Sex and Vanity

by Kevin Kwan

  “So, Freddie, I take it you are preparing to defend your title in this year’s Dorset tennis tournament?” Auden asked, as he dished some macaroni salad onto his plate.

  “You bet. It’s going to be a vicious year. I heard the Iselin brothers went down to Florida to some tennis camp run by a guy who once coached Nadal. Thankfully, Kip brought along his friend, this tennis ace who gave us some great tips. He’s the new guy renting Harry’s house on Lily Pond Lane.”

  Lucie was just about to take a bite of her lobster roll. “Harry Stuyvesant Fish? What new guy? Cissinghurst’s being rented to my friends the Ortiz sisters!”

  “Guess that didn’t work out. This dude’s there now. He just moved in last week.”

  “Freddie, you’re confused. I set everything up with Harry to rent to the Ortizes. It was all settled last month.”

  “I swear this guy said he had moved into Harry’s house. He’s here with his mom, and he finds the place ridiculously large for the two of them.”

  “Oh, shit, did Harry change his mind again?” Marian snorted. “That Harry is so peculiar about his house. But then again, it was his mother’s place. Poor guy, I think he still feels haunted by her to keep everything like it’s a museum.”

  Lucie frowned. “What’s the guy’s name, Freddie?”

  “George. Don’t ask me his last name, I’ve forgotten it.”

  “Perhaps he’s one of Paloma’s or Mercedes’s grandsons, helping them to get settled in?” Auden wondered. “Was he Filipino?”

  “I’m not sure if he’s Filipino, but he looked Asian to me,” Freddie answered.

  “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!”

  “Please don’t confuse elitism with brilliant, self-made billionaires, baby. My friends have every right to be snobbish, but they aren’t. Like my father, who grew up without a proper pair of shoes in Terlingua, Texas, and worked his ass off till he dropped dead of a cerebral hemorrhage at sixty. People like Harry treated my dad with nothing but contempt, even when he could finally afford to wear John Lobbs.”

  Lucie groaned, not wishing to drag herself deeper into arguing over this. “Cecil, you know I arranged for the Ortiz sisters to rent the place from Harry. I went to all that trouble helping two extremely high-maintenance parties negotiate their terms. The Ortiz sisters even wanted the water quality tested in the pipes, because apparently they can only bathe in water that’s a certain pH. I did it all without complaint, but now you’ve sabotaged my plans completely over some absurd vendetta you have against Harry. And to make matters worse, I know these Zaos, and the Ortiz sisters know them, whi
ch makes things doubly embarrassing.”

  “Oh, the Zaos were part of that wacko Capri crowd?”

  “Yes. They’re related to Isabel.”

  “I might have guessed. Those rich Asians all seem to be related, don’t they?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were cooking up this scheme? I’m going to be your wife, Cecil. Why didn’t you at least warn me?”

  Cecil went quiet for a moment as the enormity of his screwup finally began sinking in. “Baby, I’m sorry. I didn’t want to ruin the joke for you.”

  Lucie exhaled deeply, trying to control her anger. “I really don’t understand you sometimes, Cecil. I feel very betrayed.”

  “I thought you’d be happy!” Cecil sputtered.

  “Yeah, real happy,” Lucie said, hanging up.

  V

  The Preppie Guru Lounge

  AMAGANSETT, LONG ISLAND

  The new Preppie Guru Lounge just outside Amagansett boasted a circular yoga room with floor-to-ceiling windows that afforded spectacular views of the serene wetlands leading down to Napeague Bay. The Saturday morning Master Level Puppy Yoga class that Auden led was the most popular one by far, with a two-year waiting list, as his groupies flocked from all over the world to sun salutate their carb-deprived bodies at the feet of their impossibly photogenic guru.

  Lucie had been a devotee of Auden’s classes for several years now, since he had opened his first pop-up class in East Hampton four summers ago. She was used to the rigors he imposed and the way he would coax her into pushing her body further than she ever imagined, but today’s class was kicking her ass. He was putting them through the most merciless poses, and it didn’t help that it was a particularly humid morning, causing the sweat to drip off Lucie like a broken water sprinkler, and that the class was also welcoming a rowdy new batch of shelter puppies who obviously didn’t get the memo about keeping things Zen.

