"Hey Jake, time to go."
I'm jolted awake from my catnap in time to hear the female voice on the loudspeaker:
"Lufthansa flight 229 now boarding at Gate 22A."
I sit up in my Mies van der Rohe chair and get my bearings. My friend Peter and I are encamped in the first class lounge at JFK on our way to Zurich. I grab my bag and follow Peter to the gate.
Before you get the wrong idea about me, let me explain.
First, I'm not a first class lounge kind of guy. On the contrary, this is the first time I've ever flown anything but economy. No, I'm definitely a fish out of water here, sampling canapes from crisply-dressed German frauleins.
I'm also not a jet-setter who's prone to jetting off to Zurich, Switzerland for a week's vacation. Oh, I've done the backpacking trip to Europe, and spent a semester in France in my junior year, but that's different. You don't fly off to Europe for a week on a writer's income.
No, the only reason I'm here at all is because of my friend, Peter.
Peter and I met in college and have been hanging out for a couple of years while we both lived in New York. I'm an aspiring writer who supports himself doing the odd temp job. Peter works for Lazard Freres in international finance and comes from a whole different world.
It was Peter who had the idea for us to go to his family's vacation home in Switzerland. It's autumn and we were both burnt out on the city. He said his family met up there every year and I was more than welcome. They had plenty of room. He was even paying for my plane ticket. "I always fly first class" he explained. "They serve better wine there."
Peter comes from old money and he has the noblesse oblige that attaches itself to the upper class. He had gone to boarding school, studied at Oxford and Yale (where I'd met him), and had gotten his position as a top-tier financial consultant through his father's connections. He's cynical but has a good heart. And he makes me laugh.
I come from humbler stock. I was a scholarship kid at Yale, raised in a lower middle class area outside Pittsburg. My Dad was a machinist and my Mom taught school. I was determined to make a go of it as a writer of fiction. So far, all I had to show for it was a handful of rejection letters and a scanty bank account. No, Peter and I were from very different worlds.
As we settle into our leather seats in the nose of the Lufthansa jet, I ask Peter about what to expect in Switzerland.
"So who else is going to be there? At your parents'?" I ask as the flight attendant pours our welcome glass of champagne.
"There'll just be us, my Mom and Dad, and my sister. Plus any guests they might have."
"And you're sure there'll be no problem with space?" I inquire, imagining myself sleeping on the floor in the laundry room.
Peter just laughs. "Don't worry. There'll be room."
"More champagne?" the sexy flight attendant asks. Her German-flecked accent is competent yet friendly, businesslike yet familiar. She bends over to refill my glass. Twenty-four, twenty-five tops. Hair pulled back tight from her face. Beautiful body.
Is it my imagination or are the flight attendants sexier in first class than the ones I usually get in economy? Something about the form fitting uniforms and the solicitous manner. The one assigned to Peter and me is hot as hell. She moves like she knows our eyes are trained on her.
"You know, you have the honor of serving a very prestigious writer." Peter says grandly, having some fun.
I shake my head, embarrassed. Here we go again.
"Jake's a novelist. Watch out or you'll end up in his latest work. He's always looking for material."
The flight attendant smiles and flashes her gorgeous eyes my way. I give a little shrug as if to say "what can I do?" We watch her as she glides back to the galley.
"She's definitely into kink" Peter whispers with a sly grin. "Shall we invite her to the lake?"
I wouldn't put it past Peter to do just that. He has this way of saying or doing whatever he wants, when he wants. A healthy ego and a well-developed sense of entitlement. But he gets away with it more often than not. I decide to use the opening to find out more.
"Tell me about the lake. What's your place like?"
"It's been in my family for generations. My great, great grandfather bought the island around the turn of the century and they built the house in the late 20's. It's rustic but quite livable."
"He bought the island? You own an island? How rich are you anyway?"
Peter laughed. "It's all illusory. A vestige of fortunes past."
That's how he talked. In riddles.
"Well, I never thought I'd be vacationing on a private island in Switzerland" I said shaking my head.
"An island's an island, Jason" said Peter with an insouciant shrug.
At the very least this will be an experience to remember, I thought.
"What's your family like?" I asked.
"My family" he says with mock drama. "Where do I start with my family?"
"Your Dad, for instance."
"Dear old Dad's not much of a Dad I'm afraid. Too busy making deals and fucking the servants" Peter was getting a little tipsy. "Naturally, that doesn't make my Mum too happy. But he's a mighty good provider." His voice dripped of sarcasm. "He never had a problem money couldn't fix."
"And your Mom?" I ask quietly.
"Mum's a piece of work. She was a real beauty in her time. World class. 'Veronique La Belle.' She was a top fashion model back in the day. That's why Dad snagged her, I guess. Good genes. Then she popped out a couple of kids and Dad started to cast his eyes elsewhere. It's not easy being thrown over for les jeunes filles. I guess that's why she became a drunk."
"What kind of Mom was she?" I ask.
"Oh, first rate. She loved us kids so much she put us in only the very best boarding schools. She's a real peach."
"Tell me how you really feel" I say wryly. Peter just shrugged.
"Like any family. I find I do best when I approach these visits with lowered expectations."
"And your sister?"
"Ah, Isabelle. She's an angel." His voice is quiet now, sincere.
"You'll like Izzy. She's an artist. Like you. A prima ballerina. Or at least she was. Mom's got her on a short leash, it seems. Wants her to marry well, you know. Doesn't see the payoff in pursuing the pas de deux."
He looks down in his glass, thoughtfully.
"She's a good kid." He closes his eyes. That's all for now, I sense.
I think about the world I'm about to enter. The world of old money. The ordinary dysfunctional family distorted by extraordinary wealth and advantage. It'll be interesting if nothing else. I close my eyes and drift off to the steady hum of the jet's engines.
When I awaken, the first class cabin is dark. Shades are shut and most everyone's asleep. The curtains are drawn and the flight attendants are getting some well deserved rest. I get up to stretch my legs.
I go to the galley which joins the two sides of the plane. I stretch and twist my back. These red eyes are no fun. From the opposite entry, our flight attendant appears.
"Mr. Scott. May I help you?"
"Did I sleep through dinner?" I ask.
