Many of my female friends laughed upon hearing about my summer job on Palm Beach.
“What’s so funny?”
“we know what’s going to happen.” Each women was possessed by a singular vision. “You’re going to fleece some heiress.”
“Fleece?” Both my wife and mistress had green-lighted any multi-zero gigoloing with turtle-fleshed heiresses on the fabled island of the filthy right. “If I’m lucky I’ll marry a 89 year-old woman with six weeks to live and give her the best month-and-a-half of their lives.”
Two months have passed since my arrival.
Number of conquered hearts.
Zero.
In truth I was more happy in my mansion of solitude than haunting the Leopard Room for a horny dowager, which Adrian Dannatt recommended for a hunting ground. I went there once. The women were happy to flirt with their regulars. I was a rookie rogue. None of my clothes were Gucci. Their beaus dismissed me as no competition.
My wife and mistress sounded disappointed by my failure.
“Aren’t you happy that I’m faithful to you?” I posed the question to them both.
“Yes.” Their answer was half-hearted.
“I have two more weeks. Maybe I’ll be lucky.” Telling them the same thing makes it easy to recall my words.
“Chok dii.”
“Thanks.” And I need good luck too.
56, broke, and fading good looks.
The ne’er-do-wells of Palm Beach.
Ever faithful to my wives.