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Andy Warhol said in the 1960s that in the future, everyone would be famous for 15 minutes.
He was right about one thing.
… As for the fifteen minutes, it turned out he had greatly overestimated our attention span.
Episode 3 /// Isle of the Dead
Special BFMTV Broadcast / Celebrity Epidemic.
— We’re back for our special flash report: a health crisis among the stars. Apolline de Malherbe, I’m here with our experts to decipher this barely believable news: the deaths of dozens of prominent celebrities within days. Sebastien Chollin, you’re a society expert. You were a permanent correspondent in Hollywood for Voici and Gala for years. Can you give us an overview of the situation?
— Well, Apolline, it all seems to have started a few days ago, to be exact, on Monday, with the death of Rihanna in her mansion in Los Angeles. The next day, it was Tom Cruise’s turn. Yesterday, we learned about the death of Beyoncé, and today it’s Justin Bieber – pardon me if I don’t list them all – it must be said, without being in bad taste, that we don’t know where to turn our heads anymore.
— At this time, do we know if there is a link between these deaths?
— No, Apolline, according to their close ones, all these celebrities were in good health and were not undergoing any specific treatment. However, what we learn – still from the mouths of their entourage – is that some of these stars complained, at the time of the events, of headaches, each time accompanied by incoherent statements. A maid, for example, reports hearing Rihanna talking about the rapper Jay-Z as her husband. Tom Cruise of Indiana Jones as a movie in which he had the lead role. The Rock as a former boxing champion. Jeff Bezos was convinced he had invented the iPhone. Cristiano Ronaldo claimed to have won the World Cup with Argentina, and so on.
— Interesting. Mr. Delcourt, you are the director of GHU Paris Psychiatry and Neuroscience. How could these rather strange symptoms be explained?
— As I speak, Apolline, we know little because the autopsy results of Mr. Cruise and singer Rihanna have not yet been made public. They are in progress for the other stars listed by your colleague…
— …But what is your expert opinion on the matter?
— My opinion is that, in the absence of remarkable physical symptoms – and I emphasize « remarkable » because the fact that a person looks healthy doesn’t mean they are…
— …Forgive me for interrupting you, Doctor, but the close ones of the victims stated that they were not under treatment.
— Certainly, but to this, Apolline, I would reply: what do they really know? There is something called medical confidentiality, entirely at the discretion of the patient and their doctor… That being said, from what we know and the symptoms mentioned, the hypothesis of mental disorders seems to be the path to consider. As for what could have triggered them…
— Do you think there could be a link between these deaths, as hinted at by rumors in medical circles?
— As an expert, I can’t provide formal proof, but what is certain is that in terms of statistics, without being a mathematician, it’s very strange, even improbable, that these immense celebrities die at the same time…
— …I interrupt you, gentlemen, priority to the live report, we’ve just learned of the disappearance of Leonardo DiCaprio, Doja Cat, Kanye West, Mark Zuckerberg, J.K. Rowling.
— Unbelievable…
— I think we can now say with certainty that there is a common denominator in these mysterious disappearances.
— Richard Chatrian, you’ve been a society columnist for VSD for twenty-five years, what’s your expert opinion?
— Listen, Apolline, I might be stepping on some toes here, but judging by the profiles of the victims – all global celebrities – I think to understand this phenomenon, we need to look at what they have in common: luxurious lifestyles. So, it could be something as simple as intoxication in a high-end restaurant they frequented… I don’t know, lobster or that very rare Japanese fish you have to remove the venom gland from…
— Oh, what’s it called again…
— I have it on the tip of my tongue…
— No, wait, it’s not…
— It’s annoying, isn’t it?
— Gentlemen, please let Jennifer speak… Jennifer, you wrote a biography about Rihanna…
— Yes, Apolline, it’s common knowledge that Rihanna doesn’t eat lobster.
— And that wouldn’t explain the neurological issues.
— The fugu!
— …The supposed neurological issues.
— Or why not a new elite drug… We know, forgive me, that celebrities are not the last to consume illicit substances. It might be a new poorly dosed product that has just arrived in Hollywood.
