The Mistress(37)
The Chanel show was even more spectacular than the one at Dior. It was held in the Grand Palais every season, an impressive glass building. Chanel had once placed an iceberg in the center of it for a winter ready-to-wear show. It had been flown in from Sweden and returned the next day. This time Chanel had created a tropical beach for their summer couture show, with tons of sand brought in, and a boardwalk for the fifty models to saunter down, wearing the clothes. Natasha loved the feeling of the show and the clothes, which were a little less showy and naked than those at Dior, which Vladimir preferred.
There was no question that whichever house dressed her, she was going to be breathtaking in everything Vladimir ordered for her. He consulted her about the outfits he liked, but in the end, he made the final selections, and treated her opinions like those of a child. It was always a little bit humiliating for her when he made it clear that she had no decision-making power, but the managers of haute couture were used to it. Vladimir was no different from the other men they dealt with, all men of power, and in Vladimir’s case more than most. Men like him did not simply sit back and let others make their decisions on any subject, even about fashion, or how they dressed their women. And Natasha served a purpose with what she wore. It was her job to make others envy him for the woman on his arm, which she did. Just as the shows were a publicity statement of sorts for the houses that put them on as a spectacle, she did the same for him. She was a beacon for all the world to see. She belonged to Vladimir Stanislas, no different than his boat, which was the most noticeable, spectacular, and enviable on the water. And the new one he was planning would be even more so.
He talked to her about the plans and showed her some of them, when they had dinner at the apartment that night. It was snowing, and they had canceled dinner reservations at Alain Ducasse at the Plaza and decided to stay home. It was bitter cold outside. He did some work, and Natasha read a new book about Impressionist art that she had bought and was fascinated by.
She had bought a number of decorating books too, to get ideas for the apartment, and it was looking magnificent. The curtains had been installed while they were away on the boat, and Vladimir loved them. In spite of his more important pursuits in business, he had an eye for beauty, and always noticed what she did in the apartment, and commented when he liked it. He was very pleased with what she’d accomplished, and she was happy spending more time in Paris, since the apartment was warmer and more inviting than his very showy London house, which had been done by a famous decorator before he met Natasha. It had been photographed by every important decorating magazine when he’d had it done, but Natasha never loved it. The Paris apartment felt more like home, and so did the boat. She hoped the new one would be as nice—his plans for it sounded very grand. But her preferences were always simpler and less grandiose than his. He had tried to “educate” her into being bolder in her taste.
Vladimir spent the weekend with her in Paris after the haute couture shows, before he returned to Moscow. His new mineral holdings, and running them, had proven to be more time-consuming than he expected, and he told her it was too cold for her in Moscow, and he would be too busy, and had to do some traveling within Russia to unpleasant areas. He wanted her to stay in Paris, and then they would go to Courchevel in mid-February in three weeks. It had become the favorite ski resort of all Russians, and he had rented a fully staffed house for them for a week. He was an avid skier when he had time, and had hired ski teachers for her every winter for the past seven years, and she was a decent skier, though not of his caliber. But they had a good time skiing together, and she was looking forward to it.
The apartment seemed empty when he left. It snowed in Paris that week, and she spent most of the time in bed reading, or sitting by the fire in the cozy den, and combing antique shops for treasures when she went out. She always found something new that she loved for the apartment—that week a pair of Louis XV bronze chenets for the fireplace, to hold the logs. They had leaves and cherubs on them, and she put them in their bedroom.
She went to several galleries as well, looking for art for the apartment, and always received a stack of invitations for openings. One had caught her eye for that Thursday night, on the Left Bank. It was a gallery where she had bought a small but pretty painting two months before. And if it wasn’t snowing, she promised herself she’d go to the opening on Thursday night. She sometimes preferred going before the opening, if they let her, to snap up whatever she wanted before others had a chance to do so, but she had no time that day. She had workmen coming to add new shelves in the kitchen, and she wanted to oversee the work herself.
It was an hour after the opening had started when she got into the Bentley Vladimir hired for her in Paris, with a driver. She never drove herself in Paris, and was afraid to, with the complicated traffic and one-way streets, although she sometimes drove in the South of France. Vladimir kept a Bentley sports car for her on the boat. But in Paris, she preferred to use a driver. Vladimir had one of his own when he was in town, and used a Rolls. Her Bentley was subtler and less showy as they drove across the Pont Alexandre III to the Left Bank, and into the sixth arrondissement, where the gallery was.
It was small but well laid out, and filled with people drinking wine and talking when she got there. There were the usual arty types, and some serious people from the art world. It was an eclectic-looking group of young and old, as she walked around, looking at the work. It was handsome, serious work, with an odd combination of brushwork that resembled the Old Masters and the lighter colors and subjects of the Impressionists. The artist having the show definitely had his own style, and she hadn’t paid attention to the name on the card. All she had noticed was that she liked the work. She picked up a sheet of the artist’s biography at the desk as she walked past it, and continued to look around, and as she reached the back of the gallery, she stopped dead and found herself staring at her own face in a haunting painting that had captured her flawlessly. It was a portrait of her, and she was shocked.