by Kwan, Kevin
“I’m getting a grant wood just looking at it!” Freddie said, as the two of them burst into laughter again.
Freddie glanced at his watch and gasped. “Oh, shit, three twenty-two p.m., we’re going to be late!”
Grabbing his mother’s hand, the two of them began racing through the galleries, past the Rockefeller wing, down a flight of stairs, and out the little-used exit that opened onto the street level of the museum, facing Fifth Avenue.
“Cecil said to cross Fifth and stand on the steps outside Adolfo’s old building to get the best view. And try to look inconspicuous,” Freddie said.
“I blend in everywhere, dear. I just look like another Asian tourist. But you shouldn’t have worn that coat,” Marian said, scrutinizing his dapper navy-and-green-striped rowing blazer.
The two of them stood under the awning of the red-and-white stone Beaux-Arts mansion, staring in anticipation at the iconic steps of the museum, crowded like any other Saturday with visitors meeting friends, lounging in the sun, having snacks, and posing for selfies. To the casual observer, Marian and Freddie could have fit in perfectly with the rest of the crowd—they looked like two college-aged friends hanging out.
Marian’s skin was preternaturally unlined, and between her petite frame and gamine pixie-cut hair, she retained such a youthful look and demeanor that people often assumed she was in her mid-twenties and not twice that age. When Freddie was a child, she was always mistaken for his au pair, since his more Caucasian-dominant features and dark blond curls bore little resemblance to her classically Chinese face. These days, one could see more of a resemblance to his mother in his perfect Cupid’s bow and his refined, high cheekbones, though his hair had evolved into a floppy rich chestnut mop that every girl in the 10021 zip code (and many in the 10010) found irresistible.
“Didn’t Cecil say it would start at three thirty p.m.? It’s already three forty and nothing’s happening,” Marian observed.
“Blair Waldorf better appear and start doing parkour on those steps or I want my money back,” Freddie quipped. “This is typical Cecil, don’t you think?”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s the master of hyperbole. Everything’s always the ‘best in the world,’ the ‘most exclusive’ or ‘one of a kind’ with him. Today he said, ‘Freddie, don’t you think you’ll be the luckiest guy in the world to have me as a brother-in-law?’”
“Oh, jeez, he actually said that?” Marian cackled. “What did you say back?”
“I said, ‘Not really.’”
“You did not!”
“I sure did. I asked, ‘How exactly does that make me the luckiest guy in the world?’ And he said, ‘You’ll have access to my houses, the yacht, the plane, all my clubs, and now that we’re related, Town & Country has no choice but to put you on its ‘Most Eligible Bachelors’ list next year. You stand to benefit the most from the Cecil Pike halo effect.’”
“Ha! That’s priceless. As if you’ll ever need his help. The girls have been banging down our door since you were five!”
“I hate to break it to you, but Cecil already wants us all to spend New Year’s Eve in Saint Barth’s.”
“Yuck, no thank you! What are we going to do? Hang out on that obscenely large boat of his with Russian oligarchs and Beyoncé? We always spend New Year’s in East Hampton.”
“I warned him you wouldn’t be happy. He said you would change your mind the moment you see the new villa.”
Marian rolled her eyes.
“Peter … Peter Submarina or something like that designed it. The guy who only designs houses for billionaires and kings, or so Cecil claims.”
“Peter Marino, you mean. Oh, look, there’s Cecil!” Marian said excitedly.
“Hush, Mama! Stop jumping up and down or you’ll ruin everything!”
Cecil (Kiddie Kollege Preschoolfn1 / South Elementary / Kinkaid / Aiglon / Oriel College, Oxford) could be spotted emerging from a gleaming Meteor over Fountain Blue Bentley Mulsannefn2 in a sharply tailored navy suit and pink shirt. He was what one would describe as Armie Hammer Handsome™—he had the perfect swoop of sandy-blond hair and the perfect glacier-blue eyes accentuated by his perfectly square jaw and aquiline nose, the sort of jaw and nose that on Cecil could only have been crafted by a very pricey Wilshire Corridor surgeon. Cecil held Lucie’s hand affectionately to help her out of the car, and the two of them proceeded up the steps of the museum looking like they were just having a Sunday stroll.
