Arriving at the garden gates, Charlotte whispered urgently to Lucie, “Are we at the wrong party?”
“I don’t think so,” Lucie said, glancing again at the invitation on her phone as they joined the clusters of guests lining up to enter the park.
Charlotte surveyed the assembled group of men and women dressed as though they had been invited to cocktails at Buckingham Palace. “You said tonight was going to be casual!”
“I swear that’s what the invitation says. Welcome cocktails. Informal,” Lucie insisted.
“Well, everyone here is obviously illiterate. On what planet is this considered ‘informal’?” Charlotte grumbled as she eyed the lady ahead of them in a pearl-gray cocktail dress, her ruby-and-diamond pendant drop earrings sparkling in the late-afternoon sun. Charlotte was wearing her favorite sleeveless navy linen dress from Max Mara, which she thought she had smartened up with a brown pashmina embroidered with blue flowers draped around her shoulders, but among this crowd she might as well be dressed for the farmers’ market. Lucie at least looked dressier in her calf-length ice-blue Stella McCartney dress, and she had the advantages of her improbably photogenic features and youth.
“Lucie, no one has seen us yet. Should we rush back to the hotel and change?”
“I think it’s too late for that. Look up, Charlotte!”
Charlotte raised her head and saw a drone hovering right above them. “Jesus Christ! Are we under surveillance?”
“No, it’s Issie’s film team. She told me there were going to be drones documenting every moment of the weekend. Now that we’ve been caught on video, it’s going to look really silly if we come back in ten minutes wearing different outfits,” Lucie said.
Entering the gardens, they saw that the whole place had been decorated to look like a Moroccan fantasy. Hundreds of colorful Moorish lamps hung from every tree, precious Berber carpets had been laid out on the grass, and artfully arranged on them were poufs and lounge chairs upholstered in iridescent silks. In the middle of the garden rose a twelve-foot pyramid of Venetian glass flutes, obviously beckoning to be overflowing with champagne. A team of videographers dressed entirely in black circled the party, some of them holding state-of-the-art video cameras, while others piloted the fleet of drones that hovered in the sky.
Suddenly, they heard a call from through the trees. “Lucie! Lucie!”
Lucie looked up and saw Isabel and Dolfi waving from the terrace above them. “Too late now,” she muttered to her cousin as she rushed up the steps toward her friends.
“You made it!” Isabel (Taipei American School / Lycée Français / Brown) said excitedly, giving her a big hug. “I’m so happy you’re here! Isn’t Capri beautiful? Aren’t these gardens beautiful?”
“Not half as beautiful as you look tonight,” Lucie replied, admiring Isabel’s pleated lavender Tibi dress, which she wore with matching gold cuff bracelets and a chunky gold-and-diamond chain belt.
“Aww! Thank you. Dolfi, didn’t I tell you that Lucie is the sweetest person I know? I used to call her my little angel. She’s never had a bad thing to say about anyone—unlike me!” Isabel cackled.
Dolfi (Rome International School / Le Rosey / Brown) turned to Lucie and said in an accent that seemed to meld British boarding school with Italian Casanova, “Just the other day I told Isabel that it has been much too long since we’ve seen you. This college thing is really such a nuisance—you should just drop out and come sailing with us to Fiji.”
“That sounds like an awesome idea!” Lucie said.
“I’m not sure your mother would agree,” Charlotte cut in.
Dolfi reached for Charlotte’s hand and gave it a gallant kiss. “And you must be the enforcer?”
“I’d like to think I’m more like the voice of reason.” Charlotte said, completely disarmed by Dolfi. She studied the strapping young Italian aristocrat with shoulder-length hair and the Nate Archibald–perfect amount of stubble standing next to his chic bride-to-be. With her statuesque figure, jet-black hair pulled into a high ponytail, and impossibly long, thick eyelashes, she looked like one of the contestants on Dancing with the Stars, Charlotte’s guilty pleasure. In fact, they both did.
They chatted for a few moments, when Isabel suddenly rolled her eyes. “Oh God, here comes my mother’s friend, Mordecai! I promise I’m doing you a favor—you should get out of here now while you still can. Go check out the view from the top terrace before the sun sets!”
They wandered up the stairs to the high terrace, as Charlotte gushed all the way. “Why didn’t you tell me that Dolfi was such a tall drink of water? I would have dressed up more! Did you see his nose? That’s the kind of nose plastic surgeons couldn’t create for all the money in the world. That perfect patrician profile comes only to people born to Roman families that have spent at least fifteen generations drinking water straight out of their ancient aqueducts! You should follow Isabel’s example and bring someone like that home! Not now, of course. In a decade would be perfect.”
Lucie laughed lightly. She wasn’t used to hearing her cousin gush over anyone like that. Arriving at the top deck, they were mesmerized by the panoramic views of the Gulf of Salerno stretching to the horizon as far as the eye could see. A woman in her early forties with a mass of pre-Raphaelite curls leaned against the green metal railing in front of them, taking pictures with her camera. Turning around, she grinned at them. “Oh, good, I’m glad I’m not the only one who didn’t get the memo about wearing our tiaras tonight.”
Lucie smiled, thinking that the lady looked very cool in her black jumpsuit, black ankle boots, and black denim jacket. She wondered if her outfit was designed by Rick Owens. “Is that a Leica?” she asked, pointing at her silver-and-black camera.
“My grandfather’s, from the thirties,” the woman replied in a husky British accent that Charlotte and Lucie both immediately registered as posh.
“I’ve always wanted a Leica. I’ve just begun using an old Nikon from the seventies that my uncle gave me.”
“Where is it?”
“I left it back home. I guess I’m so used to my phone that I didn’t think to take it with me,” Lucie said a little sheepishly.
“That’s the problem with smartphones. No one thinks to use a real camera anymore. Capri would have been the perfect place for your Nikon—you can’t take a bad picture on this island. It’s like India. Anywhere you point, you get an amazing shot.” The woman handed Lucie her camera. “Here, try it out.”
Lucie held up the camera’s viewfinder to her eye and looked out at the ocean. In the near distance below them, an enormous, sleek yacht idled in the calm bay, and she could just make out a few figures standing on the top deck and the name of the boat: Odin.
Charlotte, having nothing to do, stuck out her hand at the woman. “I’m Charlotte Barclay, and this is my cousin, Lucie Churchill.”
“I’m Olivia Lavistock [Willcocks / Lycée Français / American School of Paris / La Fémis]. You’re New Yorkers, I assume?”
“Yes. Is it that obvious?” Charlotte asked.
“I could spot you two from a mile away. They way you dress, the way you walk.”