by Kevin Kwan
Turning to her cousin Charlotte (Rippowam / Miss Porter’s / Smith), she asked excitedly, “What’s the first thing you want to do?”
“There’s this restaurant, Michel’angelo, which has a spaghetti with fresh Campania tomatoes and burrata that’s supposed to be out of this world.”
“Yummy!”
“How about you?”
“I’d like to swim in the Blue Grotto.”
“Can you swim in it?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“Hmm…isn’t it very deep?”
“I’ve swum in the Atlantic and the Caribbean. I think I can handle swimming in a little cave on an island,” Lucie said lightly. She hoped Charlotte wouldn’t be fretting over her safety throughout their trip like her mother would. Thankfully, Charlotte was already distracted by the view out her window.
“Quite stunning, isn’t it?” Charlotte remarked, marveling at the dramatic peaks of the island swathed in clouds.
“You know, Emperor Tiberius thought it was the most beautiful place in the world, so he moved the capital of the Roman Empire here in the first century A.D. Issie’s wedding is going to take place at the ruins of his palace,” Lucie said.
Charlotte smiled. “This is why I love traveling with you. I can always sit back and rest assured that you’ve done all the homework. You’re like my personal Wikipedia and Yelp all rolled into one! Remember that trip to Quebec one Christmas where you mapped out the whole itinerary based on where we’d find the best hot chocolate?”
“I was actually trying to find the best poutine for Freddie,” Lucie corrected.
“Ugh, Freddie and his poutine! I weep for your brother when he loses that teenage metabolism. Jesus, is that where we’re landing?” Charlotte pointed out the window at the helipad atop a majestic hotel with arched terraces.
“Looks like it.”
“That’s not where we’re staying, though?”
“No, we’re at the Bertolucci. I think this is the place where all the celebrities like Mariah Carey and Julia Roberts stay,” Lucie remarked.
“Then I’m glad we’re not staying here! Hotels that cater to celebrities are generally always awful. If you’re not famous, they treat you like pond scum,” Charlotte commented as the AgustaWestland AW109 made a dramatic swooping turn before landing on the rooftop of the hotel.
Several attendants rushed out to assist with their luggage, while a lady in a stylishly retro white shift dress came out to greet them. Checking their names off a list on her iPad, she said, “You must be Signorinas Churchill and Barclay? Welcome to Anacapri! Please enjoy our welcome refreshment.” A crisply attired waiter presented them with ice-cold Bellinis in tall Venetian glasses, while another waiter bore a platter of fresh strawberries dipped in white chocolate.
“Thank you! But you do know we aren’t staying here?” Charlotte said cautiously as she reached for a strawberry.
“Yes, of course. As wedding guests of Ms. Chiu, you are naturally our guests too. Your hotel is in Capri town, and we will send your luggage ahead to the hotel.”
“But is it safe?” Charlotte fretted.
“Don’t worry, signora, your luggage will be very safe with us. Meanwhile, we have arranged your transportation downstairs,” the lady graciously explained as she escorted them down to the lobby, where a magnificently restored candy-apple-red 1950s Fiat cabriolet taxi awaited them in the driveway.
“Buongiorno! I take you to Capri—just ten minutes away,” the driver said with a flourish as he opened the door for them.
Making herself comfortable in the car, Lucie commented, “Well, if that was the pond-scum treatment, I want to know how Julia Roberts gets treated when she arrives.”
“Well, maybe they googled me and saw who I was,” Charlotte remarked with nary a hint of irony. As one of the senior editors at Amuse Bouche magazine, Charlotte behaved with a distinct entitlement that came from being an employee of the influential magazine and its even more influential parent company, Barón Snotté Publications. Now she turned her attention toward the handsome cream-and-yellow-striped linen awning of the vintage convertible. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if all our taxis in the city*1 looked like this? So much better than those ridiculous ‘Taxis of Tomorrow’ that already look so worn out.”
