Sex and Vanity

by Kevin Kwan

  “Yes, yes, Lucie’s a true gem. She’s like the Koh-i-Noor, a diamond that only gets discovered once a millennium. Natural and unspoiled in so many ways, but with the most polished pedigree.”

  “She’s got the blood of Ming emperors flowing through her veins, mingling with the blood of Old New York and British aristocracy,” Cecil declared. “Can you imagine what our children will look like? Quarter Asians are the most beautiful species in the world—just look at Prince Nikolai of Denmark, who’s modeling for all the top fashion houses now, or that blond kid on Saved by the Bell, or Phoebe Cates, who still looks like she’s twenty-five! Our children will never age!”*1

  “Oh, Cecil, should we move up the wedding? I can’t wait to have my quarter-Asian grandchildren who will never age!”

  * * *

  …

  After all the guests had left, Lucie took the elevator up to the fifth-floor master suite, annoyed with herself that she was still fixating over her exchange with George in the pool room. Why had she offered to give him a tour? Why did she press him about the house? Why did she feel like she was being judged? Why the hell did she ask him about Viv? Would he think she was jealous or something? Ugh, why did she even care at all? She wondered if she was being overly sensitive to everything because she was simply fatigued. Social gatherings like this really took it out of her, in contrast to Cecil, who seemed to be energized by them. She entered the bedroom to find Cecil sprawled on the bed, eagerly scrolling through all the Instagram posts that his friends had made from the party.

  “Whitney posted a pic of himself on the gondola. And I love this picture Rozi posted on the roof garden with the both of us next to the Richard Serra. Poor thing, she doesn’t have that many followers—she only got thirty-five hundred likes.”

  Lucie reached around, trying to take off her gown. “This dress is impossible! Will you help unbutton me, Cecil?”

  “Of course. Right after I check if Patrick’s photos are up on his website,” Cecil said.*2 “Son of a bitch! Nothing yet. Patrick, get off your lazy ass and upload your pics!” Cecil ranted at the screen as he got up from the bed and headed over to where Lucie was standing. He began fastidiously undoing the tiny buttons along the back of her gown. “I know you had your heart set on wearing that little black Mouret, but thank you for wearing this dress my mother bought you.”

  “You’re welcome, and you were absolutely right, Cecil. It matched the red in the Richter perfectly. I got so many compliments. I’m just not used to wearing such a bold color.”

  “You looked stunning, everyone said so. Mother wants you to come with her to the couture shows next January.”

  “Oh, Cecil, I’m not sure I would ever be comfortable spending that kind of money on clothes…”

  “Don’t worry, my pet, Mother will pay for everything. She’s just dying to introduce you to all her designers and spoil you rotten. By the way, do you have a family tiara?”

  “A tiara? Actually, believe it or not, I think my grandmother has one. It’s an old heirloom with mine-cut diamonds. I’ve never seen it in real life, only in pictures, but I hear it’s in her vault.”

  “Oh, goody.”

  “Cecil, I told you, Cacky’s going to get everything of Granny’s. You know what she’s already done? She’s gone around putting Post-it notes with her name behind every painting she wants in the apartment.”

  “The nerve of that woman! Don’t worry, I’ll work on your grandmother, and until that Magritte and the tiara become yours, Mother thinks you need your own. She’ll take you to get one at Mellerio in Paris. Hmm, maybe we can find one that has some Chinese provenance, maybe something with jade!”

  “Cecil, when am I ever going to need a tiara?”

  “Baby, you’re going to need it for the wedding! Besides, Mother and I get invited to court dinners all the time when we’re in Europe. The von Habsburgs, von Auerspergs, von Hohenlohes—all the vons dress formally for dinner. You’re going to need a tiara like you need oxygen.”

  Lucie’s gown fell to the floor as soon as Cecil unfastened the hook, and she bent down to pick it up.

  “Those Ludovic de Saint Sernin panties should be illegal. I just went from six to midnight. Why did you have to bend down in front of me like that?”

  “Why did you let the dress fall to the floor?” Lucie retorted with a chuckle.

  Cecil pulled her toward him and began kissing her neck, reaching that sweet spot right below her ear. Lucie sighed softly in languorous pleasure.

