Sex and Vanity

“She’s my cousin,” Charlotte corrected.

“Oh? Your cousin?” Paolo glanced reflexively at Lucie in surprise, but Lucie simply smiled. She knew that within the next few seconds, Charlotte would automatically launch into the explanation she had always given since Lucie was a little girl.

“Yes, her father was my uncle,” Charlotte replied, adding, “Her mother is Chinese, but her father is American.”

So is Mom. She was born in Seattle, Lucie wanted to say, but of course she didn’t.

They arrived at the first room and watched as Paolo twisted a heavy, gold-tasseled key and opened the door. The ladies entered the room, and as soon as Paolo drew open the curtains to let in more light, the smiles evaporated from their faces. Lucie glanced at Charlotte in dismay.

“What is that out there?” Charlotte asked, peering out the window.

“It is a cat,” Paolo replied, gesturing at the calico sunning itself on a low stone wall.

“I know ‘it is a cat,’?” Charlotte said, mimicking his accent. “That’s not what I meant. Can we see the other room?”

“Of course, it is just two doors down.”

Paolo opened the door to Lucie’s room, and the ladies peered in. “You like, signorina?”

Before Lucie could reply, Charlotte cut in. “Mr. Paolo, there’s been a huge mistake. We need to see the manager. Pronto!”

*1 Charlotte, like many native New Yorkers, called Manhattan “the city,” since to them it’s the only city that matters. (Charlotte was born at Lenox Hill Hospital, which, for New Yorkers of her generation in the 10021 zip code, was really the only acceptable place to be born.)

*2 New York real estate speak for a prewar apartment that consists of seven rooms: a formal living room, a dining room, a separate kitchen, three full bedrooms, and a maid’s room. In 2018, the average median price for a classic seven was $4.6 million.

*3 Le Bal des Débutantes, held in Paris every November, is a ball introducing debutantes from around the world. Previous debutantes have included girls from European aristocracy, the children of celebrities, and girls whose parents simply have insane amounts of money.

II

Hotel Bertolucci

CAPRI, ITALY

The hostess tried to show Lucie and Charlotte to a table in the middle of the lunchroom, but Charlotte was having none of it. “We’ll sit here, if you don’t mind,” she huffed, shoving her yellow canvas tote bag firmly onto a table by the window as if she were planting the first flag on the South Pole.

The hostess backed away with a shrug as Charlotte continued to fume. “We specifically reserved rooms with ocean views, and now they are telling us

we can’t have them because some other guests extended their stay? What a sham!”

“Don’t you think they really are booked up because of the wedding?” Lucie wondered.

“Well, that’s not our problem. Those people who overstayed should be moved into the rooms that they’ve pawned off on us. Why should we have to suffer and take the rooms facing that damn cat licking its balls in an alley? And why aren’t the cats on this island neutered?”

Lucie noticed a few people in the dining room look up in their direction and thought she’d better try harder to placate her cousin. “As far as alleys go, it’s a very nice one.”

“There’s no such thing as a nice alley, Lucie. Hobos hang out in alleys, and people go into alleys to do three things: vomit, do drug deals, or get stabbed.”

“Charlotte, I somehow don’t think that’s going to happen here. And the manager did say he would move us the minute another room became available.”

“Just you watch—he’s going to move us on the very last day.” Charlotte took a bite of focaccia from the basket on the table and immediately spat it out discreetly into her napkin. “Ew! This focaccia is soggy. It’s clearly been sitting out all morning.”

Lucie sighed. It was only the first day of their trip, and Charlotte was already kicking up a fuss about everything. She wondered if Charlotte was partly upset because when she imperiously announced to the manager that she was “the produce editor at Amuse Bouche—one of America’s leading food and lifestyle magazines,” he gave her a blank stare, and it had zero effect on their room situation.

“Ma’am! Signora! Over here! Can we have some fresh focaccia please? I want it warm and toasty, do you hear? Warm and toasty! And bring me some olio d’oliva and balsamico,”*1 Charlotte ordered. Turning back to Lucie, she said, “I can’t believe you’re not more upset. I mean, this is your holiday more than mine.”

“I am disappointed, but there’s not much more we can do, is there?” Lucie was always conscious of being born into privilege, and it had been drummed into her from an early age by her mother to “always be grateful and never complain.” She was well aware that her room in this five-star hotel, even with the less-than-perfect view, was far nicer than what most people on the planet would ever be able to enjoy, so she was loath to grumble.

Charlotte, however, had a different take on the situation. “It’s an absolute sin to be paying such an outrageous rate for a room that looks nothing like the ones shown on their website. I mean, we haven’t even talked about the decor!”