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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.
“I’m so jetlagged, I forgot. Plus, if I left the tip on my credit card, wouldn’t that make the tax amount higher by a few dollars?”
Marian simply shook her head, not wanting to think how much Charlotte’s trust fund must be worth at this point. The Barclay family office was even moving into swanky new digs at Hudson Yards next year.
Freddie came back from the maître d’ with a twenty.
“Oh, that’s too much of a tip for the driver, don’t you think?” Charlotte wondered. “Can we see if anyone can break that into smaller bills?”
“Freddie, just give it to the driver,” Marian commanded.
“Classic Madam Buzzkill,” Freddie muttered under his breath as he ran off.
Charlotte was still standing, looking rather preposterous with half a dozen shopping bags across each arm. “I checked my luggage with the nice lady but thought I’d better not check all these precious duty-free gifts—wouldn’t want them to accidentally go missing,” she said breathlessly as she began distributing her bags. “Marian, here’s that hand cream you wanted from Boots. And, Lucie, some of your favorite royal blend tea and salted caramel biscuits from Fortnum & Mason. Freddie, thank you for taking care of the driver. I thought you might like these English chocolates.” She handed him an oversize bar of chocolate from a brand that was available at every deli along Lexington. “And Cecil, let’s see, I got you a signed copy of Mary Berry’s new book…Now, where did I put it?”
“Charlotte, please sit down. We can do presents later. Now, shall we all do the lobster buffet or order off the menu?” Marian said.
“I don’t care as long as I can steal some coconut macaroons from the dessert table,” Freddie said.
“Oh, before we order, I should wash my hands. I haven’t washed since JFK,” Charlotte said, getting up again.
“For fuck’s sake!” Cecil muttered, throwing his napkin on the table. “Arcadia Mueffling has the Duke and Duchess of Ravenscourt over this weekend, and I could be at her stunning Atelier AM–designed house on Gin Lane drinking decent champagne and enjoying a special luncheon cooked by José Andrés right now!”
