How to Bed a Millionaire, page 7
I swim several laps, breaststrokes, backstrokes, crawl, butterfly, frolicking and splashing and generally having a good time. It could be that I’m shouting with glee from time to time, too, because I’m enjoying myself so much. I see movement behind Chao’s French window as if the housekeeper were investigating where all that noise is coming from.
After an hour, I let myself drift around.
Oh, there’s Chao’s cell, still lying at the bottom of the pool.
I get out of the water, oblivious of the fact that the white swimsuit must be highlighting my Cappuccino-colored pudenda, not to mention that Willy, as free as a happy-go-lucky orca, is dangling out from the right leg hole. The pool water did not make the fabric retract. And yes, I’m hanging to the right, shoot me.
I dive in, aiming for the general direction of the dark spot directly before me…
… and of course, the Ralph Lauren thing deems this action beneath its dignity and decides to abandon ship. Do the drawstrings give way or have they been loosened or whatever, I couldn’t say. But I feel something slide over my legs when I glide under water. And when I come back up, cell in hand, and turn around to check what has happened, the swimsuit is floating behind me.
That would be very embarrassing if someone saw it. As it is, I’m still blissfully alone. I finally find it pleasurable to be stark naked.
I swim over to Chao’s side of the pool. After having stared at his French windows and not seeing any telltale movement, I hoist myself out of the water, dart over to his deckchair, and place his soaked cell on it.
Then I dive back in the pool, retrieve the white swimsuit, and throw it onto my own sundeck, where it lands with a loud splash.
I lay back, close my eyes, and float around some more, the sun’s warmth caressing those body parts of mine that stick out of the water.
Half an hour later, I proceed to my side of the pool and heave myself out.
I bend down to pick up the swimsuit when I hear a sound at my back.
I hear Chao say, “Trevor… OH!” He must be staring at my naked bum right now.
Stupidly, I turn around. Even more stupidly, I hold the Ralph Lauren swimsuit… before my chest.
Chao gasps audibly and becomes very red in the face. “OH! Whoa! Jesus! CHRIST! Trevor, do you have to… flaunt your nude body before my eyes all the time! I mean, God, now you’ve gone full monty! I can’t believe it!”
I take a step toward him to explain the whole situation, but he just holds up a hand, turns his head sideways, and says with a choked voice, “Just… you know, just cover yourself up. A bit of decency, dude! Is that too much to ask.”
I guess at that point I must be as crimson as he. I stumble backward, my fumbling hand finds the bath towel on my deckchair, and I wrap it around my waist. “God, I’m sorry, Chao,” I stammer.
“Is it over yet?” he asks in a small voice.
“Yes. You can look. Everything’s covered up.”
He turns back to me and… stares. Just stares.
“Listen, I’m really sorry,” I repeat.
He finally shrugs, looking still ill at ease. “It’s… it’s okay,” he says. “I don’t mind. Just give me a warning next time, all right? It was a rather… big surprise.”
“Well, you know what they say about black dudes. It’s often exaggerated, but in fact…”
“I wasn’t talking about that!”
“Oh.”
“Never mind.” He waves his hand, almost in surrender, and disappears in is room again.
He hasn’t even said what he came out to tell me.
Life lesson #4
Nude is good.
Unless you’re in the company of a prude dude.
Relief—I’m not dead
Relief—I’m not dead. For a moment, I was afraid I might be, until I remembered the expression “to die of shame” was nothing but a figure of speech. Thank heaven.
Once I recover from my mortification-induced stupor, I slip into my gym shorts, flop onto my sundeck sofa, and try to drown the latest incident in rosé, focusing on the book I put on the low table.
What with the heat, the novel’s plodding pace, and the constant sound of the cicadas and the overflow cascade, I must have fallen asleep, however. For the next thing I know, the book’s lying on the floor beside me, and the sun has sunk down to a lower position.
I check my cell.
6:00 p.m. Christ, I’ve napped for over two hours.
I also notice my chest is drenched with sweat—that is, unless I’ve been drooling in my sleep, which, ew! Man! I hope I didn’t do that.
