Page 79 of Vivacity
I get on my tiptoes and kiss him lightly on the lips.
‘Do you have many plans for next week?’ he asks by way of greeting.
I think. ‘A few social plans. A dinner, and a Christmas party on Thursday. Why?’
‘Cancel them.’
I don’t grace that unreasonable command with a reply. Instead, I fold my arms over my chest and raise my eyebrows. I’m wearing a scarlet cashmere sweater dress this morning. I’ve sexed it up with a black Alexander McQueen belt and some gorgeous black boots, but I still wish I didn’t have to dress for frigid temperatures. It’s utterly miserable out there—there’s barely any sunlight.
He sighs and runs his hands down my woolly upper arms. ‘Look, I thought we could work out of my place in Mustique next week. We could go tomorrow, even. I don’t have Jamie this weekend.’
I gape at him, a thrill running through me. I had no idea he had a home in Mustique. ‘But why?’
‘I could do with putting some space between me and this shit-show. And’—he shrugs awkwardly—‘I know you’ve been struggling with the cold. I thought you might like to spend a few days being warm.’
Be still my heart. The king of the underworld understands that I have a Mediterranean pulse, that I need heat. I give him my widest smile, showing him how much his thoughtfulness means to me.
‘You had me atwarm.’
He grins, pleased, and immediately he looks younger. Lighter. What might Beach Ethan be like, hmm? All golden and carefree? I can’t wait to find out.
‘So, will this be like inThe Thomas Crown Affair, when Thomas sweeps Catherine off to his charming little shack in Martinique, and she cavorts around topless all day, and he’s all likeI never bring anyone here?’
He frowns. ‘Yes to you cavorting around topless. But I’m not sure I’d call it a shack.’
Villa Aurora is most definitelynota shack. What it is is an absolute stunner, perched on a leafy hill overlooking L’Ansecoy Bay. We pull up in a ‘mule’, which is apparently the local term for a beach buggy. The villa’s very smiley butler, Kelvin, picked usup from the airstrip. Apparently there’s a team of staff, so I guess I won’t be cavorting around topless that much after all.
The flight in Ethan’s jet was memorable—my Gucci dress and retro-slash-porno flight attendant role play made sure of that. But I also managed to glean from him that his villa is one of the original Oliver Messel-designed homes on the island. This knowledge has been breaking my brain a little, because if I think about Ethan’s ‘minimalist corpse’ aesthetic and Messel’s Sixties-style theatricals, then there’s zero overlap in that particular Venn diagram. None at all. The Holland Park mausoleum isn’t exactly overburdened with silk-fringed lampshades or coral motifs, is it? I spent the non-sex part of the flight using the jet’s Wi-Fi to research Messel’s work further. Ethan has assured me that there are a few relevant coffee table books at the house, and I can’t wait to dive in deeper, to learn more about the flamboyant hallmarks of the man who createdtheMustique aesthetic.
I gaze in astonished delight at the stunning, low-level building as Kelvin rounds the circular drive, bringing us to a brisk stop in front of the villa. It’s perfectly symmetrical, with a single-storey wing jutting out on each side from the central part of the structure. But more than that: it’s lavender. Ethan owns an actual lavender home! The pastel walls are the prettiest, most feminine foil for both the vibrant green palms everywhere and the impeccable white lattice work all along the balconies. The once-reddish tiles on the pitched roofs have weathered almost to grey.
‘I feel exactly like Princess Margaret,’ I announce as Kelvin helps me down from the mule. I swapped the Gucci for vintage Pucci somewhere over the Atlantic, and my multicoloured kaftan is making me feel even more like the island’s most famous—or infamous—fan. The sensation of suddenly being in light clothing, of being enveloped in warmth, is more blissful than I can say.
‘Well, you certainly act a lot like her, so that’s no surprise,’ Ethan grumbles, but when I look back at him, he’s grinning at me. He seems lighter already, and, as we saunter towards the front door, through which I already have a clear line of sight to the sea, he slings an arm around my neck, pulling me closer towards him so he can press a kiss to my temple.
‘Apparently this was a thing for Messel,’I tell Ethan around fifteen minutes later, waving my hand back towards the house. We’re sitting on the idyllic veranda whose pitched roof is lined with white-painted tongue-and-groove planking. The housekeeper, Esmé, who seems thrilled that Ethan has brought a woman along, has shoved an excellent mojito in my hand, and he plonked a glossy Messel coffee table book in my lap before taking a seat next to me on the bamboo sofa. I’m happy as a clam.
‘What was?’ He leans in, looking down at the book. His arm tightens around me, fingertips brushing my bare shoulder.
‘This concept of being able to see straight through from the front door right to the sea. So indulgent, and what an amazing first impression it makes.’ I recall from my Oscar de la Renta book at home that he had the same thing going on in his dreamy Dominican Republic house. ‘It says he loved positioning doorways and windows just so to frame a view.’
This book is a riot of colour and drama and gorgeous detail. Greek columns. Gratuitous trompe-l'oeil. Pastels. Pavilions. Shells. Scallops. It’s just so fucking fabulous.
‘I should probably have lived in the Sixties,’ I tell him. ‘I would have been one of those heiresses that Slim Aaronsphotographed with my mojito and toy poodle in my over-furnished house.’
‘Is there a man in this life?’
‘Definitely. You probably would have lived in a speedo, though.’
‘Small price to pay.’
We grin foolishly at each other before I turn my head to gaze out past the lovely turquoise pool and over the lush greenery that covers the distance from here to the cobalt-blue sea. The air is thick with the scent of flowers, of vegetation.
‘You like it here?’ he asks.
‘I love it already. I could die happy. How can you ever bear to leave?’
He laughs a little and drops a kiss to my forehead when I turn back to him. He, too, changed mid-flight, into the palest blue linen shirt and white chinos. It’s such a billionaire-on-holiday look, and it makes me feral. He has his aviators on, and honestly, Ray-Ban should sign this guy up. He was born to wear aviators in the same way that Brad Pitt and Tom Cruise were. It’s something about his razor-sharp cheekbones.
