This was all thanks to a combination of cajoling, guilt-jerking, and putting the best possible spin on the work that they were actually doing. We’d meet poolside around noon and order lunch from Marco. Prawns, lobster, filet mignon, fruit and vegetables so fresh they tasted as if they had just been plucked from tree or bush, mashed potatoes with capers, yam fries, Italian arborio pearl rice ribboned with shiitake mushrooms and pecans—I could go on. But the twins barely touched their food. They would pick at a lobster salad, followed by half a prawn and maybe one mouthful of mashed potatoes. Unfortunately, I not only had touched everything but also had swallowed everything. When I wasn’t wheedling and charming information out of all of Palm Beach, I was alternately working on my story notes and stuffing my face. I didn’t know if I had enough for a decent story, but I did know I would be heading back to New York ten pounds heavier. That morning I’d had to lie on my bed to zip my Joe’s jeans, and even then I’d felt my femoral arteries being squeezed into submission.