But then Cecil turned abruptly and gestured toward the hot dog cart parked in front of the museum. Lucie looked confused but followed him down the steps toward the row of food vendors. Suddenly out of nowhere, Shawn Mendes and Camila Cabello’s “Señorita” started booming onto the street from hidden speakers. The “random strangers” milling about the steps stood up in unison and began a complicated choreographed routine to the tune as Lucie’s jaw dropped.
“Boo! Flash mobs are so lame. Didn’t they stop doing them around 2010?” Freddie remarked, before realizing that the spectacle was turning out to be much more than a flash mob. A troupe of street dancers emerged from a passing tour bus to join the party, throwing themselves into the air in unison from the four corners of the steps and executing improbably precarious somersaults before landing safely in the arms of the other dancers, while dozens of ballerinas in pink tutus appeared from the front entrance and began pirouetting around the plaza as if they were doing a scene from Swan Lake.
“Jeeeesus, what did he do, hire the New York City Ballet?” Marian exclaimed.
“And from the looks of it the Big Apple Circus as well! Check out the rooftop!” Freddie said excitedly. At the roofline of the museum’s imposing facade, a row of acrobats in gold sequined bodysuits appeared and began shimmying down the front of the building on long silk cords. Flicking back the wispy golden-wheat hair from his forehead, Cecil grabbed a hot dog from the vendor, joined the dancers in the middle of the steps, and started singing into the bun as if it were a microphone:
I love you when you call me señorita,
I wish I could pretend I didn’t need ya.
Marian frowned slowly. “Wait a minute … is Cecil actually singing that he loves it when she calls him señorita?”
Freddie grimaced a little. “Ye-aah, apparently. Wouldn’t have been my first choice for a proposal song, and I’m not sure the weiner mic was the right move either.”
Marian chortled in agreement. “Can you see Lucie’s face? That damn umbrella on the bulgogi cart is blocking my view.”
“Lucie’s freaking out! Her face has turned bright red.” Freddie laughed.
“She’s mortified, isn’t she?” Marian said.
“Sooooo mortified. I love it!”
As if the spectacle of a hundred dancers on the steps of the Met wasn’t enough, a marching band in full regalia suddenly emerged from the Central Park entrance off Fifth Avenue, backing up the tune with its enormous brass instruments as it snaked around the dancers in front of the museum. Hundreds of tourists were now on the scene filming excitedly with their phones as the song ended and six gold-sequined dancers carried the tall yet surprisingly slight Cecil aloft and twirled him down the steps Esther Williams–style right to where Lucie was standing.
While Cecil was still propped horizontal in the air by the dancers, he reached into the breast pocket of his bespoke Attolini suit, fished out a blue velvet box, jammed it right under Lucie’s nose with one hand, grabbed a real microphone with his other hand, and announced in his distinctive accent—a vaguely Central Texas meets Draco Malfoy meets pretentious French auctioneer accent that he claimed came naturally from having gone to high school at Aiglon—“Lucie, mon ange, innamorata mia, would you do me the greatest honor of becoming my señorita—Mrs. Cecil Pike?”
“Goddamn it, I should have worn my Bottega boots! I can’t see a thing! What’s Lucie doing?”
“Her hands are on her face, but she’s nodding. She looks … stunned.”
“Ha! I’ll
bet she does!” Marian said.
The crowd roared in approval, as Cecil took a bow and announced, “I’d like to thank everyone who helped make this spectacular moment possible. The president of the Met, the chairman of the board of trustees, everyone on the board—especially my mother—the mayor, everyone at the mayor’s office, the board of the New York City Ballet including Sarah Jessica Parker, the executive director of the Alvin Ailey Dance Foundation, choreographer Yanira Castro, Telsey and Company for casting, Great Performances for catering, and, of course, Laurence Graff of Graff jewelers. Thank you all!”
“Um, did he thank any of the performers or the band?” Freddie wondered out loud.
“He’s probably too nervous. I’ll give him a pass on that,” Marian said, as they crossed the avenue toward the newly engaged couple.
“You didn’t cry, Mama. I thought you’d be bawling your eyes out.”
“Well, it wasn’t exactly a Mr.-Darcy-getting-down-on-his-knees-in-a-muddy-field kind of moment,” Marian remarked, although she was rather moved by the whole spectacle. Who would have imagined that her Lucie would be proposed to in such a grand manner by the man that Vulture, BuzzFeed, and The Skimm had proclaimed “The Most Eligible Gentleman on the Planet.” She almost teared up at the thought. If only Reggie could have been here to witness this day—maybe now her mother-in-law and all those Churchills would finally stop judging her parenting choices.