  “Er…will you do Lady Mary, please?”

  “Okay.” Lucie nodded, clearing her throat and breaking out her best British accent: “What on God’s earth are you doing here? I really don’t think it’s appropriate for you to be in my bedchamber, sir.”

  “I couldn’t resist, I had to see you! Please, let me worship you in my seraglio and bring you to the gates of paradise,” Cecil said in a vaguely Omar Sharif–esque accent.

  “But my lady’s maid could discover us at any minute.”

  “Don’t worry, I gave Anna a very generous tip to disappear. Besides, she’s too busy schtupping that gimp Bates in the servants’ quarters to notice your cries of pleasure tonight.”

  “No, you’re wrong. Anna is always watching over me.”

  “Well, let me watch over this,” Cecil said as he slowly unhooked Lucie’s bra from behind. As she turned to face him, he stared at her with his mouth agape.

  “Don’t move!” he whispered, utterly transfixed by the sight of her body. As he traced the curve of her breasts with his finger, he muttered, “I can’t believe you’re mine. You’re absolutely perfect! You’re more exquisite than the Venus de Milo!”

  He buried his face into her chest as she began to unzip his perfectly pressed Dormeuil trousers.

  “Mr. Pamuk!” Lucie let out an exaggerated gasp. “My goodness, is this what happens to boys who eat too much Turkish delight?”

  “Sorry, Lady Mary isn’t doing it for me tonight. Can we transition to Alexandra?”

  Lucie almost wanted to roll her eyes. She was enjoying the Lady Mary pantomime, but she knew this was going to happen—Cecil always ended up wanting Alexandra.

  As if sensing her reticence, Cecil pleaded, “I promise this is the only time I’ll ask you for the rest of the month.”

  “Well, in that case…” Lucie gave him a mischievous smile and took a deep breath, raised her arm, and slapped him clear across the face.

  Cecil gasped loudly, grinning. “The beef Wellington is fully baked now!”

  “Nikolai Alexandrovich, you have behaved very badly,” Lucie scolded, her Agent Amasova impersonation spot-on.*3

  “What have I done to disappoint you this time, Alexandra Feodorovna? Is the new Fabergé cigarette case not to your liking?”

  “Why would you ever give me a cigarette case? First of all, smoking causes cancer, and those vulgar diamonds on the case…”

  “Wait—there aren’t any diamonds on the Fabergé case, baby. Remember, it’s jeweled silver gilt and lavender guilloche enamel.”

  “Don’t interrupt me, you miserable serf! The enameled cigarette case looks so common, like something Prince Felix Yusupov would give to one of his lesser servants.”

  “I’m truly sorry, my empress. I have failed you.”

  “Let’s see…how should you be properly punished today?”

  “Check out my royal scepter, baby,” Cecil said eagerly.

  “You peasant! How dare you insult me with your…your filthy Rasputin?” Lucie roared with outrage.

  “Ooohh! Ooohh!!!” Cecil moaned in delight. “Scold me more, my queen!”

  “I am not your queen. I am your imperial majesty! Pathetic excuse of a man! How will you ever defend us against the revolutionaries? Do you not hear them chanting for our heads outside the gates of Tsarskoe Selo?”

  “I’m a contemp
tible fool, Your Imperial Majesty!”

  Lucie bit her lip so she wouldn’t laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. She couldn’t believe how much he was enjoying this. “The revolutionaries are at the gates of the palace! And here all you have is this jeweled heirloom dagger to defend yourself…”

  “Tell me about the heirloom dagger! Tell me more about it, baby,” Cecil grunted, his jaw clenched and his breath quickening.

  “It’s a scimitar with a gold filigree handle studded with ancient Burmese jade and a scabbard crafted of lapis lazuli and inlaid amber. The razor-sharp blade is hand-forged of meteoric iron, hardened and hardened by centuries of pounding against the jagged steppes of the Caucasus.”

  “Agggrrrhhhh!” Cecil shuddered in ecstasy, hugging Lucie tightly as he began sobbing against her shoulder like a little boy. “Alexandra Feodorovna, I love you.”

  “I love you too, Nikolai,” Lucie murmured softly.

  “Call me Alexei,” Cecil whimpered.

