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“That’s not what I meant,” Lucie said, getting flustered.
“I know,” George said, suddenly flashing a disarming smile.
“Oh.” Lucie felt like a fool.
“How are you today?”
“I’m good,” Lucie replied automatically, before wondering what exactly he meant. Did the addition of the word “today” mean that he was checking if she was hungover? What exactly was he implying? Oh God, she was never, ever going to get drunk ever again. Fed up with the never-ending cycle of doubt she seemed to have trapped herself in, she decided it was time to rip off the bandage, hard. She took a deep breath and looked him in the eye. “Okay, I just have to ask…were you on the yacht last night?”
George grinned. “You don’t remember?”
“I do…kinda…Weren’t you wearing some strange furry costume?”
“Says the girl who was dressed like Madonna.”
“I know what I wore. I’m asking what you came as.”
“Myself.”
“Did anything, you know…happen?”
“What do you think…happened?” George asked, clearly amused by her apparent amnesia.
Lucie gave him an exasperated look, and he decided to put her out of her misery. “Lucie, nothing of significance happened that I can think of. I went home pretty early. You were dancing with the girls when I left.”
Lucie let out a quick sigh. Thank God she didn’t make a fool of herself with him, at least. She wondered if what she was feeling was relief or regret. Then she remembered the Neruda poem. Just as she was about to ask if he had slipped the poem under her door, a pretty blond girl in her thirties sat down in the chair to George’s right.
“Hallo! I am Petra [Munich International School / London School of Economics / Barbara Brennan School of Healing / Omega Institute / Esalen],” she said with a German accent.
“Hi, Petra, I’m George.”
“Are you from Australia?”
“I’m from Hong Kong, but I went to school in Australia.”
“Ja, I could hear the Aussie in your voice!”
“Where are you from?” George asked politely.
“Originally Munich, but I am really just a nomad. I’ve lived in Bali, Ibiza, Fort Lauderdale, Rhinebeck, Big Sur—wherever the spirit guides me.”
Lucie wanted to roll her eyes. This girl was obviously one of the trustafarian, New Agey friends Issie had met since moving to LA. Not wanting George to get hijacked for the rest of the dinner, she impulsively did something she knew her grandmother would never approve of. She leaned over George, stuck out her hand, and said, “Hi, Petra, I’m Lucie!”
“Hallo, Lucie! Are you from Malibu?”
Lucie laughed. “No. I’m from New York.”
“Ah, I thought I met you once at a drum circle in Topanga. I know Issie and Dolfi from Malibu.”
“Of course you do,” Lucie said with a smile.
Turning back to George, Petra continued. “I looove Australia, especially Byron Bay! I go there a lot because there is this really great hoshindo sensei there. Have you ever done hoshindo?”
“I haven’t. Is it like ayahuasca?”
“No, no, no, nothing like that. Ayahuasca is so last year! Hoshindo is Japanese for ‘bee-venom therapy.’ It’s like acupuncture in some ways, but it predates acupuncture by one thousand years. It was invented before the Bronze Age, in the time before they had needles, you see, so they used bee venom to treat the meridians and heal your body.”
“Bee venom? Are they live bees?” Lucie jumped in.