“Mom! Freddie! Were you here the whole time?” Lucie shrieked excitedly as she hugged her mother and brother.
“Of course they were. I arranged everything so that they wouldn’t miss a second of our special moment,” Cecil said, beaming proudly.
“Is your mom here too?” Lucie asked, looking around.
“Very funny, Lucie. You know she’s at her couture fittings in Paris.”
“Yes, how could I forget?” Lucie said apologetically.
Breaking the awkward silence, Marian announced, “I promised Freddie his favorite apfelstrudel at Café Sabarsky. Won’t you both join us?”
“I have another idea … why don’t we all celebrate with champagne and scones at the Carlyle? It’s Lucie’s favorite,” Cecil suggested.
“Sure!” Marian and Freddie gamely agreed.
The four of them strolled over to Madison Avenue together, and before long they were seated at what Cecil insisted was the “prime table” in the jewel-box-like gallery of the Carlyle Hotel.
“My bride deserves the best seat in the house! We can see absolutely everyone entering and exiting from here, and more importantly, they can see us. Are you comfortable, Mrs. Churchill?” Cecil said as he tried to fluff up the silk pillow behind Marian with a series of needless karate chops.
“Very comfortable, thank you. You can stop hitting the pillow, Cecil,” Marian replied.
“Don’t you love this room and its superb stenciled walls? You know it’s all inspired by the sultan’s dining room at Topkapi Palace in Constantinople. Mongiardino at his best. You know my mother tried to get him to design the interiors of our first plane, but then he died. I’m so glad those Chinese owners knew well enough to leave the gallery alone when they bought the place …”
Cecil paused for a split second, as if it had just dawned on him that his future mother-in-law was Chinese and his bride half Chinese, and maybe his statement could be perceived as a tad offensive. If the notion momentarily disturbed him, it was forgotten as soon as the waiter arrived and Cecil held court over the table, ordering afternoon tea with a multitude of finger sandwiches, scones, and petits fours for everyone, selecting the right vintage of champagne from the wine list, and, most important, making sure everything was served on his approved china. “Please take away these dishes with the blue-and-gold pattern you use for regular guests. Talk to Stephanie—she knows where the hand-painted Limoges that have been put on reserve for me is kept.”
“Cecil has his own set of teacups stored here,” Lucie explained to her brother.
“Seriously? What’s wrong with the ones they have?” Freddie probed.
“Freddie, tea always tastes much better served in Second Empire French porcelain,” Cecil began to lecture. “But more importantly, look at your sister’s ravishing lips! They’re like a hybrid between Andie MacDowell’s and Charlotte Gainsbourg’s. I simply cannot allow these precious lips to touch a teacup unless it has a rim thinner than 1.3 millimeters!”
“What would happen if they did?” Freddie stared at his sister’s lips wide-eyed.
“It would simply never happen. I wouldn’t permit it! From now on, Freddie, your sister is going to be treated like the divine empress she was born to be,” Cecil declared.
“Got that, Freddie?” Lucie said with a little giggle.
Cecil turned to Marian. “Mrs. Churchill, you deserve a special prize for your patience today!”
“What do you mean?” Marian asked.
“I know you’re only being polite, but I cannot believe that you haven’t asked to see the engagement ring yet!”
“Oh, yeah, let’s see the ring, Lucie,” Marian remembered, trying to summon up enough enthusiasm to impress her future son-in-law. Lucie shyly extended her hand across the table and caught her mother recoiling almost imperceptibly. “Oh, wow, Lucie. Oh, wow,” was all Marian could muster up.
Freddie whistled. “Look at the size of that thing! It looks like a tumor on her finger. Where’s Dr. Pimple Popper when you need her?”
“Very funny, Freddie,” Cecil said a little crossly. He looked up and suddenly his frown transformed into a look that a penitent might reserve for the apparition of the Virgin Mary, as a trio of exceedingly chic women entered the room with a cute young girl dressed in riding breeches.
“Why, it’s Jackie, Martha, Alicia, and Helena! Hot damn, everyone’s here today!” Cecil sprang up from his seat to give double-cheeked air-kisses to the ladies, before patting little Helena on her head as if he were dribbling a basketball. “Ladies, may I present my new fiancée, Lucie Churchill? You know, her father was Reggie Churchill, and she’s the granddaughter of Consuelo Barclay Churchill.”
