Page 19 of Total Dreamboat

Felix

So-called days at sea have a very strong resemblance to rehab. Gentle exercise, fresh air, board games, art classes. The only thing missing is the group therapy and twelve-step meetings.

I amuse myself with a long workout in the gym, a Codenames tournament with my family, and a very frustrating painting lesson my mother drags me to. We’re supposed to capture the horizon over the sea, but my attempt turns into a sodden blue rectangle with a watery yellow line across the middle.

“Hmm,” Mum says, inspecting my work. “Were you attempting a Roth-ko?”

“You know I don’t excel at the arts.”

“That’s not true. You’re fabulous at drawing.”

This is not fully accurate, but I can sketch passably. I designed all my tattoos.

“And,” Mum adds, “you were always so good at the tuba.”

“Oh God, don’t remind me.” I was assigned the instrument at school, where we were all required to participate in the orchestra. It didn’t take. Thank Christ it was an all-boys school, as my red-faced attempts would certainly not have helped with the ladies.

“Have you seen Hope today?” she asks, unnaturally casual. It’s clear she’s now invested in my four-day-old relationship. There’s nothing like trying to get to know someone while under the constant surveillance of your immediate family.

“I saw her this morning,” I say. “I might ask her to have supper, if you can survive one without me.”

“I think we’ll manage.”

I pull out my phone and open my text chain with Hope.

Felix: How’s the health?

Hope: Feeling *much* better.

Hope: Just left the spa.

Hope: Got my whole face wrapped in kelp.

Felix: Hot.

Hope: As I made clear, I’m trying to seduce you.

Felix: Care to continue that process over supper?

Felix: I hear there’s a Caribbean feast.

There’s a long pause while she’s typing, then nothing. I worry I’m about to be rejected, until the phone vibrates again.

Hope: TBH, not sure I’m up for a whole luau vibe…

I’m glad we’re typing, so she can’t see my disappointment. But then she adds:

Hope: Would you want to hunker down and order room service instead?

Would I ever.

Felix: I’d be honored.

Felix: Why don’t you come over to mine so we’re not in Lauren’s hair?

Hope: Is soonish ok? I know you’re a European and probably prefer to dine at 10 p.m., but I’m beat.

Felix: Hate to tell you this but Brexit happened.

Hope: Oh, right, sorry for your loss.

Hope: How’s 7?

That’s in forty-five minutes.

Felix: Perfect. See you then xx.

I stand up. “I have to go,” I tell Mum. “I have a date.”

She smiles at me. “Have fun.”

I stand up to go. “Darling!” she calls to my back.

I turn around to see her holding up my work of accidental abstract expressionism.

“Don’t you want to give Hope your beautiful painting?”

I laugh. “I see where Prue and Pear get it from.”

Back in my room I dial the number for Crisanto.

“Good evening, Mr. Felix,” he says.

“Hi there. Can I ask a favor?”

“I’d be delighted to help.”

“I’ll be dining in my room tonight with a friend and I was wondering if there’s a way to track down some fresh flowers.”

“Certainly. Would you prefer roses or tulips?”

“Roses, please.”

“A wonderful choice. Would you like me to come prepare your table?”

“If you wouldn’t mind. Is it possible to set something up outside?”

“Of course, sir. It will be a beautiful sunset.”

“Do you have candles?”

“I do.”

“Thanks, Crisanto.”

I take a quick shower while I’m waiting, then change into jeans and a T-shirt.

I’m tidying the lounge when Crisanto and Belhina arrive with a cart laden with flowers, china, and a charcuterie board I didn’t even ask for.

They take it all outside and get to work transforming my veranda into a scene from Beauty and the Beast .

All that’s missing is a clock singing “Be Our Guest.”

The old me would have cringed at myself for putting so much obvious effort into a date. My style of courting women was to let booze and chemistry do all the work. But one thing I’ve learned in recovery is that sincerity is healthy. That it’s okay to be a bit vulnerable about the things you want.

And if you go after it armed with effort rather than chemical courage, your odds of fostering connection are stronger.

I’m not looking for a drinking buddy, or a fuck buddy.

Eventually, I’m looking for a lover.

A partner.