  “Alexei, Alexei Nikolaevich,” Lucie whispered as she held him, wondering why he always wanted to be called by the name of a tragic young hemophiliac prince. As her fingers ran through the soft hair on the back of Cecil’s head, she suddenly imagined she was stroking George’s silky hair while he kissed her. Wildly, slowly, as the memory of his mouth all over her came rushing back so vividly.

  *1 Prince Nikolai of Denmark has a Danish father and a mother who’s actually of English, Czech, Austrian, and Chinese ancestry. Mark-Paul Gosselaar, aka Zack Morris on Saved by the Bell, has a German father and a Dutch Indonesian mother. Phoebe Cates has a Jewish father and a mother who’s half Chinese and half Russian. And yes, she still looks twenty-five.

  *2 That would be legendary party photographer Patrick McMullan, of course, who has chronicled New York’s nightlife for over four decades. If Patrick wasn’t snapping away at your party, it might as well not have happened.

  *3 My favorite Bond girl from the Roger Moore era, Major Anya Amasova (aka Agent XXX) was a Russian KGB agent played by the incomparable Barbara Bach in The Spy Who Loved Me.

  IX

  Dorset Yacht Club

  SAG HARBOR

  The laminated sign on the brass stand discreetly placed by the members’ door read:

  HOUSE RULES REMINDER

  PLEASE DISCOURAGE YOUR GUESTS FROM ARRIVING IN IMPROPER ATTIRE WITH THE NOTION OF DRESSING AT THE CHECK ROOM.

  The Club Committee

  * * *

  Cecil and Lucie pulled up to the valet of the club in his recently acquired 1973 Ferrari Dino 246 GTS.*1 The paintwork on the car was done in an exceedingly rare “Bianco Polo Park,” so Cecil insisted that Lucie wear the white Schiaparelli couture shift dress that his mother had also recently acquired for her, and he had outfitted himself in matching white sea island cotton trousers, a snow-white cashmere sweater, and his bespoke Corthay Cannes suede loafers.

  Dorset was arguably the snootiest private yacht club on the Eastern Seaboard, with a membership descended from the oldest Hamptons families, and the style of the club was conspicuously shabby and its members went to great lengths to amplify this aesthetic. Dorset members might have an Aston hiding in their garages on Further Lane or Captains Neck Lane, but they drove to the club in dusty Wagoneers with towels covered in dog hair over the back seats or thirty-year-old Land Rovers with cracked rear windows and faded Mondale-Ferraro bumper stickers. The men took great care to wear only the most threadbare of their Peter Elliot seersucker blazers and faded Vineyard Vines reds, while many of the usually chic womenfolk kept special “for Dorset only” wardrobes consisting of only their frumpiest dresses from the likes of J. McLaughlin or Lilly Pulitzer and hand-me-down Jacques Cohen espadrilles.

  Lucie would normally have been embarrassed to show up at the club in such a fancy car, but she was used to Cecil’s ways by now and saw no point in challenging him. Cecil, who took great pride in his sartorial efforts, would always say, “My father was a WASP, but it skipped a generation.” He emerged from behind the wheel and handed the valet his keys, patted away the wrinkles on his trousers, and walked jauntily around to escort his beautiful fiancée into the clubhouse. He couldn’t wait to take pictures of the both of them dressed so après-beach on the Insta-worthy private dock. As they entered the foyer and Lucie approached the check-in desk to sign them in, a ruddy-faced female attendant gave Cecil’s outfit a once-over and said, “He can’t go in like this, Ms. Churchill. No collar.”

  “Oh, shit, I forgot. Men have to wear collared shirts in the dining room, Cecil,” Lucie said sheepishly.

  Cecil stared at Lucie and the attendant incredulously. “But that’s absurd. This is a very dressy outfit, especially for an al fresco luncheon.”

  “Sorry, it’s the dress code, sir. Your top doesn’t have a collar.”

  “This isn’t a top. It’s a V-neck Henley designed by one of the greatest and most elusive Belgian designers, a man who hasn’t been photographed in thirty years. It’s made of the finest cashmere harvested from baby Zalaa Jinst white goats that roam free on the Mongolian steppes,*2 and it’s hand-knotted in Lake Como by old Italian women with arthritis and varicose veins in a beautiful atelier within spitting distance of George and Amal Clooney’s villa.”