I freshen up in the bathroom. Then I call my mother as promised. She’s happy to hear I’m okay, asks all kinds of questions, and gives all kinds of maternal and, in her case, useless advice. You know, things like, “If you wash Sean, don’t use cheap detergent. He’s used to a certain brand, you hear me? I can send you the name if you want.”
Without lying, I can reassure her that, of course, using cheap detergents on Sean hasn’t crossed my mind. I mean, as if I planned to wash Mom’s car! Please. Where does that delusion come from? Do I have to get worried about Mom’s mental state?
“Send us more photos,” Mom says before we hang up thirty minutes later. “And keep us updated. Love you, Trevor. Dad and Judy send their love, too.”
“Love y’all, too. Bye.”
I pocket the cell and, on a whim, open the door to peep into the corridor. It’s empty, of course, AC-cool, and sits there, as silent as a cemetery. Don’t ask me why, but that almost reverent silence makes me want to do forbidden things. Like having a sneaky look at the other rooms, for example. What could stop me, anyway?
Let’s go, then. Carrying my flip-flops in one hand, I tiptoe from room to room, just for the sake of, well, prying. I note that if I include my own lodging, this wing consists of six rooms. The others don’t have the spectacular view I enjoy, though, as they only open onto their semiprivate sundecks and the pool behind. Whereas I have the privilege of a second wall entirely made up of the bay windows which overlook the sea. The other five rooms are also smaller than mine. Still decent-sized, don’t get me wrong—this ain’t a hovel. But it’s as if I were a guest of honor of sorts, which strikes me as odd.
On the other hand, no one else is staying in the villa right now, and Chao didn’t mention other guests being expected. Odd, too. But hey, I won’t claim I understand millionaires and their fads and fancies.
After the sixth room, there’s a windowless corner chamber next to the kitchen, which turns out to be a utility room with two washing machines and two tumble dryers as well as all the things you need to do the laundry and clean the rooms: feather dusters, vacuum cleaners (plural, yes), plastic buckets, and several sorts of detergents.
In a huge closet that releases a strong scent of lavender when I open it, I find towels, sheets, and toiletries, most of which look and smell very exclusive.
When the utility chamber has no more secrets for me, I leave it behind, walk around the corner, and cautiously peep into the kitchen. No one there. Great. Right now, I don’t think I’m up to another awkward encounter with my housemate. Not yet.
I tiptoe over to the elevator and press the ground floor button.
The first thing I notice when I step out of the lift: Chao forgot to switch off the AC this morning. The living room has been transformed into an honest to God walk-in freezer. The potted plants seem to shiver in the constant, icy breeze.
I fix the situation by grabbing the remote control and pushing the appropriate button. Then I go outside. Like an idle rich wanker, I rather fancy a little stroll through our park. I mean, that even sounds posh, doesn’t it?
Sean is still parked under his olive tree, as small and pink as ever. He seems to grin at me as I walk by. I take a picture of him, which I send Mom. “Sean having a nice chat with an olive tree,” I caption the photo.
It takes me almost an hour to visit the whole property, which is in perfect shape. I wonder if it’ll still look as swell if no dedicated team of gardeners takes daily care of the lush vegetation. Probably not. I should drop a hint so that Chao deals with the question. It’s his job, after all, even if until now he never looked very happy when I reminded him of it.
Oh, for the record: amidst the bushes and trees, there is a tennis court. Not that I’m tempted to play tennis all of a sudden, but I think it’s worth noting. And I stumble upon three outhouses, one of which turns out to be the gardening shed.
I take some more pictures.
Only when I’ve finished my inspection tour do I notice how thirsty I am. Hungry, too.
I return to the kitchen downstairs and drink a glass of water. Then I open the fridge where I’ve stored Mom’s Tupperware boxes.
There’s a huge one with what looks like some sort of sauce. I take off the lid and sniff. Mmm. Yummy. Homemade ragù alla bolognese. Enough for a small army detachment or two.
