Faking It(4)
I was the most popular senior in Santa Monica High School. I had wealthy friends, a BMW convertible, and all the cute boys chasing me. I was all set, eager to head off to one of the top colleges in the country, then carve out a career, maybe in fashion. My father’s successful yacht-building company had given me and my mother a privileged life that made others envious.
The bubble burst, though. Times went bad and I didn’t find out until it was too late. The spare cash dried up and people stopped buying yachts. My dad tried to keep it secret that his business was in trouble, borrowing and dealing, trying to stay afloat until the economy improved. And he succeeded for a while, right up until my car was seized and towed, right out of the student car park in front of all my friends. After that, well, I couldn’t even get a ride home.
Soon, the house went too and, not long after, my mother. She was desperate to get back the life she was used to, I guess, because we woke up one morning and she’d just vanished. I never saw her again. My dad never managed to recover. He was able to explain to me that they lost everything due to a hostile takeover from a huge firm. He told me it was a billion-dollar corporation called HHC, and that the founder and CEO was a guy called Bernard Harcourt.
He also knew that Harcourt had been leaking the problems my father’s company was experiencing, as well as HHC’s secret plans for the acquisition, for months. The result of that illegal move was no confidence in the company, so the share prices dropped and no one dared lift a finger to help the Morgan family business out. Two days after he’d been forced to sign the handover, selling his life’s work for a measly ten thousand dollars, my father shot himself.
So, the way I saw it, Bernard Harcourt and his greedy business practices were directly responsible for my father’s death. The Harcourt family and HHC were murderers and now, at last, was my chance for revenge. Bernard had died three years ago, leaving his son Tyler in charge of HHC, and he was now only hours away from being stuck on a boat with me, for three days.
Barely eighteen, with less than ten grand to my name, no place to live, and no college degree, I’d been forced to go to work so, after a few missteps and dead-end jobs, I eventually went back to the only thing I knew. I found employment on yachts. I liked to think I was smart, attractive, and resourceful, and that helped me build a career as cabin crew on several boats, moving up to becoming the chief steward of a huge yacht in the Mediterranean.
Happily, I found I loved the work and, with tips, the money was good. And the lifestyle allowed me to never need to settle. I had no house, no car, no family. I worked boats constantly, calling each one home, for one season at a time. Any downtime I had was spent in cheap lodgings in whatever port I landed. Jamaica, Nice, Singapore, flipping from one side of the world to the other, chasing the summer vacation seasons. Not too bad at all.
However, when I heard that Tyler Harcourt had chartered a boat, I knew my chance had arrived. Having no home or real family, there was no distractions, nothing to stop me kicking my plan for revenge into action. I jumped ship immediately, flew to Aruba, and pestered Captain Harper to take me on board Aphrodite. I even lied about my experience, knowing he had a longstanding chief steward and I’d never get that job, I went for the lowest cabin crew position to make sure I got aboard. Then it was just a matter of working the few weeks, waiting for Harcourt’s charter to come around.
“Miss Morgan?” called Captain Harper, “Are you still with us?” I jerked upright in my seat and nodded, finally putting down the paper with his face on it. “Mr. Harcourt is paying for his friends and him to have a good time,” he continued. “He always brings his attorney, Henry Osborne, with him and they told us at reservation that there would also be three to five… erm… lady-friends joining them.”
“They landed in Oranjestad yesterday,” Sarah piped up, “and will be boarding at eleven this morning. Stewards, a last look over the guest bedrooms and facilities, please, then into your whites for the charter’s arrival.”
Tanya and I jumped up to obey Sarah’s instructions, as Keith called out his directions to the deckhands. The next three hours flew by as we three stewards inspected the opulent master cabin, with its huge central bed that gazed out on a panoramic ocean view across the bow of the ship, the three plush double cabins amidships and the stern twin room. We made sure the three bars, one on deck, one in the lounge and one in the formal dining room, were stocked with single malt scotch, good brandy, rum, tequila, and Dom Pérignon champagne, and that all the glassware and crystal shone. The deckhands scrubbed the decks, the hull and saw that the three Waverunners, the speed boat, and other assorted millionaire’s toys we carried were ready. The sundeck and the eight-person Jacuzzi were also thoroughly prepared, as they were the most popular places the guests liked to hang out. There were many good reasons that it cost upwards of $200,000 to charter this boat for a long weekend.
Tyler
The beautiful Caribbean sun shone down on Aphrodite as she sat bobbing gently in her slip. Through the distant windshield, I’d seen the crew standing on the lower deck, all lined up in their shining, starched white uniforms, looking extremely dapper. They seemed to be paraded in order of seniority, ready to greet us as we boarded. Now, as the stretched black Hummer pulled to a halt by the jetty, I could just make out the yacht’s outline through the tinted rear windows
Our driver, Geoffrey, opened the door for us to step out. “Don’t forget, ladies and gentlemen,” he reminded us, “you’ll need to remove your shoes as you step onto the landing platform.