— But not all the deceased stars lived in Hollywood.
— Another theory, gentlemen, because, of course, we must cover all viewpoints without exception – a matter of professional ethics – some conspiracy theorists claim that the stars aren’t really dead; they may have staged their own disappearance to escape the public and join Elvis and 2Pac on a special island for famous people who want to end their days in peace.
— Improbable… Rihanna comes from a small island called Barbados. I think that would be like… uh, a step back for her. A regression of sorts.
— This special island you’re talking about, wouldn’t it be Jeffrey Epstein’s island?
(Laughter)
— Short commercial break, gentlemen. Stay with us for the analysis of this incredible news: the deaths of dozens of celebrities within days.
*
Milo chuckled as he pressed the « off » button on his remote control, dismissing Apolline de Malherbe’s ridiculously serious face into the electronic abyss of the OLED screen. He received a notification from AFP on his phone. It informed him that Lady Gaga, Margot Robbie, Drake, and Mbappé had also passed away. His serpent-like smile turned into a triumphant grimace.
Milo was a freelance tabloid journalist, and like all the ink-stained wretches in this declining field, he secretly despised celebrities. He regularly congratulated himself, loudly if anyone cared to listen, for not being one himself. And indeed, he wasn’t a very famous journalist. His most shining achievement was an article he had written two decades ago during his summer internship at Le Monde Diplomatique, which focused on the Houthi rebellion in Yemen. He remembered scribbling it in the middle of winter, snug in his small maid’s room apartment near Nation.
He looked out the window and wondered what the other guy was up to.
Milo had a meeting with a fellow journalist, a columnist from Quotidien, a guy he had known from journalism school. The kind with bad grades but popular. A real charmer. It was only natural that he ended up on air, where all those incapable cretins ended up, at least that’s what Milo thought. He had heard it was a tough battle for him to secure that slot on the show. A segment about celebrities. Milo despised Quotidien, the « hipster Parisian screen. » Milo was secretly envious. He gazed through the dirty windowpane, lost in thought.
Below, he saw his colleague emerging from the metro, sporting the same damn grin he had back in school, smiling at a group of girls who must have recognized him.
« Instagram sluts, » Milo thought, scratching his head.
He was a professional, not a small-screen starlet. He valued his anonymity. In fact, he needed it for his investigations. Matters of cover. Stuff the other guy couldn’t understand. He clenched his fists and stared at all those stupid cars passing by on the street. Soon, he heard his colleague’s footsteps in the old staircase. Someone knocked on the door. Milo waited for two or three seconds.
« Come in, Étienne, it’s open. » (Asshole!)
Étienne entered. Milo was still at the window, pretending to be absorbed in something profound.
« Nice place you’ve got here, » the other one said with an admiring whistle that seemed unreliable. « Wow, your TV is huge! »
The apartment was a fifty-square-meter space that he occupied alone – sure – but in an unremarkable street in Saint-Fargeau.
Milo still hadn’t turned away from the window. He wasn’t sure why. It bothered him because he should have put an end to this peculiar behavior by now. Milo had precisely no particularly original ideas.
« What are you watching, buddy? »
He paused before responding to his colleague.
« I was thinking how crazy it is when you think about it… that there aren’t more cars stolen or damaged. »
« How so? »
« If you think about it, cars are the only thing in the world that people literally leave outside. Just like that! For everyone to see! »
Étienne smiled, as if he had suddenly remembered something crucial. A strange quirk of an old friend he hadn’t seen in ages.
« And cars have value! Even a twenty-year-old wreck with three hundred thousand kilometers on the odometer is still worth a few hundred euros! Can you believe it, Étienne? A few hundred euros left out there, on the street, almost abandoned! »
« It’s not that easy to steal a car, Milo. »
« I know, I know, » he said, annoyed, waving his arms. « I’m talking conceptually. »
« …as for two-wheelers, though, your reasoning holds, my friend. » Milo gritted his teeth. Étienne had slipped that in carefully. In an almost soothing tone that he disliked because it dangerously flirted with something he hated most: condescension.
« …But they’re also much easier to steal… from a practical perspective, » his colleague concluded.