  As Ajeet Kaur and Trevor Hall’s “Akaal” played softly in the background, Lucie struggled to hold her pungu mayurasana—one-arm wounded peacock pose—while a French bulldog puppy tried to nuzzle into her sweaty armpit. And when she began transitioning from wounded peacock into sirsa padasana—head-to-foot backbend—a corgi-Chihuahua mix started playing tug-of-war with her tank top. Get off me, you little shit! I mean, focus, breathe, om gam ganapataye namaha, Lucie chanted silently. On several occasions, as she stretched into a new pose, she noticed in her peripheral vision some hippie dude behind her who seemed to be executing each pose effortlessly. How was he tuning out these vicious beasts?

  Everyone sighed in relief when Auden finally allowed them to relax into shavasana, as his voice transformed from taskmaster into his trademark laconic drawl. “And now, just ground into the earth. Feel Mother Earth’s gentle embrace. Let your body melt into the soft grass, into the nurturing rich soil, grounding deeper into the earth, deeper and deeper, sending roots into the core, connecting to the giant magical tree at the center of the universe. Feel your breath flow in through the soles of your feet all the way to your crown chakra, flooding oxygen into every cell in your body, every strand of DNA, and as you exhale, think of your breath sending precious life force back through the roots into the tree, the tree of life, Mother Gaia, the tree that connects us all. Innnnn and ouuuut, innnnn and ouuuut. Feel the life force flowing through your body, carrying you home; feel your third eye pulsating…”

  At that moment, the corgi-Chihuahua decided to bite the heel of the girl next to Lucie, causing her to squeal and let out a loud fart at the same time. A few people burst into giggles, but Lucie bit her lip, feeling embarrassed for the girl, thinking, Oh gosh, what if the people behind thought that it was me who farted? Auden gave the closing blessing as the class finally came to an end, and as Lucie opened her eyes and sat up on her mat, she turned around and glanced at the hippie guy behind her. He was kneeling on the ground, his back to her as he rolled up his yoga mat, and Lucie couldn’t help but notice the taut, muscular perfection of his ass through the thin, shiny fabric of his faded orange workout shorts. Suddenly the guy turned around, their eyes catching at the same moment, and Lucie did a quick inhale. It wasn’t a hippie; it was George. George with long surfer-dude hair. No wonder she hadn’t recognized him.

  “Hey,” he said with what appeared to be a little smirk.

  “H-hi,” Lucie stammered. He definitely thinks I’m the one who farted.

  “George!” Auden yelled from the front of the room as he came bounding over and gave him a big hug. “So great to see you again! I ran into your mother last week at Nick & Toni’s and she told me you’d come to the lounge one day soon. Lucie, how great is this? It’s a Capri reunion!”

  “Um, yeah, great,” Lucie replied, trying to collect herself.

  “Can I treat you both to a drink at our Ayurvedic juice bar? It would be such fun to catch up,” Auden offered.

  “Sure!” George said brightly.

  “I, um, have to run. I have a lunch date with my mom,” Lucie said.

  “Pity. Well, say hi to your mom for me,” Auden said, as he put his arm around George’s shoulders and steered him toward the door. As they strode off, Lucie could overhear Auden saying, “Your form is insane! You should be teaching my class!”

  “Oh yeah? I’ve been practicing yoga ever since you turned me on to it in Capri,” George replied.

  Lucie felt a pang of regret. Why hadn’t she joined them? What harm would there be in grabbing a juice with Auden and George after class? After all, it had been five years since they’d seen each other. She debated whether to follow after them but decided it would look a little pathetic to join them now. Besides, she really did need to get home to her mom. As she walked past the wall of mirrors outside the yoga room, she caught sight of herself and cringed. Her new dove-gray yoga pants were drenched with sweat stains all the way from her crotch to halfway down her thighs. Oh, how perfect. I just stood in front of George looking like I farted and peed my pants.

