find the kitchen, which took a while. In the state-of-the-art stainless-steel and mosaic-tile room, she encountered a slim young woman in yoga pants. The woman said her name was Alfre—she was Kat and Anya’s nutritionist. Would Lydia like some fresh carrot-beet-orange juice?
Actually, Lydia preferred a giant, greasy cheeseburger laden with sliced pastrami, just like the ones she remembered from her favorite childhood diner in Houston. Also, a truckload of crisp french fries and an extrathick vanilla milk shake. All the foods she’d dreamed about while munching on roast monkey in the land of the Amarakaire.
Ask and ye shall receive. Though it was nearly ten o’clock at night, the nutritionist summoned the chef. Twenty minutes later, Lydia was eating exactly what she’d ordered. Then she’d gone back to bed, awakened, and ordered the exact same meal for breakfast. It was served to her no questions asked on the outdoor patio, along with the latest edition of
Vogue.
Perhaps best of all, there were no kids yet to look after. Her two cousins, soon to be in her charge, would not be back from camp until Thursday. As for Kat, she’d departed that morning for Bristol, Connecticut, to attend some big powwow with the ESPN brass. Lydia had nothing to do but spend the morning lounging around . . . which brought her to where she was right now: poolside, drink in hand.
Bliss. Lydia took another sip of the 007 and mentally toasted her new life. Anything she could possibly want was available; all she had to do was pick up the small phone that sat on the glass table to her right. Press one for a maid. Press two for the chef. Unfortunately, there was no “Press three for a hot guy,” but that could be taken care of on her own. And soon. She hadn’t been about to lose her virginity to some five-foot-nothing Amazonian warrior with brown teeth. But she was sure she could find just the right American warrior prince to do the manly deed.
She closed her eyes, embraced by the sun. Long live Princess Lydia.
“Your aunt works me very hard.”
Lydia opened her eyes to see Oksana plop down on the chaise next to hers. She wore white shorts and a blue-and-white Nike sports bra, her sun-bleached blond hair tied back in a braid, her skin golden. Over her shoulder was a white towel monogrammed with Kat and Anya’s initials.
“You are Lydia, yes?” Oksana had only the slightest Russian accent.
Lydia nodded.
“I am Oksana. Your aunt Anya is my coach.”
“She’s not my aunt,” Lydia explained, propping herself up on her elbows. “She’s my aunt’s partner.”
Oksana gave a small shrug and sipped from a water bottle before she spoke again. “Then she is aunt, too.” She pointed to the monogram on the towel. “K for Kat, A for Anya. They have told me about you. You live in jungle before this, yes?”
Jungle, rain forest, whatever.
“Something like that.”
“How are you liking Beverly Hills?”
Lydia smiled. “I am loving Beverly Hills.” She reached for her Stoli 007. “Would you like a drink?”
Oksana shook her head. “Not during season. Only between Thanksgiving and ten days after New Year’s. Forty-five days of normal.” She patted her taut, muscular stomach. “What are you doing now?”
Lydia’s smile grew. “Not a damn thing.”
Oksana draped the towel back over her shoulder. “I must go shower. But later . . . maybe you would like to do something instead of nothing. I will go to De Sade tonight. Would you like to come with me?”
Lydia knew about De Sade. A few months ago, one of the visiting doctors had brought
Los Angeles
magazine to her—it had featured De Sade, the hottest new club on Sunset Boulevard. She’d practically committed the issue to memory. And now, here she was in Los Angeles with a rising young tennis star who’d just invited her to go clubbing there.
“I’d love to.” Then, Lydia frowned. “But I don’t have anything to wear . . . unless cutoffs and a Houston Oilers shirt
Actually, Lydia preferred a giant, greasy cheeseburger laden with sliced pastrami, just like the ones she remembered from her favorite childhood diner in Houston. Also, a truckload of crisp french fries and an extrathick vanilla milk shake. All the foods she’d dreamed about while munching on roast monkey in the land of the Amarakaire.
Ask and ye shall receive. Though it was nearly ten o’clock at night, the nutritionist summoned the chef. Twenty minutes later, Lydia was eating exactly what she’d ordered. Then she’d gone back to bed, awakened, and ordered the exact same meal for breakfast. It was served to her no questions asked on the outdoor patio, along with the latest edition of
Vogue.
Perhaps best of all, there were no kids yet to look after. Her two cousins, soon to be in her charge, would not be back from camp until Thursday. As for Kat, she’d departed that morning for Bristol, Connecticut, to attend some big powwow with the ESPN brass. Lydia had nothing to do but spend the morning lounging around . . . which brought her to where she was right now: poolside, drink in hand.
Bliss. Lydia took another sip of the 007 and mentally toasted her new life. Anything she could possibly want was available; all she had to do was pick up the small phone that sat on the glass table to her right. Press one for a maid. Press two for the chef. Unfortunately, there was no “Press three for a hot guy,” but that could be taken care of on her own. And soon. She hadn’t been about to lose her virginity to some five-foot-nothing Amazonian warrior with brown teeth. But she was sure she could find just the right American warrior prince to do the manly deed.
She closed her eyes, embraced by the sun. Long live Princess Lydia.
“Your aunt works me very hard.”
Lydia opened her eyes to see Oksana plop down on the chaise next to hers. She wore white shorts and a blue-and-white Nike sports bra, her sun-bleached blond hair tied back in a braid, her skin golden. Over her shoulder was a white towel monogrammed with Kat and Anya’s initials.
“You are Lydia, yes?” Oksana had only the slightest Russian accent.
Lydia nodded.
“I am Oksana. Your aunt Anya is my coach.”
“She’s not my aunt,” Lydia explained, propping herself up on her elbows. “She’s my aunt’s partner.”
Oksana gave a small shrug and sipped from a water bottle before she spoke again. “Then she is aunt, too.” She pointed to the monogram on the towel. “K for Kat, A for Anya. They have told me about you. You live in jungle before this, yes?”
Jungle, rain forest, whatever.
“Something like that.”
“How are you liking Beverly Hills?”
Lydia smiled. “I am loving Beverly Hills.” She reached for her Stoli 007. “Would you like a drink?”
Oksana shook her head. “Not during season. Only between Thanksgiving and ten days after New Year’s. Forty-five days of normal.” She patted her taut, muscular stomach. “What are you doing now?”
Lydia’s smile grew. “Not a damn thing.”
Oksana draped the towel back over her shoulder. “I must go shower. But later . . . maybe you would like to do something instead of nothing. I will go to De Sade tonight. Would you like to come with me?”
Lydia knew about De Sade. A few months ago, one of the visiting doctors had brought
Los Angeles
magazine to her—it had featured De Sade, the hottest new club on Sunset Boulevard. She’d practically committed the issue to memory. And now, here she was in Los Angeles with a rising young tennis star who’d just invited her to go clubbing there.
“I’d love to.” Then, Lydia frowned. “But I don’t have anything to wear . . . unless cutoffs and a Houston Oilers shirt
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