London Twist: A Delilah Novella

cabin boy gave them each a chilled washcloth and a bottle of water. The sky was blue, the air was perfumed with the salt spray of the sea, and as the wind whipped back their hair and the twin lines of the resort’s overwater thatched bungalows came into view, Fatima threw her arms around Delilah and squealed with delight.
    “Oh, my God,” she said, stepping back and regaining her composure. “I’m sorry. I just… I feel like this can’t be real. I needed this so much, and I didn’t even know it. I’m overwhelmed. Thank you. Really, thank you.”
    Delilah shook her head, moved by the woman’s delight and by her gratitude. And then she felt an odd surge of guilt. After all, under the circumstances, gratitude was the last thing she deserved. The feeling confused her. She was accustomed to expressions of gratitude, even declarations of undying love, from a subject, but beyond a certain satisfaction with successful progress, she never allowed herself to feel anything out of character until after the op was done.
    “I’m the one who has to thank you,” she said, willing the feeling away. “If you hadn’t joined me, I would have had no one to enjoy this with. I’m really glad you came.”
    They disembarked on the beach in front of the resort. The water was so clear and blue, the sand so white, the green ridge of Mount Otemanu so majestic, that Delilah momentarily understood Kent’s reluctance to agree to the plan. The island and its lagoon were like an archetype of paradise created from the collective unconscious of humanity, and it almost seemed unfair that anyone should be able to spend time here, let alone at the taxpayers’ expense.
    They took care of some brief paperwork in a thatched-roof, open-air pavilion. The manager of the property, a nice-looking gentleman named Rajiv, came to greet them personally. If he was surprised to see that Delilah was traveling with a friend, he didn’t show it. He expressed his excitement that Delilah would be doing some of her shooting on the resort grounds, informed them that they had been upgraded to an Otemanu overwater bungalow suite with plunge pool, and offered his personal assistance with anything she and her friend should require. Kent had clearly come through with the backstopping, and Rajiv, obviously savvy, was hoping the feature on Bora Bora might, with the proper inducements, contain a particular focus on his own hotel.
    A burly Polynesian attendant put their bags in a golf cart and drove them out to the end of the one of the piers, which provided access to the thatched wooden bungalows stretching out over the sparkling blue of the lagoon. As he showed them into the room, he exclaimed, “The best bungalow in the resort, you will see!” Delilah had heard similar lines enough times before to know how little they meant, but as they moved inside, her doubts crumbled. It really was spectacular—spacious, airy, with incredible views of the lagoon and Mount Otemanu from the living room, from the bedroom, from the giant bathtub. There was even a glass panel in the floor through which colorful fish were clearly visible in the rippling, crystal-clear water below. There was only one bed, a king, and Delilah hoped that wouldn’t be a problem. Well, they’d figure something out.
    They moved outside to the deck—a table and chairs; a pair of chaise lounges; an outdoor shower; a ladder leading directly down to the lagoon; and, as advertised, a private plunge pool accessible from the bedroom. Even Delilah, who had been wined and dined by numerous wealthy, well-traveled men in some quite exotic locales, was knocked out. Fatima was dumbfounded, her eyes wide, her mouth open as she took it all in.
    “Do you like?” the attendant asked.
    “It’s just… mad,” Delilah responded.
    His face lit up in a gigantic smile. “I told you.”
    Delilah tipped him well. As he left, he said, “
Mah-roo-roo
. If there is anything at all that you’d like, please just let us know. I think you will have a wonderful stay.”
    For a moment, Delilah and Fatima stood looking at each other wordlessly. Then they broke into identical laughs and threw their arms around each other. “I can’t believe it,” Fatima said. “Is this place real?”
    “Let’s find out. I want to jump right into that lagoon.”
    “Oh, let’s. I’ll just… change in the bathroom.”
    Delilah wasn’t surprised at her modesty. She was westernized, but still Muslim. Had she been Israeli, or even French,