I can just about make out the contours of a four-poster bed made from driftwood, with gauzy linen curtains fluttering on a light, cooling breeze. Bianka presses a finger to her lips and pushes me gently backward onto the bed. A mahogany fan spins lazily from the ceiling, sending wafts of cool air down onto me, but the room is still very hot and when I lie back it spins a little. I’ve had a lot to drink over the course of the evening. I hear Bianka laughing softly in the near darkness. She undoes the bow on my halter neck then swiftly slips the lightweight dress off my body. She lies on top of me, kissing me deeply while drawing light shapes up the entire length of my thigh. Then she inches down my body, stopping to kiss my collarbone, my nipples, my belly button.
For a while she stops and seems to fumble with something. She’s probably taking her own dress off and I reach out for her, but she stops me.
‘Shhh,’ she whispers. ‘Wait. Stay still.’ She fumbles some more and then I feel her pour something onto the skin of my lower stomach. I sit up a little and, as a neon pink light sweeps across the room, I watch as Bianka snorts two lines of cocaine off my skin through a rolled-up ten-euro bill.
‘Wait… Where did you get that?’
‘From me.’ A man’s voice, from somewhere over by the door.
‘What the hell?’ I say, and scramble from the bed, covering myself with the top sheet. A match is struck, lighting a couple of candles standing on a shelf above a stone fireplace, and by its light I see Max.
‘Don’t freak out,’ says Bianka, her eyes shining.
‘Yeah, don’t freak out,’ says Max, smiling his boyish, beautiful smile, his teeth glinting in the soft light like little stones in shallow water. He hands me another glass of champagne and leans in to kiss me. Before our lips touch he pauses and pulls back a little, checking if I’m okay. I’m amazed to find I am okay, in fact, I want this – I want to feel his hands on my skin and his tongue in my mouth. Max kisses me and picks me up so I have to wrap my legs around his waist. Then he places me back down on the bed and turns around to kiss Bianka too, while twisting my nipples between his fingertips. He pulls a little pouch out from his pocket and waves it teasingly in the air.
‘May I offer you some premium Colombian snow, beautiful Charlotte?’ I shake my head and open my mouth to say No, I’ve never touched drugs in my life, but nothing emerges. It’s as though I’m mesmerized by the moment, by Max’s beauty, and Bianka’s, too. And if this is one of the last nights I ever have of freedom, I want the night to last forever. I nod.
Bianka slips out of her dress and lies back on the bed. Max scatters some white powder onto her chest, between her perfect little breasts, then cuts it into lines with a black credit card. He bends down and pulls first one, then another into his nose. He hands the rolled-up note he used to me and I copy what he did, drawing the cocaine into my nostril. It burns the back of my throat and I can’t believe what I’ve just done, but almost instantly I’m filled with a delicious, sharpened feeling. It strikes me that this is how I’ve wanted to feel my whole life: in control, calm, confident, like the very best version of me.
I watch as Max sits back to look at Bianka and me, lying naked except for underwear, side by side, mellow and waiting. He unbuttons his linen shirt, revealing a tan, wide chest. I reach out for him and run my hands across his warm skin, feeling the fast rhythm of his heartbeat beneath my fingertips. I could still back out. I glance toward the door and imagine extricating myself from this situation and walking through it back into the night, taking the coastal path home to Can Xara. But I realize I don’t want to do that. I want to be here. Max lies down beside me and I unbutton his trousers while kissing Bianka. When he’s free of all his clothes, I reach down and take Bianka’s underwear off, then my own. I am so turned on by the situation, by the sensation of more than one pair of hands on my bare skin, by Max’s incredible body, by the sight of Bianka getting up to crouch between his legs and taking him in her mouth, her eyes locked on mine. I start to touch myself and find I’m already very close. I keep going, moaning loudly, then Max pulls back from Bianka and positions me on my back on the bed. Then he’s inside me, moving hard but slow, just like in the image I had in my head earlier, and I come faster than I ever have before. After a little breather, I turn over on my stomach and Max enters me again from behind as I go down on Bianka, teasing her with my tongue.
