Page 63 of Born To Be Bad

Pussy Galore

IVY

We arrive at the famous Coconut Grove restaurant early for dinner. We’re tired from the heat of the day, the endless stream of champagne … and Alistair wants to get me “into bed early.” I didn’t argue. We walk up a beautiful treed pathway lit by dozens of lanterns, including smaller ones hanging in trees that look like fireflies when the breeze pushes them to pirouette. The restaurant is set on a vast coconut plantation overlooking the ocean. We were advised by the person who took our booking that we absolutely have to try the fresh coconut water, which you drink straight out of the shell. It sounded simple and refreshing, and I was looking forward to it.

The restaurant decor strikes a balance between stylish and down-to-earth comfort. The ceiling is woven from palm leaves which would be rustic if not for the incredibly detailed workmanship, the design intricate and artful. Huge forest-like ferns reach from the corners of the rooms, and orchids dangle throughout. We sit down to a white tablecloth, Alistair’s handsome, slightly tanned face lit up by the candle burning in the centre.

“This is perfect,” I say. I’m feeling so light. Our real and pressing problems seem light years away.

“I aim to please,” Alistair replies.

“I invited Brumilde, but she wanted a night in.”

“Thank god for that,” says Alistair. “If she were here we’d have to behave.”

“We do have to behave,” I scold. “Thai people are very respectful. We can’t act like barbarians.”

“Barbarianism was not exactly what I had in mind.”

I raise my eyebrows. “What do you have in mind?”

“Ah, you know,” he sighs, putting his hands behind his head. “The usual. A quick blow job while no one’s looking.”

I scoff. “I may be talented, but I’m not that talented. Besides, we should be focusing on the food. It’s not often we get to taste authentic Thai cuisine.”

“Well,” he replies. “If you think I can sit across from you while you look like that and have pure thoughts, you’re gravely mistaken.”

I look down and pluck the fabric of my simple summer evening dress, picked up from a Red Cross shop years ago. “Look like what?”

I feel his fingers on my bare knee. “Looking like the complete fucking goddess that you are.”

He looks pretty god-like himself, to be honest—the way his crisp linen shirt accentuates his build and newly sun-kissed skin. I clear my throat and sit up straight, driving my attention back to the menu.

“I have no idea what to order,” I say.

Alistair takes another long hungry look at me, then looks at his menu. “Me, neither. Let’s get everything.”

“Noooo,” I reply, shaking my head. “What if there’s, like, baby goat curry or something?”

He laughs. “Baby goat curry?”

“You can laugh as much as you like, but I’ve seen the videos.”

“The videos?” he snorts. “Of kid curry?”

“Baby goat yoga,” I reply. “It’s all over TikTok. It’s very popular at the moment.”

Alistair guffaws. “Doesn’t seem practical in the slightest. Even if it’s true, aren’t you yogi hippies mostly vegetarian? I can’t imagine a tribe of yogis sacrificing a baby goat for dinner.”

“Really,” I say. “And what do you think the places do with the surplus of baby goats once tourist season is over?”

“How did this conversation take such a dark turn?” he muses. “I thought we were here for a lovely dinner but now it sounds like I’m being initiated into some kind of … confused baby goat cult.”

I snigger. “Great name for a band.”

“Agreed.”

A lovely Thai woman arrives at our table to take our order. She reminds me of Chailai, which makes my pelvis buzz.

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