Milo turned around at that precise moment and walked toward Étienne, who shook his hand, saying, « It’s been a while… Did you get my email? »
« Of course. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here. How’s it going at Quotidien? »
« Are you aware of it? »
« Hard not to be. »
« For now, everything’s going smoothly. Yann likes me. The segment is… »
« …What exactly do you do again, remind me? »
« A celebrity news segment. »
« Incredible… lots of work these days? »
« That’s right. »
« Let’s hope this wave of deaths doesn’t go on too long… or you might end up unemployed… or on furlough, even, haha! Can you imagine? A world without celebrities… »
« Hey, that’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about, » he cut in. « With everything that’s happening and this new, strange pandemic that doesn’t seem to be stopping, we’re preparing special segments. Yann wants an in-depth analysis with experts. We thought of you… on air… with us. »
Milo swallowed, realizing it too late. He had to make an effort not to nod. He didn’t want to reveal his sense of triumph coursing through his veins, or the joy twisting his gut. He wanted to play it cool. Tired but cool. Not too eager to be featured on one of the last major audience shows.
« Do you want my expertise in the realm of the star system? »
Étienne grew somber. He took off his jacket and asked for a glass of water. Milo hesitated, contemplating the faucet for a moment, but instead opened the fridge to get a bottle of Evian. Étienne thanked him. The water was cool. He appreciated it even more on this sweltering mid-July afternoon. He didn’t seem to realize it was tap water, an old bottle Milo had filled three days ago.
« In fact, I thought of you for something else, » he said, placing his empty glass down with a kind of grimace. « Do you remember your thesis from the end of your studies? ‘Life and Death of a Celebrity,’ something like that, right? »
« ‘Life, Death, Celebrity,’ » Milo corrected in a monotone voice.
« …while we were preparing future shows with Yann and the other contributors, I, well, I don’t know why, but I remembered this thing you wrote in school. It was… well, quite dark, wasn’t it? Something about the downfall of civilization through our obsession with stars, social credit, all that stuff? I have a vague recollection of something particularly nihilistic. But maybe my memory is failing me… »
« It wasn’t as terrible as all that, » he said, making a strange noise – more like a laugh. Those damn teachers hadn’t been kind to him either during the oral defense…
« How did it go? »
His face broke into a smile.
« What do you think? »
« I don’t know, » Étienne said, sinking into a chair. « That’s precisely what I’d like to know. He said it in a very formal tone, covering up the nastiness lurking beneath.
Milo once again scratched the BMW with his eyes and then turned to Étienne, who shook his head like a robot:
« I told them off… yeah. I really shut those idiots up… »
Étienne wore a satisfied smile, almost identical to Milo’s, but with a few minor differences (like his perfectly aligned white teeth).
« Good, » he said, standing up, as if relieved of a burden. « Well, should I tell Yann that you’re interested then? »
His colleague shrugged.
« If you need my expertise, I can make an appearance, of course. »
« Excellent. »
« On the set? »
« On the set, yes, and, um, remind me, how many followers do you have? On social platforms in general? »
« Um, a few hundred, well, almost a thousand, why? »
« That’s likely to change soon. »
A moment later, Étienne was gone. Milo watched him from his window, circling stupidly on the sidewalk, looking for his Uber. He walked to the kitchen, grabbed the first knife within reach, and slipped it under his shirt. He was bursting with excitement. Hardcore, his favorite track from Rihanna’s latest album, was almost on its third refrain, and the song would end soon. He didn’t have much time left. Without even closing his apartment door, he rushed down the stairs, making each old step produce a unique groan like an out-of-tune drum.
Outside, he turned his head one way, then the other, not knowing where to focus his attention or suspend his thoughts. He was elated. Étienne had vanished. A few meters away, he spotted the BMW he had seen from his window. Slowly, he approached it.