We take several little breaks, sipping from the fragile champagne flutes and doing another line of coke as the sky breaks into deep pinks and purples at dawn, and then we are doing it again in various configurations. The music has died away and when I finally fall asleep, it’s to the sound of birds chirping and Max and Bianka breathing evenly on either side of me.
*
When I wake again, shrill sunlight pours onto the terracotta floor tiles. All of the magic and fun of last night is gone. I feel terrible, worse than I have in all my life. Though I knew they would be there, I’m still shocked at the sight of the two naked people in the bed with me. For almost seventeen years, I have slept next to Andreas almost every single night, waking to the familiar sight of his peaceful, puffy morning face. But today, there’s a young man about whom I know pretty much nothing, and another woman. I realize I know even less about myself than I do about them. My mind feels tender and partially blank, but more and more images from last night come back to me – the drugs, the sex, the way the cocaine ironically made me feel like I finally had a steely grip on my life. But today is different; it all feels different now. My mouth is dry and the back of my throat stings from the burn of the cocaine. Tears rush into my eyes as I carefully shift around before getting up. I slip from the bed and into the adjoining bathroom, running the tap full blast to disguise the sound of my sobs.
I sink down on the floor and give in to hysterical, uncontrollable tears. I haven’t cried like this in years, or maybe ever. I want to bolt from the Dubois-Joseph property and run through the wild lavender and heather of the hillsides, cutting across to Can Xara along the crest of the cliffs until I reach the finca, and I want to push open the old oak door to find my mother inside. She’d be sitting in front of the open fireplace, reading, her face glowing and breaking into her radiant smile at the sight of me. She’d hold her arms out to me and I’d collapse into them, folding her birdlike body into my own and she wouldn’t flinch at my tears, she never did. I’d remember what it feels like to be loved by someone fully and without judgment, and my mother would bring the pieces that have broken loose inside of me gently back together.
When there are no more tears, I get up from the floor slowly. My body aches. I force myself to meet my own eyes in the mirror. The woman in front of me is smirking as though this meltdown is remotely funny. Her hazel eyes are smudged with last night’s makeup, much of which has been dragged down her face in sooty rivers. A couple of bruises run across her collarbone. Her arms are very skinny and also bruised on both biceps.
I realize what this feeling is – I feel dirty and unlovable and worthless, things I have always held to be truths about myself, and they are the things I have tried so hard to stave off by being successful, happily married, perfect. But this woman standing in front of me is the real Charlotte, there is no doubt about this. A messy, deviant, and deeply flawed woman who has revealed her dark side to Bianka. I feel repeat stabs of shame: this is a woman who deserves none of her many blessings, least of all her children, who should have been able to trust that their mother wouldn’t single-handedly destroy their family for the sake of a sordid sex game.
I take a few very deep, shuddering breaths and try to gain some control over myself and my racing thoughts. I need to take stock, rationally. Is what I’ve done really so bad? Or is this something I might learn to live with, locked away in the recesses of my memories for the rest of my life? How much harm can it really do there? What I feel ashamed about is my hunger. How much I wanted something I knew was wrong. And I just don’t want it anymore, or ever again. I want to go home. Even the thought of Bianka doesn’t rouse me now, not even a little; it’s as though a switch has been flipped and what felt so incredibly exciting and passionate now feels seedy and dangerous. I bring our intimate encounters to mind and still there’s nothing.
I quietly push open the door to the bedroom and glance at Bianka, fast asleep on the bed. A tremor of regret courses through me, followed by a wave of stress. I have jeopardized my sixteen-year stable marriage and the security of my children for this woman. How could I have allowed it to happen? And it was me who instigated it, who took her hand at Benirràs and ran my fingertip around the soft creases of her palm, it was me who didn’t flinch when our eyes met, who willed our lips to touch. Bianka hit me like a freight train, like the embodiment of all my pent-up desires, with all the force of resentment, sacrifice, and longing. Again, I think of Anette and Mads divorcing, of their daughters placing their belongings into boxes as the house is slowly emptied into moving vans, a ‘Sold’ sign stuck into the ground next to the gates. I don’t want that for Andreas and myself, definitely not.