  Driving home along Old Montauk Highway with the top down on her MINI Cooper, Lucie felt more relaxed as the ocean sparkled in the bright sun and the breeze enveloped her like a cool blanket. The fresh air cleared her mind, and she could finally think rationally again now that she was out of her post-yoga fog. She knew she would run into George sooner or later, but she had always imagined it would be at an opportune moment—courtside at the Dorset Yacht Club tennis matches, for instance, or at the Watermill Center’s Summer Benefit party—when she would be dressed to kill. Bumping into him like this had been a complete surprise. She was caught off guard; that’s the only reason she reacted like a tween with backstage passes at a BTS concert. If she hadn’t just been tortured by Auden for seventy-five minutes straight, if she hadn’t looked like she had just peed herself in these damn useless yoga pants that she was about to throw in the garbage, she would not have been so nervous. There was no reason in the world to be nervous. George was just some kid she had met one summer a long time ago. They had known each other for only a week, and they were both victims of Capri, yes, victims swept up by all that beauty and history and achingly romantic, Instagrammable moments of Issie’s wedding. Yeah, that entire hedonistic occasion was designed to seduce. She was so much older and wiser now. She was a Brown graduate, she had made Artcom’s “Thirty Under Thirty” list of the art world’s leading young professionals, and, for Chrissakes, she was engaged to Cecil Pike. Who was George Zao compared with him? Who cares if even after sweaty puppy yoga he still looked like the ultimate thirst trap while she looked like a wet hamster? George Zao was nothing to her.

  Lucie pulled up their gravel driveway, parked behind her mom’s twenty-year-old Oldsmobile Bravada, and ran up the steps to the front door, wondering where she and her mom would go for lunch today. She was suddenly craving the egg-white omelet at Babette’s. She opened the front door and a distinct odor hit her like a gale-force wind. Chinese fermented fish sauce. She had known this s
mell only to exist at her Tang grandmother’s house in Seattle.

  “Mom, are you there?” she called out as she crept down the hallway. Entering the kitchen, she was met by a sight she had not witnessed in years: her mother at the stove stirring furiously at something in a saucepan. Mary, their cook, was standing next to her, peering over Marian’s shoulder with a mixture of curiosity and alarm, ready to intervene on a second’s notice.

  “See, you have to keep stirring so the egg whites turn into flowers,” Marian was saying.

  “What’s happening, Mom?” Lucie asked, almost alarmed.

  “Lucie!” a voice called out.

  Lucie spun around and saw Rosemary Zao coming toward her, arms outstretched. She felt herself smothered in a charmeuse hug as Rosemary continued tittering away. “Look at you! Even prettier than I remember! You’ve put on weight, haven’t you? Good, good, I thought you were much too skinny before.”

  “Mrs. Zao!” Lucie sputtered. What was this woman doing in their kitchen?

  Marian turned to her. “Lucie! Isn’t this fun? I ran into Mrs. Zao at High Tits this morning after my run and decided to introduce myself. We started chatting about how you couldn’t find any decent Chinese food in the Hamptons, and before you know it, I decided to make lunch. Believe it or not, Mama’s gonna cook! I got out Po Po’s* recipe book and I’m making corn egg drop soup and crispy flounder fillets in garlic sauce, and Mrs. Zao is going to make fried stinky tofu and noodles with beef and egg gravy, Cantonese style! Remember how you and Freddie used to love that dish when we went to Hong Kong?”

  “We’re using fresh linguini, since we couldn’t find rice noodles at Stop & Shop,” Rosemary interjected. “And, Marian, please stop calling me Mrs. Zao or you’ll make me feel like I’m a thousand years old. It’s Rosemary!”

  “I need to take a shower,” Lucie said, backing out of the kitchen slowly. Two Zaos in one day was too much for her to process.

  Her mother called after her, “I’m almost done cooking, and Chinese food has to be eaten scalding hot! So don’t be a slowpoke!”