“I think you’re ready for a show in Paris,” Gabriel said seriously. “In September, I want you to go and see the galleries I recommended to you. There’s no reason to wait.” Theo wasn’t sure but said he’d think about it. He wanted to see how his work did at the London art fair first. “You should exhibit at the Biennale in Venice next year,” Gabriel encouraged him, as he had done for his father so many years before. “You can’t hide your light under a bushel forever. The world needs more artists like you, Theo. Don’t deprive them of your work.” It was a lovely thing to say, and he was such a nice man, brilliantly knowledgeable about the art world, and a far kinder person than Theo’s father had ever been. Theo often reminded his mother how lucky they were to have him in their lives, and she agreed. Although it didn’t stop her from extolling her late husband’s virtues, many of which he’d never had, or her memory had exaggerated to an unreasonable degree. Lorenzo had been a great artist, but never a great man. Theo remembered it more clearly than she did, and Gabriel never said a word in criticism of him. He let Maylis have her fantasies about Lorenzo. He was happy with her, and other than always making him feel like second best, she was good to him too.
They left on their trip to Florence in high spirits, and Theo took over her place at the restaurant, greeting guests as they came in, and escorting them to their tables before turning them over to the ma?tre d’. And each night he checked the reservation book, hoping to see Vladimir’s name, but the week sped by, and he and Natasha never came in. He wondered if they were on the boat or someplace else, and had no way to know. And he feared that he’d been right, when he last saw her, that he’d never see her again. The portrait was almost finished, and the eyes were perfect now, and had the gentle expression he remembered so well. And her mouth was exactly as it looked, as though she was about to speak. Marc said that just from her portrait, he was falling in love with her too. Theo hadn’t admitted to being in love with her, but acknowledged that he was obsessed, which he insisted was different, and even more uncomfortable than love would have been. But he spoke of his obsession to no one else, only his old friend. He wouldn’t have dared admit it to his mother or she would have told him he was insane, and repeated her earlier warnings about not falling in love with the mistresses of fabulously rich Russian men.
Theo was happy to be relieved of duty at the restaurant when his mother and Gabriel returned. And he worked on the portrait for a few more days before he left for London. There were several art fairs on at the same time, and he was staying at a small boutique hotel filled with artists and art dealers, and every conversation he heard around him, at the hotel, or on the street, or at the art fair, was about some aspect of art. And he was very pleased when he met the owners of the gallery in New York, whom he’d only corresponded with before, by email. They had hung both of his paintings prominently in their booth, and although he didn’t like it, in his biography they had mentioned that he was the son of Lorenzo Luca. He hated riding on his father’s coattails, but they were in the business of selling art, and it was a positive point for him, and one they wanted to capitalize on as best they could. But whoever’s son he was, his work spoke for itself.
He was standing just outside their booth on the night of the opening, when he saw a man walk by who seemed familiar, and Theo realized instantly who it was. It was Vladimir, and Natasha was walking just behind him in a micromini black leather skirt, with a gray sweater that looked like it had been torn, and black high heels that showed off her legs. She looked spectacular, with her hair in a knot, and blond tendrils framing her face. She recognized Theo immediately and was surprised to see him there. Vladimir had already walked past without recognizing him.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, suddenly confused, as Vladimir turned around to look for her, and had no idea who she was talking to. “Are you an artist or just enjoying the fair?” As Theo answered, he could feel himself stumbling over his words.
“I have some work at the fair.” He didn’t indicate the two paintings that were in plain sight behind him.
“How interesting,” Natasha said, looking excited about it, as Vladimir beckoned to her. There was a painting he wanted her to see several booths away. “It’s good to see you,” she said, hurrying away. Theo’s heart started to pound as he watched her. He couldn’t believe it, but every time he met her, she turned his world upside down. He was incapable of not reacting to her. It was as though they were joined by an electrical current that shot through him every time.
He caught a glimpse of her later, far down the same row. She didn’t notice him, and they were leaving, with Vladimir carrying a painting he had bought. Theo was relieved that they hadn’t shown an interest in him, picked up his bio, and discovered who his father was, which would have been embarrassing, since he’d been more or less masquerading as a headwaiter at the restaurant, and never admitted he was Lorenzo’s son. Even when he talked to her for two hours on the boat, he hadn’t told her. But at least she knew he was an artist now. The other thing she didn’t know was that he had been working on a portrait of her night and day since they met, which would have been mortifying. She would have thought he was a lunatic or a pervert of some kind, a stalker. There was no way to explain his fascination with her, or the time he spent thinking about her and wishing he knew her, or the way he felt now, as though someone had ripped his heart out of his chest. He knew he had to get over her, but he had no idea how. Maybe time. Or he could make a career of painting portraits of her. The whole idea of it was ridiculous, and he was still thinking about her and how she had looked in the leather skirt, as he walked back to his hotel that night.
He was walking through the lobby with his head down, when he crashed into a young woman and almost knocked her over. She was coming out of the elevator, wearing military boots and a short red skirt, with dyed pink hair and a million-dollar smile. She was a pretty girl, although with what she was wearing, she looked a little like a clown, and he noticed that she had a diamond stud in her nose.
“Well, hello, you! Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes? Going somewhere—like my room?” she said, eyeing him with a broad smile. He laughed at how bold she was. She was embarrassing but fun, and people around them smiled. “Would you like to go to a party with me?” she asked without hesitation—she was anything but shy. “Italians, Spaniards, a whole bunch of people from Berlin. Where are you from?” She had an aristocratic British accent, but said she lived in New York, since her family was unbearable.
“St. Paul de Vence,” he answered, more than a little startled by her, “in the South of France.”