I swallow hard. I have to find a way to come back from this, whatever it is, right now. I can still hold onto everything – my predictable, gentle life, my control, my career, it’s all still there – at home. I am, after all, not the first person ever to go a little wild in Ibiza. And if there is ever one rule of girl trips, it would be that what happens on a girls’ trip firmly stays there.
All I need to do is figure out how to file this away as a little appendix in the story of my life, to reduce it to a sexy, if tasteless, footnote not to be repeated. I have to reframe this in my mind as a one-off wild and deeply inappropriate exploration of another way of life, after which I arrived at the safe and convenient conclusion that, for all its shortcomings and frequent boredom, I actually like my life and want to go back home. If I could make sense of why it happened and what I gained from this, then I can move on, knowing it was worth it and with the motivation to keep it completely quiet. I just hope Bianka will feel the same way, that we can leave everything that happened between us on the island and smoothly return to a drama-free Wimbledon.
I actually think that everything that has happened is a symptom of a massive midlife crisis. It’s a strange feeling to realize you’ve arrived at a stage in life when you have everything you ever wanted, only to find that it isn’t enough. That it’s nowhere near enough. Can I be forgiven for wanting to feel alive again?
I think about the euphoria of the past few days, and how maybe I just needed to feel like I could still become someone else. I look at Bianka and Max sleeping heavily, a sliver of sunlight slicing the messy bed, and wonder if I already have.
Twenty
Bianka
Bianka wakes to find Charlotte sitting in an armchair opposite the bed, fully dressed in last night’s flimsy yellow silk dress, watching her, a hard and unnerving expression on her face. It doesn’t soften when their eyes meet like it usually does; rather, it grows even steelier and Bianka sits up slowly, rubbing sleep from her eyes. She feels terrible, naturally, and as fragments of the night before begin to return to her, she suppresses the urge to laugh, if only because of the look on Charlotte’s face. It’s puffy and patchy with splotches of red, and her expression is etched with regret and even horror. Bianka realizes she’s going to need to play this very carefully if she wants to avoid Charlotte slipping away from her. At the thought of losing Charlotte, of not having access to the connection that has made her feel something real for the first time in years, Bianka is instantly sobered. Could it already be too late?
She senses a presence next to her and realizes Max is still there, out cold, mouth grotesquely open, his tongue protruding from between his teeth like a serpent’s. A wave of nausea washes over Bianka but she quashes it, making herself remember how incredibly hot what happened between them last night really was. It’s obvious that Charlotte doesn’t feel the same way in the cold light of day. It’s one thing exploring a physical relationship with another woman – a little naughty, perhaps, but hardly that uncommon, even among married women. But a drug-fuelled threesome with a much-younger stranger, including full intercourse? Bianka can see how that might feel like next-level stuff and how it might call into question certain truths you may have held about yourself. Now, damage control is crucial, before Charlotte pulls back further.
‘You okay?’ she whispers, but realizes immediately that it was a stupid thing to say – it invites an instant conversation about all the ways in which Charlotte is most certainly not okay. Charlotte rolls her eyes and shakes her head curtly, making fresh tears scatter from her eyes onto the silk dress, staining it a darker mustard yellow. Charlotte points to the door and motions for Bianka to get up. She glances at her watch; it’s just past ten in the morning, so they’ve had less than four hours’ rest. Bianka feels stone-cold sober but realizes that most likely isn’t the case. She places her feet on the tiles and, as she stands up, she feels woozy and nauseated. Max shifts in the bed, closing his mouth and pressing his face into the pillow. Bianka gently pulls the bedsheet from the bed and he shifts again and groans. She wraps it around her naked body so she doesn’t have to move around the room completely exposed. Before, Charlotte looked at Bianka undressed with raw desire, but now it’s just a brief glance and utter disdain. Bianka feels a wild, uncontrollable surge of fury at the thought of Charlotte extricating herself from their beautiful bubble and has to turn away from her – she can’t trust her facial expression not to betray her.