I’m not ready for that yet.

What I want with Hope is something light and sexy and, above all, temporary.

But being earnest with her, however fleetingly, feels like good practice for becoming the type of man I want to be.

Hope knocks at the door at seven sharp which, as a chronically punctual person, I appreciate. She’s wearing a long, gauzy, Grecian-style white dress and her face is totally bare. She’s radiant.

“Wow,” I say.

“Sorry, I didn’t have it in me to dress up.”

“This isn’t dressed up? You look gorgeous.”

“Must be the kelp.”

“Come in,” I say, stepping aside.

“I’m shocked you’re letting me back in here after last night.”

“Stockholm syndrome. Um—” I grab the vase of flowers off the wet bar. “I got you these.”

“Felix!” she exclaims. “You don’t have to butter me up.”

“Right. Well then technically Crisanto got them for you.”

“I guess I’ll go have dinner with Crisanto then.” She turns around like she’s going to leave.

“No, wait. It was my idea. Also, I thought we could eat outside. That all right?”

I gesture at the open veranda doors. Dusk is beginning to fall, and the candlelit table looks quite nice, even if the vibe is more “Club Med ad” than would normally be my style.

“You, Felix Segrave, are a gentleman and a scholar.”

“Minus the scholar bit.”

We walk outside. I have beverages chilling in an ice bucket.

“Want a sparkling water? Or some champagne?” I had Crisanto bring a bottle of fizz.

“Sparkling water is great.”

I point at a charcuterie board set up between the two chaise lounges.

“There are nibbles, but I didn’t order food yet—I thought you might want to look at the menu first.”

“In a minute. Let’s sit.” She stretches out on one of the loungers. “Wow,” she says. “The sunset is going to be amazing.”

I sit down on the other chaise. There’s a breeze, and her scent floats over to me.

“You always smell incredible,” I tell her. “Like magnolias.”

“Good nose. My perfume is literally called Eau de Magnolia . Far too expensive but a girl’s got to live.”

I note this is the second time she’s mentioned her finances. I hope she’s not in dire straits, but the Brit in me cringes at frank talk of money, so I don’t ask.

“My parents have a big magnolia tree in Hampshire,” I say. “I associate the smell with my childhood.”

“I thought you grew up in London.”

“I did, but we have a family house in the countryside. Spent summers there.”

“Do you have an ancestral manor?” she asks wryly, like she expects the answer to be no.

“Uh, yes, actually,” I admit. I always feel sheepish revealing my family’s aristocratic background. The way I grew up is absurdly privileged.

“ Really? ” Hope asks. “How ancient?”

“Eighteenth century–ish.”

Her eyes widen. “Does it have a name?”

“Downton Abbey.”

“Be serious.”

“It’s technically called Elswale Court. But no one calls it that.”

“Next you’re going to tell me you’re a duke.”

“Definitely not a duke.” I hesitate, not sure whether to tell her the full truth. But if she finds out later it will be strange that I didn’t. So I add: “Just the lowly son of a baronet.”

“ Wait . Your dad’s a baronet? Really?”

“Yep.”

“So that means in the event of his unfortunate passing…”

“I will become a baronet, yes.”

“This is incredible. Now I want to deviously marry you for your title.”

“This is the most stereotypically American you’ve ever acted,” I say, ignoring the marrying me for my title part. People have, unfortunately, wanted to do just this in the past.

“You’re a British gentleman with an eighteenth-century manor house called Elswale Court and I’m the caricature? Anyway, Lady Hope Gertrude Segrave has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

“Your middle name is Gertrude ?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“I wasn’t prepared.”

“No one ever is.”

“Is it a family name?”

“No. My mom’s obsessed with Gertrude Stein.”

“Ah.”

“Are you named after anyone?”

“Felix the Cat.”

“Mmm, that tracks. You look just like him.”

“Thanks.”

“You know, I was wondering,” she says. “Why is it that you’re named Felix when both of your sisters have ‘P’ names? Why not Percy or something.”

“Felix is actually my middle name.”

“What’s your first name?”

“Peregrine.”

Hope throws back her head and laughs. Not like “ha ha.” More like a full-throated cackle. “No it’s not,” she says. “Stop.”

