Sex and Vanity

“Well, there you go! It must be either Paloma’s or Mercedes’s grandsons.” Auden nodded at Lucie.

“I thought they weren’t arriving till the middle of June. How odd that they moved in last week and haven’t called us yet,” Lucie said, picking at her kale salad.

“Well, either way, George was really cool. I think he went to school in Australia—he’s got this Aussie surfer accent,” Freddie said.

Auden smiled. “We knew a George with an Aussie accent, didn’t we? A lovely chap we met in Capri. George Zao.”

“That’s it! That’s his name!” Freddie exclaimed.

Auden gave Lucie a look. “It can’t be. Can it?”

Lucie froze in her seat for a moment. It had to be a coincidence. How many George Zaos were there on the planet? Probably thousands. “Freddie’s hallucinating. There’s no way it can be the George we knew, because the Ortiz sisters have the house.”

“Oh, wait, why don’t you ask Cecil? He’s friends with George,” Freddie offered.

“Cecil?” Lucie looked even more confused.

“Yeah, that’s what he told me. Sorry, I just remembered. When I’m hungry you know my brain goes to mush,” Freddie said as he reached for one of the brownies. “Mama, do we have any more of that Sant Ambroeus gelato?”

“I finished all the chocolate last night when I was binging on The OA, but I think there’s some pistachio left,” Marian answered. “Do you want some?”

“How does Cecil know George?” Lucie demanded, as she became more alarmed by the second.

“I have no idea. We were playing tennis, Lucie. It wasn’t social hour.”

Marian turned to Lucie. “What a royal screwup! Where’s Cecil now?”

“Still in Venice,” Lucie said.

“Well, call him if you want to get to the bottom of this mess,” Marian suggested.

“Please excuse me,” Lucie said, getting up from her chair and walking toward the house. Freddie yelled after her, “Grab the pistachio gelato from the fridge, will you?”

Lucie sat down on the wicker chair overlooking the terrace and dialed Cecil’s number. It rang for a few moments before he picked up. “Baby! I’ve just been to the most transcendent show at the Palazzo Fortuny. It’s a retrospective of this Korean artist I’ve never heard of until now, Yun Hyong-Keun. He sort of does what you do, paints on raw canvases, and his paintings are simply marvelous. They remind me of early Rothkos. I think you’d love them.”

“Text me his name and I’ll check him out.”

“I bought you the monograph. I’m about to have dinner with the Pinaults and some fabulous people from Mexico City. Check my Insta in half an hour and you’ll see all the pictures.”

“Cecil, please enlighten me…Who exactly is George Zao?”

“George who?”

“Zao! Zao! He’s apparently taken Harry Stuyvesant Fish’s house for the summer?”

“Oh yes! Ha ha. Lucie, you’re going to love this. You know how much I can’t stand Harry, that pretentious fuck with his mandate to only rent his house to ‘the right sort of people’ who can trace their lineage back to the exact spot where their ancestors stood in Mrs. Astor’s ballroom on Fifth Avenue. So I decided to play a little trick on him. I recommended this fellow George Zao to Harry. And I must have really impressed him, because his Bordello di Cissinghurst will now play host to exactly the type of people he disapproves of. They’re the most peculiar pair I’ve ever met.”

“What do you mean by ‘peculiar’?”

“George isn’t really that bad, but wait till you meet his mother. She’s the most vulgar thing that ever walked the planet. She dresses like she’s about to lip-synch for her life on RuPaul’s Drag Race.”

Lucie could feel a chill go up her spine. It was them.

“And how do you know these people?” Lucie asked. She hadn’t seen George since that fateful night in Capri five years ago, and she could feel her stomach begin to tighten.

“Well, here’s the real laugh—they’re complete strangers! I met them at the Frick Collection, in the fountain room when I was searching for that Modigliani portrait they’re always moving around. Rosemary’s feet were sore from walking, and she was sitting on one of the stone benches rubbing some awful ointment onto her heels and stinking up the place to high heaven! But we began talking because I couldn’t help but remark on her turban—it was so full-on Liz Taylor batshit fabulous I had to say something—and she asked me if I knew of a house to rent in the Hamptons. Her son’s working in the city now for some B-list architect, and she actually wondered if Grey Gardens could be rented, if you can believe it. She’s obsessed with the film, and fascinated by the Beales and the Kennedys, of course. So I told them of an even better house, and I texted Harry immediately. I told him that the Zaos were ‘Asian royalty,’ that they were friends of my mother’s and direct descendants of the last emperor who fled to Hong Kong. He bought it hook, line, and sinker. Can you believe how gullible he is? Thank God he’s been assigned to Norway and not some country where we actually need someone on the ground with half a brain stem. I hope Rosemary starts filling up Cissinghurst with stray cats. Hundreds of them. It’ll teach that Harry Fish a lesson! Elitist shits like him deserve to be punished.”

“But, Cecil, you’re friends with the most elitist people I know!”