She didn’t like disagreeing with him on any subject, or to seem ungrateful, but she always tried to point him toward the simpler clothes when they went to the haute couture shows, particularly for summer, when they spent so much time on the boat, but he brushed aside what she said. Sometimes he liked to see her in an evening gown at dinner, even when they were alone at home. He would no sooner have bought inexpensive clothes for her, or plain ones, than he would have acquired insignificant art. He wanted what he paid for, to show the world without question how far he had come. And although Natasha loved going to the shows and seeing the fashions on the runway, she always dreaded what he would select for her. He allowed her a few of her own choices, but for the most part, he chose what he wanted her to wear, and she didn’t argue with him about it. She never liked making him angry. She had done so only a few times, and the look in his eyes and the harsh tone of his voice when he reprimanded her were enough to keep her in line. Whenever someone crossed him, countered his opinion, or disobeyed, it didn’t go well. If one did as he commanded and expected, he was a kind, gentle man. But there was a volcano just below the surface. Natasha had seen it directed at others, and did everything she could to avoid having it directed at her. And she certainly wasn’t going to risk his anger over what she wore. She was grateful for his generosity, and how could she complain about what he gave her? He spent millions on her clothes every year, and everything he bought looked beautiful on her.
For the stage setting of Dior’s haute couture show for the coming summer, there were banks of flowers everywhere, the heavy scent of tube roses and lily of the valley in the air. The clothes were diaphanous and sexy, the skirts were short, almost everything was see-through, bare breasts were frequent in the show. The heels were so high they were almost unwearable. Many of the clothes were backless for summer. They were all clothes she could wear well, although she longed for a few simpler things, and picked out two plain cotton dresses that were flawlessly cut, and less exciting than what Vladimir chose for her that showed off her body but could only be worn in showier circumstances than daily life. There were lots of paillettes and tiny sequins, each one hand-sewn on nude-colored net. There were leggings and bodysuits, entirely sewn with tiny beads in flower-shaped patterns, that cost two hundred thousand dollars, due to all the embroidery and beadwork, and Vladimir ordered three of them for her, and a fourth one in shimmering pink. He told her that you don’t dress a spectacularly beautiful woman in rags, which plainer clothes were to him, even if haute couture. In winter, he dressed her in furs, preferably sable, or mink, chinchilla, and ermine dyed exotic colors with fabulous hats to match, alligator leggings, hip boots in leathers and skins, with heavy embroidery on remarkable coats. He bought her clothes to be noticed in, not simply to wear for fashion and comfort, and she wondered secretly sometimes what it would be like to wear ordinary clothes, other than on the boat. She hadn’t done so since she left Moscow with him as a young girl, and then immediately felt guilty and ungrateful for her thoughts. She knew how fortunate she was to have a man who bought her haute couture.
He ordered seven outfits for her from the Dior show, and six more at Chanel, and three summer evening gowns from Elie Saab, all with plunging necklines and slits up the side, to her hips. She wore all the clothes well, and the women who ran each couture house loved dressing her, and made a great fuss over both of them. Vladimir made his choices quickly after he saw Natasha in the dresses he had made note of, and he rarely changed his mind. He knew how he wanted her to look. And Natasha thanked him profusely when they left each house. They went back to the apartment afterward, curled up in front of the fire in their bedroom, and made love. He was delighted with the clothes he’d bought her, and couldn’t wait to see her in them the following summer. There would be three fittings for each dress before they were delivered, to make sure that they fit her perfectly. There could not be a wrinkle or a misplaced hand stitch in a couture gown. It had to be flawless, like the woman who wore it.
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.