A humpback whale breaching in Sydney Harbor. So cool.
The Faraglioni rocks. Been there.
A blue lizard. How cute. Is it that species that’s found only on that rock?
The stairs at Casa Malaparte. Of course.
The silhouette of a figure standing on the roof at Casa Malaparte.
Lucie gasped as she realized it was a photo of her. She zoomed in on the image. Yes, it was definitely her, taken yesterday right before she had her meltdown on the roof. For a moment, she got annoyed. Why did he take her picture like that without her consent? What a creep! Was he one of those guys who went around taking pictures of girls when he knew they weren’t looking? As Lucie stared at the picture longer, she began to calm down. It was a beautiful shot. And with the sun against her, turning her figure into a black silhouette against the golden light, it wasn’t as if she was recognizable. It could have been anyone. She made a quick screen grab of the photo, and it dawned on her that all the perfectly composed pictures on his Instagram weren’t reposts from other accounts. Every single picture had been taken by him. George had a good eye, and she found herself grudgingly impressed.
Shifting from Instagram to Twitter, Lucie found twenty-three George Zaos, but after some detective work she realized that none of those accounts was his. It made sense that George wouldn’t be on Twitter. Since he hardly spoke, why would he ever want to tweet? She went next to Facebook, where she located him quickly since they were both “friends” with Isabel and Dolfi. However, his account was set to the highest privacy settings, so it didn’t give much away. She couldn’t see how many friends he had; she couldn’t see any of his posts. What she could see was his Facebook profile pic and his banner photo, which was a black-and-white image of a gorilla sitting on a beach. Standing nonchalantly off to the side was a man with a surfboard, looking out at the waves and completely ignoring the gorilla. Was it meant to be funny?
George’s profile picture was another black-and-white shot of him grinning into the camera. It looked like one of those pictures purposefully chosen to be casual, as if he just put up whatever random photo was available. It wasn’t perfectly composed and he didn’t look too posed or too cute in it. In fact, he looked a few years younger—his face rounder and less chiseled—and he was wearing a nondescript black T-shirt and a cap. She tried to make out the logo on the cap but it was blocked by a pair of Ray-Ban Wayfarers tucked over the brim.
Frustrated that she wasn’t finding much on his social media, Lucie tried googling his name. There were hundreds of other George Zaos, of course, but only one decent hit—a headline from the Daily Telegraph in Australia in 2009:
MOSMAN SURFER GEORGE ZAO EARNS SPOT AT WORLD JUNIOR TITLES IN TAIWAN
To the right of the headline was a small picture of George at around fifteen in a wetsuit, standing against a backdrop with Surfing NSW and Quiksilver logos. His hair was down to his chin, and there appeared to be blond streaks in the front. Lucie clicked on the story excitedly but came up against a paywall that revealed only a short excerpt:
…Mosman surfer George Zao has secured after taking a break from his HSC studies to compete at a surf event in Victoria. Whether he wins or not, George will be a contender for…
To read the rest of the article, she would have to pay twenty-eight dollars a year for full digital access. Lucie tossed her phone to the side with a groan. How had she wasted so much time? She had spent the past hour searching online and had learned nothing new about George Zao except that he was a good photographer, liked disgusting high-calorie foods and gorillas, and had been a champion surfer when he was younger. Where were the silly random tweets, photos of ex-girlfriends, or posts about whatever he happened to be passionate about?
There was a quick series of knocks on the door, which Lucie immediately recognized as Charlotte. “Lucie? Are you there? Can you help me?”
Lucie climbed out of the bed reluctantly, undid the security latch, and opened her door.
“Lucie! Why aren’t you dressed yet? The concert starts in twenty minutes!” Charlotte exclaimed.
“I fell asleep,” Lucie lied.
“Can you help me with the hooks? This dress is absolutely impossible,” Charlotte said as she fussed with the fasteners along the back of her vintage silk brocade cocktail dress.
“You look very pretty in it, though,” Lucie said, making fast work of the hooks.
“Thank you, dear. Mainbocher. It was our grandmother’s, you know. There’s a picture of her somewhere wearing the dress at El Morocco, sitting in a booth with William Holden.”
“Who’s William Holden?”
Charlotte shook her head with a sigh. “Millennials! The first thing I’m going to do when we get back to New York is sit you down and make you watch The World of Suzie Wong. Now quick, quick. Get ready. You haven’t even done your hair!”
“I’m just going to put it in a French twist. It’ll take me two seconds.”
“Chop, chop! Get to it! We don’t want to be late!”
“It’s not going to start on time, Charlotte, and we’re going to be so unfashionably early as always. We’re in Italy, remember?” Lucie said.
“Well, Olivia and the Ortiz sisters said they would be in the lobby at six forty-five sharp, and I haven’t been brought up to keep anyone waiting. Now, are you sure you don’t want me to help you with your hair?”
“I’ll be fine,” Lucie said as she herded Charlotte toward the door. After her cousin had left the room, Lucie plopped down on the sofa with a sigh. A memory began to surface, and for a moment she was transported to a beautiful beachfront house in Hobe Sound.
She was six years old, squinting in pain as the sour-faced Irish maid pinched her right shoulder to steady her, while with her other hand she brushed Lucie’s hair forcefully, stinging her scalp each time with the hard wire brush. Lucie sat there quietly, her eyes brimming with tears. She knew better than to make a sound.
“It’s no use, ma’am. I’ve given it a hundred strokes and it’s still frizzing up like a French poodle.”
“Good God, you’re right, it is just like a French poodle.” Lucie’s grandmother laughed dryly. “Lucie, did you not wear your swimming cap like I told you to before going into the pool? Did you get chlorine in your hair?”