In the adjoining bathroom, Bianka puts her dress from last night back on. She avoids her reflection in the mirror because why would she want to see herself in such a moment?
Charlotte opens the bathroom door without knocking and grabs a monogrammed bathrobe from a hook on the door, putting it on over her dress.
‘What are you doing with that?’
‘I’m not walking home at eight a.m. in a party dress like a whore.’
‘Wow. A little harsh, perhaps. But okay.’ Bianka follows Charlotte back through the little bungalow and then outside in the fierce sunlight. The property is deserted and there is no sign of the party that was going strong until just a couple of hours ago. Bianka assumes a team of staff has swept silently through the rooms and terraces, picking up the debris: cigarette butts and bongs and empty bottles and various items of clothing flung across furniture. Charlotte turns right instead of in the direction of the main gate.
‘Where are you going?’ she says, but Charlotte is walking very fast ahead of her and Bianka can’t be sure she even heard. The house stands in huge, carefully kept grounds and a water feature runs down toward the cliffs and the sea below – a series of gurgling fountains passing the water from one to the next leisurely, as though water wasn’t a treasured and somewhat scarce commodity here in the barren and remote part of northwestern Ibiza, something which is stated on signs everywhere. Be careful with your water usage. Unless you’re rich, of course, then you can send thousands of gallons of the stuff down a hillside every hour just because it looks pretty.
The water feature ends in a huge, round mosaic-tiled shallow pool in the centre of a vast lawn hemmed in by hedges as tall as prison walls which seem to mark the end of the property. Charlotte walks determinedly toward the corner where two of the hedges meet and, sure enough, a small door painted the green of the hedges and clad in ivy is embedded in its middle. It’s unlocked and Charlotte and Bianka pass through it, emerging onto a path very high up on a hill. Bianka hesitates and shields her aching eyes from the sun. She’s lost her sunglasses somewhere, but Charlotte stalks along as though they’ve gone out for a full-on workout. They’re both barefoot, carrying shoes more suited for restaurants and parties than rocky paths. Further down the hillside Bianka spots the outline of Can Xara, and recognizes the little horseshoe bay with the tiny boathouse with its blue corrugated tin roof at the far side, and the distinct cliffs of Punta de Sa Creu.
No wonder the owners of Sa Capricciosa wanted to purchase the land on Charlotte’s property – now it’s clear to her how it’s the only way for them to gain direct access to the sea. It’s also obvious to Bianka that Sa Capricciosa must be one of the largest private estates on the island.
‘Charlotte, wait, please,’ she says when they are getting closer to Can Xara but still well out of earshot, stopping for a moment to catch her breath. Her heart is racing uncomfortably and she can feel the disgusting aftertaste of the cocaine still lingering at the back of her throat. She anticipates several hours of being sick after they get back, her body probably still in shock from last night but currently running on adrenaline. ‘Can we talk?’
‘I’m not sure there’s that much to talk about just now,’ Charlotte says, the corners of her mouth dragging downwards. Bianka feels a deep empathy for her and places her hand on Charlotte’s shoulder. Charlotte shrugs it off and starts walking again, fast along the perilous path, which is strewn with loose rocks and has several sheer drops; a slip would send you at least a hundred feet down the side of the cliff. These especially dangerous points are marked by a flimsy string, fastened to wooden fence posts inserted into the ground at apparently random intervals. And that’s when it happens: a vicious and overwhelming vision that appears in Bianka’s mind, making her stop instantly. She sees herself as clearly as though she were watching a film, running toward Charlotte at full speed and using her entire force to fling her down the rocky ravine to the beach far below. She’d scream, but only briefly, joining the screech of the circling gulls. Bianka would watch her body strike against a jutting sharp rock and bounce grotesquely off it with a spray of blood from her head before slapping onto a flat rock plateau next to a little beach. The ocean would wash Charlotte’s blood away then rise to drag her to its depths with the tide.
‘Bianka. I – I just can’t right now. Please just hurry.’
‘We need to talk about what happened. And we need to talk about us.’ Bianka tries to rid herself of the vision of Charlotte dead and broken on the rocks far below, but she can still see her there, in her mind.
