The Mistress(38)
And as Natasha stood there staring at herself, instinctively Theo looked up and saw her from across the gallery, and nearly felt his heart stop. He had never expected her to be there and see it.
“What’s up? Something wrong? You look like you’ve just been shot.” Inez was with him. He had decided to try one more time, and invited her to dinner just before Christmas. They had been dating for a month, and she was still leery of him, but it was going well. So far he had proven to her that he wasn’t crazy, despite being an artist, and he even liked her little girl, Camille. Theo wasn’t in love with Inez, not yet at least, but he was enjoying her company. She was an intelligent woman, responsible and sensible, and well able to take care of herself and her child. She wasn’t looking to be “saved” or supported. She wasn’t interested in marriage, and she’d rather be on her own than with the wrong man. So far he liked everything about her, and she had come to Paris with him for the opening, while a friend baby-sat for her child. They were staying at a small hotel on the Left Bank, near the gallery, and their relationship was still very new. She had seen him go deathly pale when he spotted Natasha at the back of the gallery, staring at her portrait. She stood like a statue gazing at it.
“No, nothing, I’m fine,” he said, smiling at Inez, and slipped quietly away from the group they were in, and threaded his way to where Natasha was standing. She was wearing a heavy fur coat, jeans, and high heels, since Vladimir wasn’t in town, and she looked as heartbreakingly beautiful as ever, as she turned to him with her soft halo of blond curls, and her hair loose down her back like a young girl.
“You painted that?” she asked him, with enormous eyes, as though accusing him of stripping her naked in a public place and leaving her there, exposed. He couldn’t deny it, and the painting was so haunting, so intense, and so obviously personal, that it somehow suggested he knew her intimately and even loved her.
“I…yes…I did…after I saw you last summer. You have a face that begs to be painted,” he said, which sounded like a poor excuse, even to him. The painting was so deep that it was obvious to both of them that it was more than that to him.
Her eyes bored into his with all the soulfulness of many Russians; they had a penchant for tragedy and sorrow, which came out in their literature, music, and art. “I had no idea you were such a talented artist,” she said softly.
“Thank you for being kind.” He smiled at her, embarrassed that she had caught him with the visible sign of his obsession with her. He had gotten over it, but the portrait was ample evidence of how taken with her he had been. She was not just a random subject or a model, or an interesting face to paint. She was a woman he had been falling in love with at the time, even if he had come to his senses since. But everything he had felt for her was in the painting, he had given it his all, which was why Gabriel and Marc thought it was his best work. Gabriel was at the opening that night, but Marc couldn’t afford to come to Paris at the moment, and had refused money from Theo to get there. He was planning to come up sometime during the course of the show, but couldn’t make it to the opening. “It was wonderful painting you,” Theo said, not knowing what else to say to her, to excuse himself for intruding on her and exposing her, “although I had a hard time with your eyes.” He felt like an idiot standing there, talking to her inanely, and just looking at her he could feel a vise around his heart, and his stomach start to slide. She did something to him every time he saw her. He had seen her only three times in his life before that night, and on his easel in his studio every day and night for months. The painting of her had become his passion, and the culmination of his work and technique at the time.
“I’d like to buy it,” she said quietly. “And the eyes are perfect,” she said, and he knew it too. He had sensed it when he finally got it right, and he could see now, looking at her, that he had. He had captured her expression perfectly.
He had looked around when he first saw her, and seen that she was alone, Vladimir wasn’t there, so he couldn’t insist on buying it at any price. He was tempted to tell her it wasn’t for sale but didn’t. “I’m sorry. It’s already sold.” There was no red dot on the wall next to it, to indicate that it had been purchased, and she looked at him quizzically. “We just sold it. They didn’t put the red dot up yet.” She looked shocked and disappointed as he said it. She didn’t want a portrait as intimate as that going to a stranger and hanging in their home. And neither did he.
“Have they paid for it yet? I don’t want someone else to have it. I’ll pay you more.” She had learned some of Vladimir’s habits, which usually worked. Few merchants were loyal to their customers, if someone else offered them a better price. And seeing the disappointment and sorrow on her face, Theo realized that he should have offered it to her before this, but he had wanted to keep the painting for himself. He just hadn’t been able to resist putting it in the show, and Jean had wanted it at the gallery when he saw it, at least for the opening, to demonstrate Theo’s skill.
“They paid for it just a little while ago. I’m truly sorry,” Theo said apologetically, looking down at her, wishing he could put his arms around her. She was tall, but he was taller, and despite her height, she looked vulnerable and frail. She was the kind of woman you wanted to protect, and be sure no one would hurt. He had never felt that way about anyone before. “Are you in Paris for a visit?” he asked, trying to get her off the subject of the portrait, which made him seem like a jerk for not having offered it to her privately before the show.