“I don’t see what’s so funny. My full name is Peregrine Charles Felix Segrave.”

“Am I in a regency romance novel right now? Because that’s the only place I’ve ever seen the name Peregrine.”

“I don’t know about regency. But I can provide the romance part, obviously,” I say, gesturing at the overblown tablescape.

She smiles at me.

“Obviously,” she says softly.

“Before we get to that part,” I say, “do you want to order food? I’m starving.”

“Yeah, me too.”

I hand her the room service menu. “Want to take a look?”

“Sure. What are you in the mood for?”

“Surprise me.”

She takes the menu and walks inside. I hear her speaking on the phone, but I can’t make out what she’s saying. She comes back and spreads some brie onto a cracker.

“So, Sir Peregrine,” she says. “I want to continue to interrogate you.”

“Sounds relaxing.”

“First, how old are you?”

“Thirty-two.”

“When’s your birthday?”

“November third.”

“Oh no, a Scorpio . How terrifying. Are you as vindictive and secretive as they say?”

“Yes, but I make up for it with my romantic passion.”

“Speaking of which, you’re single, right?”

“Very much so.”

“And why would a handsome boy like yourself not have a girlfriend?”

“I could ask you the same question.”

“You think I’m a handsome boy?”

“I do.”

“You first.”

“I was engaged a couple of years ago. Before I got sober. It flamed out in a pretty spectacular way.”

“Spectacular how?”

“We had a huge drunken fight three weeks before the wedding and I woke up on my restaurant floor in a pile of glass and my own vomit. That kind of spectacular.”

She sucks in her breath. “Ouch.”

“Yeah. I went to rehab and canceled the wedding. She stopped speaking to me. Bad show. I haven’t been with anyone since.”

She’s quiet.

“Sorry you asked?”

“No, not at all. Sorry that happened to you.”

“It was inevitable. I’d been out of control for years, and our relationship was chaotic. Nonstop partying, nonstop fighting. I loved her a lot, but we enabled each other’s worst tendencies.”

“And you haven’t been with anyone since?”

“I’ve been focused on staying healthy, getting stable. My business was an absolute shambles, all my relationships were dysfunctional. So now I’m that guy who works out and does therapy and drinks two liters of water a day.”

“It looks good on you.”

“Thanks. Now it’s your turn. How on earth are you single?”

She sighs deeply.

“I had a bit of a heartbreak last year. I’ve been avoiding men.”

“Can I ask what happened, or is it too fresh?”

“No, it’s fine. Classic story. Girl meets powerful book editor boy who promises to help fulfill her writerly dreams. Boy sweeps her off her feet with visions of their perfect life together. Girl moves in with boy and he immediately decides he’s in over his head and breaks up with her.”

“Damn. How long ago was this?”

“Eight months ago. I’m okay now, but things got hairy after it happened. I was blindsided, and leaned hard into drinking away my sorrows at night, and then dabbling in uppers to stay awake and do my job. Rinse, repeat.”

“Definitely been there,” I say. “I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah, it was dark,” she says. “But I’ve been putting myself back together. I moved in with Lauren for a while. Stopped drinking like a fish. Went to therapy. I’m, uh—” She hesitates, like she’s suddenly at a loss for the right word. “Over it.”

That brief pause makes me wonder if it’s fully true. Eight months is not such a long time to heal from a cataclysmic breakup. But I’m not going to ask her follow-up questions—it’s not my business.

“Sounds like we’ve had a similar ride,” I say.

“How lucky for us.”

“I’m grateful, actually. If my life hadn’t blown up when it did, I would probably have been dead before I turned forty. I like living this way. I’m terrified of anything messing it up, rocking my routine, you know? That’s why I haven’t dated.”

I hope this disclosure isn’t too personal. I don’t want to scare her off. But she nods.

“Yes. I totally get that. Though in my case I’m more scared of backsliding into the emotional side of it. I have this preternatural ability to fall hard and fast, get absorbed into other people’s worlds, and lose sight of myself.”

“Well, aren’t we the optimistic pair,” I say.

“It’s okay,” she says. “We’re safe together.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because how much damage could we do in a week?”