A glance down the boulevard told him he was almost alone. So, he took out the knife from under his shirt and, while passing by the car, made a long cut along the right fender. When he tossed the blade, he suddenly locked eyes with a couple. They had witnessed the scene without saying anything. He offered them a timid half-smile, which they returned more or less. He walked off with a light heart, letting his feet lead him wherever they pleased. He was on cloud nine, his mind filled with exhilarating thoughts. So many possibilities lay ahead; he could go enjoy gelato at that excellent place by the Canal Saint-Martin, or maybe have a crepe at Armorix, next to Saint-Louis Hospital. On the way back, he’d buy some books at Monte en l’Air, books he’d probably never open, especially after being advised for long minutes by an aspiring bookseller, one of those #BookTok addicts he gathered was doing an internship in the third year. With that done, it would start to get late, and he’d head home to finish the day off in style, dedicating the next couple of hours to scouring his favorite adult websites until he found the perfect video. It was a beautiful July afternoon. Milo was forty-five years old, and life finally seemed to be reaching out to him.
Oh, yes, he was finally going to have his damn fifteen minutes of fame.
*
The night had been gentle and pleasant in Santorini. Pauline woke up shortly after dawn, as the sun was casting its first rays on the island. The heat was already creeping along the pristine facades of the 4-star resorts. The adobe exuded a mineral musk whitened by the lime. The air was scented with the sea breeze; filled with the buzzing of drones; those of the tourists; they raced through the narrow alleys at full speed to capture the sunrise.
Next to her, wrapped in sheets that matched the curtains – also linen – was the sleepy form of Victor. And Pauline wondered if, like her a moment ago, he was dreaming of rich collaborations, encounters, and stories to share. She snuggled against his muscular chest, reached out to place her phone on the bedside table, started the video recording, and closed her eyes before giving a slight nudge – just a small shake to wake him up. Victor stirred, mumbled something, fidgeted again, turned to the other side, and fell back asleep, much to Pauline’s dismay. She was trying to capture the authentic moment, a suspended moment: the one where they would wake up together, emerging from their sweet lethargy to offer themselves, fresh to this ‘blank page’; a ‘new day.’ Followers loved this kind of post. She gave another push, this time stronger, using her elbow on his ribs. Victor twitched, sat up.
« What are you doing, baby?! » Pauline sank under the covers, leaving only her lips and her small nose visible, thinking that the shot wouldn’t be completely ruined if Victor went back to sleep, which he did, snuggling up to her. She exulted – the story was going to be great. That’s what her brain imprinted. Then, all of a sudden, the young woman held her breath. Under the covers, Victor’s hand had just landed on her breast. She swallowed. He grazed her nipple. She couldn’t suppress a moan of pleasure. His palm followed the curve of her belly, slid down to her thighs and her crotch, dipping the tips of his fingers there. She shivered, fearing that it would show on the video. This wasn’t what she had planned. Not at all. She wasn’t like those other girls. She thought of one of her colleagues: Nitsa Vanlith and her latest steamy story with her boyfriend. One of those Monteur’s perverts. Nitsa had far more followers than her.
Victor purred in a drowsy voice, « Next time you want to wake me up by surprise, baby, instead of hitting me, maybe give me a blowjob… »
« Victor! Uhh… » she said, pushing the covers away to grab her phone and stop the recording. « What, baby? »
« Damn! You just ruined my story… »
« You were recording? But, uh… you should have told me, baby! »
Pauline sighed. « Never mind, Vic… » She left the bed, and the cool tiles caressed the soles of her feet as she put on a robe. A cream-colored Givenchy. « I just thought that after all this time we’ve been together, some things would happen… well, you know, naturally, without us having to discuss everything. We shouldn’t need to talk so much… Some things should happen without words… you understand? »
Pauline was a bit older than Victor, and she had slightly more followers than him, but for a lot longer. It was in such situations that the young man realized the gap between them. The maturity, the emotional intelligence that he still often lacked. Pauline wanted to immortalize their awakening, and he had asked for something else. He had messed it all up. Victor was hard on himself. « It’s okay, » the young woman said from the bathroom. « Get ready for breakfast. »
« Can we redo it if you want? I’ll pretend to wake up! »
« Victor, it doesn’t work that way, baby… be professional. Come on, get ready quickly, or the best tables will be taken. I’d like to take some pictures… »
He smiled back at her and, invigorated, joined her at the twin sink. Pauline had started a playlist called ‘Chill Morning,’ and Rihanna’s ‘We all want love’ began to play on the Bluetooth speaker. Pauline was less upset with him than she let on. He was like an excited puppy that needed to be trained. He had potential. The PR manager had emphasized that. A huge likability factor. He was a raw gem, but he needed to channel his energy. If she could do that, their rating would soar. They would become influencers of a different caliber. Celebrities. Yes, Pauline had to learn how to domesticate him. They were still young. Barely twenty-two. Besides, she didn’t mind their life as a couple. He was an attentive lover. And he had a nice…
« Who died today? » she asked as she saw him turn off the airplane mode on his phone – his little ritual before going to bed, as he used to say, claiming that it blocked the ‘bad vibes’ (according to a video he had seen on TikTok).
