postcard from an edge of paradise

I’m writing this from the little ‘Internet Office and Library’* room from a luxury resort in the Caribbean.** The spouse, myself, and two of the small male children just spent a week or so at St. Barth, sharing a five-bedroom villa with a Hollywood producer who has appeared in this blog under the name Octavius, his small son, and the mother of his child (she and Oct. are no longer romantically involved). I was hoping to get a novella out of the experience and I think I might have gotten three, which have decidedly, ahem, erotic themes and content.

*Edited to add, I just realized the implications I might have accidentally made in those last sentences. But no, our time together was not quite that interesting.

(A guy in a yellow polo shirt just huffed at me, “Are you almost done or should I come back later?” I said, “I’ll be a little bit,” and he sighed and huffed his way out of here. Whatever. Dude. Go check your email on your Blackberry like everybody else around here. Because I’m a blonde in an animal-print wrap I couldn’t possibly be writing anything of equal value now, could I, which is perhaps why you only addressed me and ignored the older woman rattling away at the other desktop…?***)

We then relocated to this resort on a different island to spend New Year’s with friends from LA. And, it appears, at least by proximity, Leonardo DiCaprio, who also turns out to be here with his posse of Brazilian model types (including the girl he was supposedly broken up with****). During his brief exchange with a member of our group, who knows him and another person in his crew and stopped to chat with him as our two groups crossed in the night, he said, incredulously, “How do you even know about this place?” Which is kind of a long story involving a broken engagement and a wedding site that doesn’t do refunds, and to keep discreet in order not to piss off various individuals I won’t say more than that, or even which island I’m on. Just call me a woman of mystery.

* The ‘library’ part turns out to be four shelves of books arranged in no particular order, everything from Dan Brown to Tolstoy, left behind, one assumes (I assume) by tourists passing through. Maybe I’ll add to the archives.

** Yes, I know, tough life, but someone’s got to live it. Frankly I don’t know how I got here any more than you do.

*** Do I sound a mite bitter? Sorry. A week immersed in a certain kind of transplanted Hollywood culture — on yachts, no less — might make a certain type of blonde a wee bit, uh, defensive.

**** Major waves of hostility rolling off a couple of those women. Holy cow. Although the Great Man himself seemed relaxed and pleasant enough, his face hidden inside the shadow of a floppy cap. Later, in the casino, you would see him surveying the elegant little gambling room from his place at the baccarat table, sometimes lifting his head high to make eye contact or flash a smile across the room.


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