“I don’t think this linen roof would survive one week in the city,” Lucie said, laughing while fingering the fabric and letting her hand dangle out into the breeze. As the taxi made a hairpin turn around the steep curve, she exclaimed, “Oh, wow! Check out the view on your left!”
Charlotte caught a quick glimpse of the cliffside plunging down to the sea hundreds of feet below and gasped, “Sweet Jesus, I’m going to get vertigo! I’m purposely not looking!” She searched around for something to grip on to but found nothing except a chilled bottle of champagne with a jade-green ribbon around it. Tied to the ribbon was a card embossed with their names. “Oh, look, this champagne’s for us! Your friend’s being rather generous, isn’t she? Two first-class plane tickets, the helicopter transfer from Rome to Capri, this gorgeous car, champagne—and you’re not even one of her bridesmaids!”
“Issie’s always been tremendously generous. She was my neighbor back when we lived at 788 Park, remember? She used to pass along her hand-me-downs. She wore many of her outfits only once or twice, and that’s how I got that little—”
“That little white Chanel purse when you were in the third grade!” exclaimed Charlotte, finishing Lucie’s sentence. “That’s right. I had forgotten—I thought you knew Isabel from Brown.”
“Not really—she was so many years ahead of me. But she’s always been like the big sister I never had.”
“Well, you are being quite spoiled by your big sis, aren’t you? A week of grand parties culminating in a wedding that I bet will put Kate and William’s to shame,” Charlotte remarked in a tone that sounded excited and disapproving at the same time. “How much did you say her father was spending on the whole affair?”
“Issie didn’t say. She’s much too polite to ever tell me anything like that, but I’m sure the wedding will be everything!” Lucie said, still not quite believing her luck. Not only was this the first wedding she’d been invited to as a grown-up, rather than just one of the kids dragged by default to some family wedding, but this was also the first real trip she’d been on without her mother and brother.
When Lucie first received the ornate hand-engraved invitation, her heart sank when she caught sight of the date: July 20. Though she was nineteen and could of course do as she pleased, Lucie, being the dutiful daughter that she was, still deferred to her mother. The third weekend in July was reserved for her mother’s annual fund-raising summer gala for the Animal Rescue Fund of Long Island, of which she was president of the board, and she relied heavily on Lucie’s help at the event. It was only after UN-level negotiations that her mother finally relented—Lucie could attend the wedding, with the caveat that her older cousin Charlotte would accompany her. Her brother, Freddie, nicknamed their forty-four-year-old cousin “Madam Buzzkill” behind her back, but Lucie felt that she could handle her cousin well enough, and any little annoyance would be worth it.
Lucie might have grown up in the same prewar Rosario Candela–designed building as her friend, but Isabel’s life was several notches more glamorous. For starters, her father was a diplomat who, according to the building’s elevator men, hailed from one of Asia’s most successful business dynasties, so the Chiu family occupied the sprawling eighteen-room duplex penthouse, while the Churchills lived in a classic seven on the tenth floor.*2 Likewise, the doormen whispered that whenever the Chius went away, it was always via Teterboro Airport, which was a dead giveaway that the family flew only private.
With her striking beauty, effervescent charm, and academic drive, Isabel was easily one of the most popular students at the Lycée Français. When she turned eighteen, s
he made her debut at Le Bal*3 in Paris and graced the cover of Taiwan Tatler, and by the time she graduated from Brown, she had more than thirty thousand followers on Instagram. Nowadays she worked in Los Angeles for a film production company, and Lucie mainly kept in touch by following her on social media, admiring the places she got to travel to—London for the Frieze Art Fair, Park City for Sundance, Bahia for a party at Caetano Veloso’s—and the cool friends who surrounded her wherever she went.
Charlotte interrupted her reverie. “Tell me the name of Isabel’s fiancé again? The count?”
“Dolfi. His full name is Adolfo De Vecchi. I don’t think he’s a count—that’s his father.”
“And he plays polo?”
“Yes, he’s got a nine-goal handicap. His whole family has been into polo for generations.”