Oh, and Mom is a real gem. Another Tupperware contains five tomatoes, a cucumber, and two bell peppers. There’s even a box with some apples. They seem to have suffered a bit from their longish stay in the cooler, but I know exactly how I can transform them into a simple yet tasty dessert.
Now, let’s take stock of what else I need.
The cupboards are all devoid of food, so I take the elevator down to the service deck again. I open the storage room, key all but glued to my hand, and choose a family-sized pack of tagliatelle, an onion, and a couple of limes. On second thought, I empty a cardboard box, which I fill with two water bottles, two bottles of wine—one red, one rosé. I also add a bottle of tonic, a bottle of gin, and a glass of Kalamata olives.
Back in the kitchen, I put everything but the pasta in the fridge. Then, I place a huge pot with water on the cooker. I pour Mom’s sauce into another pot, which I put to simmer.
I’m shoving a third pot with the peeled and sliced apples on the cooker when Chao shows up, an iPad in his hand. He has changed in the meantime but is again overdressed for the season: tight black jeans and a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows—very nice and very becoming because it clings to his amazing torso like a miser to his pennies. Of course, he’s again wearing his leather loafers, too.
He stops in his tracks when he catches sight of me. “Oh,” he says, frowning. Then he smiles feebly. “There’s something about the concept of clothes you don’t seem to grasp, Trevor.”
“There’s something about the concept of summer you don’t seem to grasp, Chao,” I shoot back. “Unless you plan to head over to the Grand-Hôtel3.”
“Not really. But… what are you doing here?” He sniffs. “And what’s that smell?”
“Two questions, one answer: I’m cooking.”
He steps closer. “Ah. I came here to ask if you wanted me to order in dinner…” He brandishes the iPad. “But apparently, you’re already preparing something for yourself.”
“My mom heaped loads of food on me,” I say. “If you want to join me, there’s more than enough for two. I could even be persuaded to put on a T-shirt if you ask nicely.”
“You sure?”
“About the T-shirt? I do wear clothes from time to time, even though you might think otherwise.”
“No. About dinner…”
“Of course. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t mean it. Come here, taste this.” I hold out a spoon.
Chao lays the iPad on the central counter and accepts the spoon. He dips it in the sauce and puts it in his mouth. “Oh, wow. That’s amazing.”
“Mom’s Bolognese sauce. Attention: not your simple ground-beef-with-tomato-sauce crap, but the original Italian recipe.” I know I’m blabbering. Again. It’s because of Chao’s proximity, which I find disconcerting. Again. “With onions, celery, carrots, two kinds of ground meat, pancetta, red wine, milk, and loads of love. I’m sure she had it simmering for hours…”
“She sounds like a great cook. But what’s that pot with the apples? You don’t mean to add them, do you?”
“No, that’s for dessert. I simply stew them in sugared water together with cloves and cinnamon bark.”
“Sounds yummy, too.”
“All I have to do now is chop up the veggies for the salad. The rest will be ready in half an hour.”
“Looks as if you have everything well planned out.”
“Yep. Including the having-dinner-with-you part. I’d have dialed #1 at one point if you hadn’t shown up.”
He stares at me, a bit flustered again. “Really? Why?”
I shrug. “Because there’s too much food for one person. Because I thought I owed you something more tangible than a meek excuse for disrupting your nice little life here in the summer house. And because…” I drift off.
“Because?”
I turn around so that he can’t see me blush. “Because you’re pleasant company,” I mumble.
“What?”
“Nothing. Er. There are olives in the fridge. Fauchon olives from Kalamata. Could you put them in a bowl? And set the table outside? Oh, and as an aperitif, I was thinking a gin and tonic with lime juice would be nice.”
He stares a bit longer at me. Then he nods. “Sounds like a date.”
And that—I mean, dude!
His signals are mixed. I’d even say more—muddled.
“I saw you reading this afternoon”
“I saw you reading this afternoon,” Chao remarks after I’ve finished preparing the salad and joined him outside. He opens the bottle of gin. “Good book?”
“The start is a bit slow,” I say. “If the pace doesn’t pick up soon, I might fall asleep every ten pages.” I hold out my glass. “Easy on the tonic, please.”