« Hm, » he said, checking his news feed. « Oh, darn… »
« What? » Pauline asked eagerly. « Who died, Vic? »
She could have checked her own phone, but hearing it from someone else always added an extra dimension and a unique thrill that she appreciated.
« Marion Cotillard, Cilian Murphy, Angèle, Margot Robbie, and uh… David Beckham… »
« Is Victoria dead? »
« Her name’s not mentioned, no. »
« Poor thing. »
« Wait, it’s far from over… Nicki Minaj, Conor McGregor, Johnny Depp, Miley Cyrus, Kim Kardashian, etc., etc. »
« No! Tell me a little more, » Pauline protested while running a boar bristle brush through her hair (a gift from a brand partner). « Come on, baby, please! Just a bit more… »
« Okay, uh… Oprah Winfrey, Roc… who? Rocco… Siffr… »
« Rocco Siffredi, baby. »
« Hm, yeah, and uh… Ryan Gosling, Mick Jagger, Shakira… »
« That’s insane. »
« Some media say that they’re a bit less famous than the stars of the, uh… first wave? Apparently, that’s what they call it. »
« Is there a huge celebrity still alive? »
Victor thought for a moment while applying wax to his hair. « Gérard Depardieu. »
Pauline rolled her eyes. « We know him because he’s French, but he’s not that famous abroad. »
« In some countries, he is, like in Russia. »
« He’s not as famous as Rihanna. »
« No, » Victor admitted.
« In your opinion, when will he die? If we follow the logic of what they say on BFM, that there’s some sort of hierarchy in the order of deaths? »
Victor shrugged. « Let’s say that if Marion Cotillard is dead… »
« Marion Cotillard is known internationally! She was in Batman! And also, uh… in the movie about time with the twisted buildings. »
« She’s probably the most famous French actress. Along with Angèle. »
« Angèle is Belgian! »
« I think the next French ones will be… »
« Aya Nakamura… »
« …Dead. I haven’t read everything, but she was on the list a bit further down. »
Pauline sighed and shook her head.
« Too bad… I was supposed to see her in concert with a friend in the fall. »
« Daft Punk, right? But since we didn’t really know their true identities, I’m not sure if it works the same way… »
« Yeah… »
« In my opinion, Delon and Depardieu will probably die at about the same time… like tomorrow, or the day after at the latest. »
« And the other… the lady who used to do the AIDS fundraiser. »
« De Fontenay? She died like two years ago. »
« No! Let me finish my sentence, the other lady… Line Renaud. »
« I don’t know her. »
« But yes… you’re clueless, Vic! »
« On the contrary, it’s encouraging for her. »
« I’ll show you a photo. »
« No, baby, stop! You’ll jinx her! I don’t want to contribute to her fame by finding out who she is. » He paused for a moment, foam on his lips, toothbrush in his mouth. « I wonder how it works… I mean; if someone suddenly became famous overnight, would they also die? »
« Vic, be careful, you’re splattering all over the mirror… And these stories are nonsense. I think it’s some new crazy drug. They talk about it everywhere on BFM… »
« Who talked about it, baby? »
« How would I know, baby? Someone did… »
As they cross the terrace, they spot Emily Ratajkowski at a neighboring table. The view of the Caldera is breathtaking, probably the most beautiful on the island. She gives them a pale and very formal smile, the kind that implies she hasn’t recognized them, dampening Pauline’s morning enthusiasm. The star is alone, accompanied by a friend, a plump and much less attractive girl. Something on the star’s face seems to have faded.