“The polo-playing son of an Italian count marries a Taiwanese heiress. My, Lucie, you’re really running with the international ooh-la-las these days,” Charlotte teased.
Soon they arrived at the town of Capri, which was built high on the mountain overlooking the harbor. Waiting by the bustling taxi stand on Via Roma was an Italian man in his twenties wearing a short-sleeved white shirt and white trousers that appeared at least two sizes too tight. “Welcome to Capri! I am Paolo, from the Bertolucci. Please allow me to escort you to the hotel. It is just a short walk away,” the man said.
They strolled into the main public square, where a gleaming white clock tower stood opposite from the historic Cathedral of Santo Stefano. Four competing outdoor cafés lining the square bustled with chic patrons sipping their cappuccinos, chatting, and people-watching from their bistro tables.
“This is the piazzetta. We call it ‘the living room of Capri,’ ” Paolo noted.
“You would never find a living room like this in America—everyone is so nattily dressed here!” remarked Charlotte.
As they walked beyond the piazzetta and down Via Vittorio Emanuele, Charlotte’s discerning eye did a quick assessment and she found herself quietly impressed. Capri seemed to embody the most marvelous blend of historic and modern, high and low, simplicity and decadence. Here they were, strolling along a cobblestone street where a humble tobacco kiosk neighbored a sleek boutique selling hand-sewn driving moccasins, and a shop glittering with the most lust-worthy jewels stood just a few paces down from the rustic gelateria, where the scent of freshly baked cones wafted into the air. “How charming! How charming!” Charlotte kept saying at every turn. “Can you even believe this place exists?”
“It’s glorious,” Lucie replied, relieved that everything met with her cousin’s approval so far. All the same, she couldn’t imagine how anyone—even her extremely jaded cousin—could find fault with this island. She loved seeing the clusters of Italian children running up and down the street laughing wildly, the old grandmas resting their tired feet on the steps of designer boutiques, the impeccably dressed couples walking along hand in hand, bronzed and glowing from their hours under the sun. And no matter where you turned, there was the view—of undulating hills dotted with white villas, ancient fortress ruins commanding every ridgetop, and the sea sparkling in the golden sun.
Charlotte made a dead stop outside a sandal shop, seemingly transfixed.
“We are famous for our sandals, signora. Beyoncé, Sarah Jessica Parker, all the famous stars buy sandals in Capri,” Paolo said proudly.
“If I had Beyoncé’s budget, I’d take that tangerine pair over there. And the gold ones. And the ones with those cute little pom-poms. Hell, I’d take every single pair in the window!” Charlotte gushed.
“You’re welcome to buy me the ones with the pink suede tassels,” Lucie remarked.
“That’s so you! You know, we should get a pair for your mother. Don’t you think she’d like those braided leather sandals? Let’s make a note of this place, please!”
Lucie suddenly caught a glimpse of her reflection in the window and let out a shriek. “Charlotte! How could you let me walk through town looking like this? I look like a cocker spaniel!”
“You do not! You look like you’ve just been on a joyride along the Amalfi Coast, which you have,” Charlotte said with a reassuring smile. She knew Lucie had always been self-conscious about her natural curls and spent half her life straightening her hair. The lucky girl had no idea how ravishing she looked with her long, lustrous locks loose and wild, coupled with that improbably perfect blend of Eastern and Western features. Perhaps that was a good thing—she would have to spend less time fending off all the boys on this trip.
Paolo guided them down a twisting narrow lane, and before long, they arrived at the Hotel Bertolucci, a charming white modernist villa bursting with purple bougainvillea vines along every wall. Stepping into the breezy lobby and taking in the plush white sofas, Solimene ceramics, and gleaming blue-and-white majolica tiles, Charlotte registered her approval. “This is exactly as I imagined! How marvelous is this place? Now I feel like we’re truly on holiday!” They were shown into a tiny elevator, which took them two levels up, and were led down a hallway smartly carpeted in a cream-and-navy-striped sisal.
“We go first to your room, and then I will take your friend to her room,” Paolo said to Charlotte.
“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.