows me her naughty picture of you, I will send her a gift from my next collection.”

“And …” Catherine interjects.

“Wait, she doesn’t have such a photo of me, as far as I know.”

“What? Wait, you said—”

“Actually, I do, David; not super naughty, but enough of one. He sends them to keep me warm at night when I’m home in New York.”

The group laughs, and I get back up and summon the waitress for the check. Catherine obviously enters into the agreement that makes Dave even more annoying and sleazy. I stay at the opposite end of the table with the Russians; their interest in me fully quelled by Catherine. Dave stares me down and then grabs the phone out of Catherine’s hands. Chrissie returns just in time, hovering behind Alejandro and massaging his shoulders as Dave tries to hand Catherine’s phone to them. They both decline in disgust and interrupt the merriment.

I mouth the words, “Are you ready?” across the table as Chrissie smiles ear to ear and Catherine looks confused. I motion a steering wheel with my hands and make my way toward the door. Catherine jumps up and joins me at the exit of the dining room.

“What’s wrong? Are we done here already?”

“Yes, we are going to another party. Are you coming or staying with your new friend?”

“Are you upset with me?”

“Why would you show that awful man a picture that’s meant to be between you and me?”

“I’m sorry, it’s not like it showed you naked or anything. You’re just so confident about your body that I didn’t think you’d care,” she says with a tone of humiliation.

“Well, I do care, and I think you would as well.”

“It’s just … you’re almost unnaturally beautiful. I figured sharing a picture would be harmless. I had no idea you would even mind, David. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

It’s the most stern I’ve been with Catherine. She returns to the table, grabs her bag, and plants a single kiss on Dave’s head, who looks on completely confused at a now empty table end. I walk ahead of the group on our way to the car; Alejandro and Chrissie linger behind with Catherine.

It’s a longer, quieter drive than I expected to the other beach, a somber foursome in a late afternoon shift of mood that’s a mix of rosé after burn, and too much sun. Catherine’s hand makes its way to mine on the gearshift; my hand struggles between second and third gear on narrow rural roads that feel miles away from the sea. Las Salinas, the beach we are heading to, is one of the fancier ones on the island. It gets its name from the salt flats located along its perimeter. It’s a tranquil scene of workers manning the flats as a parade of revelers pass by on their way to posh eateries like Jockey Club and Sa Trinxa, as well as another beach club I’ve never heard of where Chrissie will alas meet Charlie.

We drive to a gravel parking lot and follow the directions of a pushy attendant who shoves our car in tightly with a line of similarly deplorably subcompacts. We pass a series of bohemian beach boutiques where Catherine’s fingers linger between colorful caftans and floral fabrics. Chrissie plows ahead of the group and inside a small bar that sits on the edge of the sand. She vanishes for no more than a minute before emerging and walking farther onto the beach and along the water in the direction of a grassy bluff.

“We have to go to the next beach where the guy is; it’s only a five-minute walk,” she says, only partially turning around as her voice fades in a forward motion.

“Where exactly are we going?” Catherine finally asks. The sand turns to more of a gravel hillside and cool beach drifts farther away into the warmer hillside.

“We are going to get Charlie. David will never straight up tell you because he’s too much of a gentleman.”

“Charlie, what’s Charlie?” Catherine calls out to the crowd.

Chrissie stops dead in her tracks, turns around, and yells, “Don’t act coy! Charlie, darling. You know, cocaine, my dear.” She repeats even louder, “Charlie! Please tell me you’ve heard it called that?”

“That’s so funny. Why do you call it Charlie?” Catherine laughs as Chrissie continues on her forward march.

“I think it’s because of the consonant it starts with, C as in Charlie,” I interject, my voice cleared of any annoyance that may have lingered before.

“Or maybe it was the good man who discovered the stuff, god bless his soul,” Chrissie yells from ahead. Her heels tuck under shaky ankles that struggle among the rocky terrain.

The walk is longer than anyone expects, on a dusty trail that weaves along the beach with dramatic rock formations along the shore.

Catherine stops for a moment. “Look at these ruins. Oh my god, I think these are the ones I was telling you about earlier.” She points to a massive chunk of ruin with detailed decoration on its side that looks as if it was part of an elaborate temple or column.

“I think these are part of the Phoenician ruins I mentioned to you. I can’t believe we just stumbled upon them.” Catherine pulls out her phone to snap a picture.

“Darling, those aren’t the rocks we are looking for,” Chrissie says as the group laughs.

“They’d be far too difficult to chop, although I guess we could just nibble at them until pieces fell off,” Chrissie continues.

“Did you know these were here?” Catherine asks. “That’s just so weird.”

“Really, I had no idea. But I’m really happy you got to see it because I’m a horrible tour guide. It’s one of the things you discover when looking for Charlie. I even think that’s how I met my Alejandro.”

“Not exactly,” Alejandro brushes off, lingering behind in a plume of cigarette smoke.

Catherine runs down the hill and onto a small private beach next to the boulder-shaped ruin with its wavy-carved details that I wouldn’t even have noticed if not for Catherine. It’s isolated perfection as Alejandro and Chrissie walk ahead, and I follow her down to the water.

She carefully removes her shoes and walks a foot into the water. I approach from behind stripping off all my clothes and running head-first into the water. The water is perfection; warmish but still cool enough to be refreshing as my run turns into a full swim. I stop and see if Catherine follows.

“Wait for me!” she screams, and she strips to her underwear and follows in after me. Looking like an alabaster figurine, she rushes to my side, and the wave’s crash against us higher and higher.

“You’re not going to take another picture, I hope,” I say, referring to the earlier situation at the restaurant. I pummel my head in her neck with a series of kisses around her collarbone. “I think I may have to get my own. If only you weren’t always so quick to get dressed again.”

“Instead of always naked like you, Mr. Summers?”

“Exactly.”

“Ibiza is amazing,” Catherine says. “No wonder you love it so much. I can see why it’s always passed from one conqueror to the next. I think the Phoenicians were the first; they found a port here that was eventually controlled by Carthage and later the Romans who raped it of its minerals.” She tugs me closer and loses herself in the ruins, and one of those stories that enthralls her writer’s mind and me with it.