He pours a generous amount of gin, then adds some drops of tonic and squeezes some lime juice into it. “What’s the title of the book?”
I tell him, and he whistles while pouring himself a drink. “My, my, my. That’s serious stuff. Isn’t that the story of that woman struggling with Parkinson’s disease?”
“Yep.”
“Funny. I rather put you down as a reader of soppy romances or thrilling murder mysteries.”
I clink my glass against his. “Thanks for sincerely expressing your faith in my intelligence.”
“Sorry, that came out a bit… harshly.”
“FYI, I’m not all freeballing and impromptu nudism. I’m a university student, so I do have a brain, too.”
He gives me a contrite smile. “Again, sorry. I was just… surprised. You know, that book you mentioned—I saw it on the NYT Bestselling List and thought I’d give it a try. But I couldn’t get past chapter three.”
“I’m afraid I might not, either. And apology accepted.” I grin to show him I’m not holding a grudge.
We take a sip. “That’s good stuff,” I say and pick up the sky-blue gin bottle.
“What are you majoring in, if I may ask.”
“French.”
“Oh. Hence your literary taste.”
I chortle. “Your first guess wasn’t off the mark, to be honest. I do prefer romance or mystery novels. Sometimes dystopian stories, too.”
He raises an eyebrow. “And yet, you made me apologize.”
“Did it hurt much?” I grab an olive and pop it into my mouth.
He laughs and seems to really relax at last. His posture says as much; he’s leaning back in his chair, one arm hanging over the back, the other lying idly on the table. His shirt, unbuttoned halfway down, opens and once again gives me an eyeful of his hairless, perfectly sculpted chest. I can’t help but stare again and again. I can’t help but notice, either, that his nipples are pressing hard against the stretched-out white fabric of the shirt.
Which, whoa! I’d have a whole list of things I’d like to do to those nipples.
I’m understandably distracted when he asks his next question, and he has to repeat it. Twice. “What’s your favorite book, then?”
“Call Me by Your Name by André Aciman. And Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda by Becky Albertalli.”
“Never heard of them.”
My throat goes dry all of a sudden. I realize how stupid my whole fantasizing about him is. “No, you wouldn’t, of course,” I mumble. I hastily have another sip. “What do you like to read? I mean, if you read…”
“I do. And my taste’s… eclectic. Some poetry, some nonfiction—history and art books, mostly. And when I have time for more, the odd novel.”
Turns out he likes dystopian fiction too, so we chat pleasantly about our favorite writers, mine being Margaret Atwood, and his Octavia E. Butler. We agree, though, that each other’s choice is a good one.
When we’ve finished our drinks, I disappear in the kitchen to put the water for the tagliatelle to boil. The apples are stewed; I take the pot off the stove and empty it into a big bowl.
Chao joins me. He leans his hip against the counter right next to me. “Need any help?”
“Everything’s under control. Maybe you could put the salad on the table while I dash to my room.”
“Oh. You forgot something?”
I grin. “I promised you a T-shirt for dinner, didn’t I?”
He waves his hand. “I’m getting used to your… unclad presence.”
“I really don’t want to impose my chest on you while you’re eating…”
“It’s nice to look at, so it’s okay. Really.”
Gulp. Did he have to say that? And is it me, or is it getting hotter and hotter in this kitchen?
Luckily, Chao walks back out with the salad. I hear him shout, “Do you want another drink?”
“No more gin for now, thanks. But I’ll bring the bottle of rosé I put in the fridge if you want.”
“Sounds perfect.”
After that, the dinner continues in the same relaxed and pleasant atmosphere. Chao praises Mom’s cooking again and even compliments me on my tagliatelle, perfectly al dente, and the salad. He questions me about my family, a topic that seems to genuinely intrigue him. I tell him about Mom’s origins, her meeting Dad during one of his US trips, their insta-love story, and how Mom finally followed the love of her life to France. I also fill him in on my American family, Uncle Walter, Aunt Fiona, and my formidable grandmother, Granma Parker.
