Sex and Vanity(55)

“Circle Pond Farm? Oh, you mean High Tits,” Freddie said.

“High Tits?” Auden asked, curious.

“Yes, it’s our nickname for the place,” Lucie said.

“My bad. I started calling it that years ago when Reggie first brought me out to East Hampton and I noticed that all the pretty girls working there wore tight T-shirts that really showed off their double Ds.” Marian laughed.

“It’s still the same girls, so it’s long overdue to be renamed ‘Low Tits,’” Freddie said.

Everyone at the table laughed.

“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.”