“Yes, Cecil, we know. And don’t forget she’s also the daughter of one of our country’s pioneering geneticists, Dr. Marian Tang Churchill,” Jackie said graciously, giving Marian a wink.
“Yes, yes, of course,” Cecil stammered, realizing his faux pas. He hadn’t realized Marian would know this particularly glamorous set of ladies.
“It’s hard to believe our town’s most eligible playboy is now officially off the market,” Martha wryly remarked.
“He sure is. And here’s the proof!” Cecil grabbed Lucie’s wrist and thrust it at the ladies, who gasped in unison.
“Stunning! Is it Verdura?” Martha asked.
“What a compliment, Martha. No, it is an original Cecil Pike! The cabochon emerald is forty-nine carats and belonged to the Nizam of Hyderabad. The accent rubies are from my mother, bought from the Patiño auction many years ago, and then I had Laurence Graff personally select these twelve brilliant cut diamonds to go around the band. All D flawless, of course.”
“It looks like something one of the infantas might have worn in a Velázquez,” Alicia, an art historian, observed.
“You know, that’s precisely what I was going for! I was channeling the Duchess of Alba when I designed the piece, if you really want to know,” Cecil said, his eyes misting a little.
“You did good, Cecil! I’m sure Cayetana would have approved!” Jackie declared.fn3
After the ladies had been escorted into the adjacent dining room where the more discreet crowd liked to be seated, Cecil sank contentedly into his antique kilim embroidered chair. “Between those ladies, everyone who’s anyone will know the news before the sun sets on the island. Which reminds me …” He fished his phone out from his jacket pocket and began scrolling through his Instagram. “Holy Moira Rose! It’s trending! The proposal video is trending! 27,084 likes already! Cornelia Guest just liked it! Prince Joachim of Lichtenberg just re-grammed it
! Oh, excuse me, I must show this to the ladies. Lucie, come. Quickly, Lucie!” Cecil leaped out of his seat, dragging Lucie along with him.
“Well, I guess Cecil is part of the family now,” Marian said with a shrug.
Freddie gave his mother a look. “Yeah. I think we’re gonna have to stop using those coffee mugs from Zabar’s.”
“SOCIAL GRACES”
BY GEOFFREY MADISON COLUMBUS
If you were anywhere near the Upper East Side yesterday, you might be forgiven for thinking that some hotshot director was filming a movie on location at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. There were ballerinas and daredevil acrobats, there were Broadway dancers, there was a marching band. However, this was no film that brought Fifth Avenue traffic to a standstill but Cecil Pike in the midst of a Marvel-budget-sized wedding proposal to Lucie Churchill. Cecil, no stranger to this column, is the dashing charmer who has been proclaimed the biggest catch in the universe by every magazine, blog and social media outlet that matters. He’s the GQ-handsome bon vivant and heir to the ginormous Pike billions, first gushed in the oil fields of Central Texas and then multiplied exponentially thanks to the genius of his force-of-nature mamacita, Reneé Mouton Pike, one of the world’s leading investors who never misses a brilliant start-up opportunity or a chic party anywhere in the universe, thanks to her private India Mahdavi–designed Boeing 757. The less socially attentive might recognize Cecil from his cameo appearances on Antiques Roadshow, where he schools the experts with his encyclopedic knowledge of 16th- to 18th-century European antiquities. This, after all, is a guy who goes deep-sea diving in search of Spanish shipwrecks and has a classics degree from Oxford. Pike mère et fils are esthetes extraordinaire, having restored Buckley House in London to its former glory with the help of Jacques Garcia at the whispered cost of more than half a billion (pounds, not dollars!), and are said to be doing the same to an ancient fort in northern Rajasthan. The lucky lass Lucie, a rising art consultant who’s on the speed-dial of every wannabe Mugrabi these days, is the exotically beautiful daughter of Dr. Marian Tang and the late Reginald Churchill, a true blue-blooded New Yorker descended from generations of Churchills, Barclays and other Knickerbocker Club types. We haven’t seen such a classy union of old money and new money in a while, and this will be one beautiful power couple to put on your radar, not to mention a power wedding. You heard it here first: the nuptials are rumored to be taking place this autumn at a little dive in the Persian Gulf called the Louvre Abu Dhabi.