  “And it doesn’t have a collar,” the attendant said simply.

  “This is ridiculous! I’ve been to dinners at royal palaces more casually attired than this! I am looking into your dining room right now and I can clearly see little boys in shorts and flip-flops.”

  “Wearing collared shirts,” the attendant repeated.

  “Do you mean to tell me that the little boy in that shirt with the creepy snowman is more appropriately dressed than me?”

  “That’s not a snowman, that’s Olaf from Frozen,” the attendant corrected.

  “I don’t care if it’s Olafur Eliasson, it looks putrid.”

  “Cecil, please, let’s not argue…,” Lucie began.

  Cecil ignored her and continued on his rant. “How much do you make working here? I bet you my outfit costs at least ten times more than your monthly salary. I’m wearing about twenty thousand dollars’ worth of clothing right as I stand! If you want to include my Nautilus, it’s a hundred and fifty thousand dollars’ worth. You’re telling me that’s not appropriate enough for this godforsaken club?”

  Lucie’s face reddened in embarrassment. She could not believe Cecil just said that to the attendant.

  The woman sighed. “Sir, I make fifteen dollars an hour, and I don’t make the rules here. You can go home and change into a collared shirt, or you can buy this polo tee here. If you read the sign at the entrance, I’m not supposed to let you change into this shirt at the club, but tell you what, I’ll look away this time.”

  She reached under the glass counter and got out a light blue collared knit polo with the club’s rope-and-anchor insignia sewn at the breast.

  “Where’s it made?”

  “I have no idea.” The woman checked the label. “Myanmar.”

  “Over my cold, dead bod—”

  “We’ll take it!” Lucie said quickly. “Charge it to my account.”

  “I can’t believe you’re making me do this,” Cecil said in dismay. “I don’t want to change into a shirt from Myanmar in that sad toilet with the peeling walls and the rotting wood floors!”

  “I’ll have you know our rotting wood floors are very coveted, sir. Every week some fancy decorator comes in wanting to buy up all our floors,” the attendant said indignantly.

  Lucie pushed him toward the men’s room. “Please just go change, dear, and I’ll see you in the dining room. I’m sure my mother and Freddie are already on desserts by now.”

  As Cecil went reluctantly to change, Lucie sprinted into the dining room and found her mother and brother seated on the outdoor terrace overlooking the club’s private marina.

  “Where ha
ve you been?” Marian asked.

  “Sorry, wardrobe malfunction. Whatever you do, don’t say anything about Cecil’s shirt, pleeeease,” Lucie warned as she sank wearily into one of the canvas deck chairs.

  Two minutes later, Cecil sauntered onto the terrace in his Dorset Yacht Club polo tee, worn untucked over his cotton trousers.

  Freddie couldn’t resist. “Cool polo, brah.”

  Cecil, observing Freddie’s faded old Lacoste tennis shirt disdainfully, replied, “Thanks, I rather like it. Don’t you think it shows off my biceps, Lucie?”

  “It sure does, Cecil.”

  “Cecil, how smart you look!” Marian said, genuinely thinking that he looked handsomer than usual. The shirt was a breath of fresh air after all his fussy designer duds.

  “Now, are we all going to do the lobster lunch buffet today?” Lucie said.

  “Well, I just got a text from Charlotte. Her plane got in early so she’s coming straight from the Jitney to join us.”

  “First the collared shirt nazi, and now the Charlotte has landed,” Cecil muttered under his breath, as everyone else at the table pretended not to hear him.

  Minutes later, Charlotte appeared at the table all flustered and laden with shopping bags. Everyone except Cecil got up from the table to give her hugs.

  “Marian, I’m so sorry, I took a cab here, and I only have pounds on me. Do you have some cash for me to tip the driver? He’s waiting.”

  “Um, let me see…,” Marian said, digging into her purse. “I’m sorry, I only have a few quarters.”

  “Does anyone else…?” Charlotte looked around the table.

  Everyone shook their heads.

  “Sorry, who uses cash anymore?” Freddie said. “Wait a minute, let me see if Frankie has any change.”

  “Why didn’t you just add the tip to your credit card charge?” Lucie asked.