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- Because I have decided to abandon my life and hightail it for the summer to the Isle of Skye, you won't be hearing from me for a while. I will be leaving in a matter of days. Once I get there I will settle into an inn or a guesthouse or something like that, three suitcases and a notebook in tow. On my way into town I will drop my cellphone into the water with nary a thought of leaking battery acids or curious narwhals. I will wander around the village of Kyleakin, look at the water and cry. People will wonder what's wrong with me but they won't understand. "If I had that much money," they'll say, "I wouldn't stop smiling." But heiresses from dysfunctional families know firsthand that money can't buy happiness. I will often tramp over to the ruins of Moil, sit there and sketch the scene. I am a good artist but am indifferent to any talents I may or may not have. I will cry constantly for no good reason. "Go see what her trouble is, Johnny," the guesthouse proprietress will tell her son. He is a fisherman - handsome, although I am indifferent to that as well. We will strike up a tenuous friendship, he teaching me to fish, I teaching him to dance. The summer will go by quietly and peacefully. I won't get a tan, I won't hook up with anyone, no one will take my picture. Every evening after dinner Johnny and I will walk around the village. Some days, when it's not raining, we will venture further afield. I will learn about the history of the area and will soon be able to imitate Johnny's accent. In early September someone will come back from a trip to Liverpool with a year-old magazine and in it on the society page is a picture of me, drunk, made-up, wearing a tiny scrap of a dress (Elie Saab, if you must know, $8,500), laughing with my jetsetting friends, sitting on the lap of my ex-fiance, one of the Greek Habsburgs (not the gay one). His hands are between my thighs. Behind us, London de Balzac and Amsterdam Hammer-Picard are making out. You can just see the top of a snowy white pile of cocaine on the table in front of us, and my friend Marietta is handing me a rolled up 100-Euro bill. The magazine will make its way to Johnny, who will look at the picture and say, "No, that's not her, she's not like that." I won't be able to defend myself - I'll have left for the Labor Day weekend. London is marrying G. Franklin Archander-Hamilton and has had this St. Tropez bachelorette party weekend planned for years. After my summer in the Hebrides I'll have a hard time fitting in with the bitches and hos I grew up with and will find myself spending almost the entire weekend walking the beach looking at the seashells and thinking how different they are from the shells in Loch Alsh. What would Johnny think about them? When I return to Kyleakin, Johnny won't talk to me. It will take a while to find out what's happened but when I do I will be angry and hurt. I will pack my suitcases, slam the door of the guesthouse, and walk to the bus stop. When I find out the bus to Kyle has just left and I have to wait an hour, I'll decide to walk across the damn bridge. I'll have my three suitcases in tow and it will be raining. After 10 minutes I'll still be a block away from the bridge. I'll start crying, take one of my suitcases to the water and throw it in, but I'll remember the narwhals and run in after it. Johnny will come down the street yelling. The scene that will follow is typical: rain, water, girl, boy, etc. You can use your imagination. I will leave three weeks later for Tokyo - my stepfather's latest film is showing at the festival and is in contention for the Grand Prix. My ex-fiance will be there, his tongue constantly interlocked with Amsterdam Hammer-Picard's. By the end of the weekend I'll have won him back.
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