« She looks like she’s got some problems, » Victor whispers as he spreads marmalade on a piece of toast. « She looks, uh… troubled, doesn’t she? »
« Vic… don’t be so judgmental, » Pauline scolds him with a satisfied smile. « I guess she’s in a bad mood because of, uh… what do they call it… Crisp-19? After all, she’s famous enough to worry about the situation… »
« But less famous than Marion Cotillard. »
« Less than Marion, » she concedes, pouring a little milk into her matcha.
The rest of the day flew by, brimming with pleasures and pleasant surprises. Their posts shone, multiplying their excellent scores. First, there was the one about the jet ski, a beautiful timelapse of Victor zigzagging between the fishermen’s boats. They had taken it just before heading to enjoy fresh fish in that tiny, cave-like restaurant in the south of the island, frequented only by locals. On-site, they met another young couple, influencers themselves, a bit more famous than them, and they bonded over strong margaritas. During dessert (Greek yogurt with honey accompanied by Melomakarona), the couple invited them to join them in visiting a secret beach.
« A secret beach? » Victor repeated, his eyes wide with excitement. But his enthusiasm met Pauline, who remained somewhat intrigued. She had more experience than him and knew how to show restraint, especially when she felt in a socially inferior position.
On the other side of the table, bathed in the cool and quiet semi-darkness of the restaurant, her interlocutor’s face lit up.
« Do you remember that story posted by Emrata last week? »
The scraping of a chair disturbed the auditory landscape. It was Pauline, leaning forward.
« A… uh… secret beach, you say? »
« It’s, uh… (the young woman seemed to search for a word) kind of… nestled in the cliff and only accessible by boat… yes, that’s what the guy told us, isn’t it, baby? »
« That’s what he said, baby, » her boyfriend confirmed.
« …In fact, it’s known only to the locals. There’s hardly ever anyone there… So? Were you interested? It would be a great story to tell, don’t you think? »
Victor looked at Pauline, and a minute later, the excursion was scheduled for the very next Friday, a day when the sky would be clear, and they could live beautiful sunset stories in the little cove surrounded by its immense white rocks (Pauline had scouted it on Google). She had decided they would have an authentic and spontaneous moment. She was excited to the point that she almost forgot about her period. Emrata’s story about this mysterious beach now danced inside her head.
The afternoon doesn’t fall behind; they take a catamaran to visit the caldera of Santorini in a small group. The service on board is quite mediocre, but the spectacle that awaits them on the volcano makes them forget the lukewarm ouzo. Victor posts a story in which he’s seen digging about ten centimeters into the smoking earth, to show that even at a shallow depth, the earth is warming, a sign of « intense underground volcanic activity » (as explained by the guide a little earlier). Their story remains the most viewed in the location all afternoon, and Pauline is very proud of her lover.
« Its last eruption was in 1950, » adds the guide. « There’s no doubt it will happen again someday… In 500 years? a century? three months? tomorrow? Hard to say. »
« That’s to kill me, » someone nearby jokes.
« Well, you’ve unlocked a new fear for me, » Victor quickly adds, which gets a lot of laughter from the small group.
« Fortunately, today there are very advanced measuring instruments that can warn us in advance of such disasters, » reassures the guide.
« So, no chance of it happening, like, after tomorrow? » Victor continues, encouraged by the success of his post and the reactions of the others. « We have an excursion planned to White Beach! »
Laughter intensifies, some ask Victor if he’s the « guy from the story, » and Pauline feels a thrill of desire tickling her lower abdomen. She has decided that she will fuck him to death tonight, as soon as they cross the door of their suite. It’s now a certainty.
« No, I think you should make it back home safely, » the guide concludes.
« Did you see that the couple we met at lunch shared your story? » Pauline points out at one point in the afternoon. « It’s going to give it a second wind. »
« I’ve already gained +18% more followers than in the same time interval throughout the whole past month… » Victor says, but Pauline slips her tongue into his mouth before he finishes his sentence, pressing her lower abdomen against his erection that she feels twitching. She could make love to him there, on the scorching rock, in front of the others. The Followers. Like that tramp Nitsa Vanlith.
The afternoon continues to flow peacefully.
The evening, after sipping margaritas at the tip of the island, facing the sunset, they will return to the hotel. At that moment, an ambulance will start from the parking lot with its lights off. In the hotel restaurant, they will spot the small couple they met the day before, Aline and Paul. They will wave enthusiastically from their tiny, rather poorly situated table and pull two chairs closer as an invitation. Victor will start heading that way, but at the same time, they will notice the other couple they met that morning at the restaurant. They will exchange pale smiles from their table, perfectly aligned with the sea and the volcano. Pauline will discreetly pull Victor by the sleeve to lead him in that direction.
« Are you doing well since noon? You look like you’ve seen a ghost! » Victor will inquire.
« Are you not aware of what happened? » Aline will reply.
« What? »
« It’s Emily, she’s dead… »
« Emrata?! »
« Apparently, it happened late in the afternoon at the hotel spa. She was in the middle of an Ayurvedic massage when she suddenly got up from the table and started saying weird stuff… Crazy things! »
« What kind of crazy things? »
« Well… stuff about how she’d always fought for women to keep their natural beauty, and… »
« How do you know all this? » Pauline will ask as she scans her phone. « It’s not mentioned in any articles. »
« Because her best friend was with her. »
« You know… that girl… well, the one who follows her everywhere. »
« We know her quite well. Thanks to her, we were able to do a lot of stories with Emily last year in Marbella. »
« I’m feeling so down, » the young woman will say. « Poor Emrata, she was such a sweetheart! »
« The world is in a bad place, » the young man will confirm. « But, uh… don’t just stand there; have a seat. »
Pauline and Victor will exchange a meaningful glance, while Paul and Aline at the other end of the terrace continue to observe them.
« What’s going on? » the young couple will ask simultaneously.
« N-nothing, » Pauline will say. « I mean, sorry, we didn’t know you were… well, yes, known. »
There will be a pause.
« But no! » the young man will insist. « Only within our little community! »
« Nonetheless, » Pauline will object. « Well, sorry, we didn’t know you… well, yes, were famous. »
« Stop with that… she had almost twice as many followers as we do… »
« Still, don’t be too modest. You’re almost like stars, too… »
« You can’t be serious, » the nervous couple will chuckle. « Did anyone tell you we inquired about renting a boat for White Beach? It’s much cheaper than we thought! But join us for dinner, come on, sit down, look at this amazing view… »
Victor will remain silent, observing Pauline closely for her reaction.
« We would have loved to, but we promised to have dinner with other people tonight. »
« Alright, » the couple will reply, almost downing their half-filled glasses of Ouzo. « For next time, then… Are you free tomorrow night? »
Pauline will say she’ll check her schedule and then quickly add that she never brings her phone to the table.
They will exchange some small talk and hurry away to join Paul and Aline at their secluded table at the far end of the terrace.
And thus, the day comes to a close.
When Pauline and Victor return to their suite, the young woman, after pulling down his jeans and underwear and then spat on his penis to lubricate the slow advance of her lips, she blinked suddenly, her mouth filled with his thick member.
« Voc? »
« …ah continue, bébé… »
« Voc! »
« What? »
« What’s that thing on the wall? »
On the wall, facing the king-size bed, hangs a painting.
« I, uh… I don’t know, » Victor gasps. « What does it matter? »
« It wasn’t there when we arrived. A creepy-looking thing, I vaguely remember it… »
« My phone says it’s called ‘The Isle of the Dead’ by some Arnold Böcklin… apparently, he’s super famous, baby. »
« Should be careful with it right now… »
« No, he’s been dead for a long time… but he’s really a star in the art world, according to Wikipedia. »
Pauline spits out his member and licks his balls.
« Don’t give a fuck, baby, just take it down, I don’t want to see this crap here. »
He complies, and the back-and-forths resume.
—- END OF EPISODE 3 —-
Syd Vesper 
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