She went back to her sorting then, and took out jumpsuits and winter suits, pantsuits and dresses, and the things she wore out to dinner in London and Paris. There was a rainbow of colors on the racks, in myriad fabrics, each outfit exquisite and wonderfully made. It took her all day to get all the clothes on the racks, and she remembered to call the bank in the late afternoon. She needed to know what she had in the account. It sounded like a large sum of money to her, and then she realized it wouldn’t have been enough to pay for one of her evening gowns, but if she was careful she could live on it for a while. She had never paid rent in Paris, or anywhere, or for a hotel. He had taken care of everything with his staff, and she could only guess what a small apartment would cost to rent, maybe somewhere on the Left Bank on a quiet street. She hoped what she had in her bank account would carry her for several months, and once she sold the clothes and jewels, she would have more, possibly a great deal more. But she had to get busy selling things. She continued sorting and hanging until late at night, and finally collapsed on her bed still wearing her jeans and T-shirt, and fell asleep.
When she got up in the morning, she called the real estate agent she had liked best, and told her she had a cousin arriving from Russia who needed a small, inexpensive apartment in a safe neighborhood, preferably in the sixth or seventh arrondissement, where many of the art galleries were, or a less expensive neighborhood if necessary. She asked who to call for a rental, and the woman offered to help her—they had been great clients and Vladimir had paid a staggering price for the apartment. Natasha hoped he wouldn’t lose money on it now, which was more than most women would have thought in her situation, being banished overnight. The realtor told her how sorry she was to hear that they were already selling, and that she had heard that Natasha had done a beautiful job decorating. So Natasha knew they had already called her to put it on the market. Vladimir had thought of everything and lost no time. The realtor said they were going to begin showing it as soon as she moved out. Vladimir was selling it with the furniture. He wanted no souvenir of their lost life either, which hurt her for a moment, and she forced herself not to think about it. She couldn’t afford to or she knew she would fall apart. She couldn’t allow herself to get sentimental now, or frightened. She just had to keep going until it was over and she had found safe haven somewhere. She told Ludmilla to pile the boxes she had gotten in the living room. Natasha didn’t ask her to help otherwise, and she didn’t offer. She stayed in the kitchen and was about to be out of a job too. Vladimir’s office had notified her that she could stay until the apartment sold, and then they would give her a month’s pay when she left. It was proper but not overly generous. He was a businessman above all.
The real estate agent promised to call when she had researched some rental listings. The charade of looking for an apartment for a mythical cousin was no longer necessary since the woman knew so much. And Natasha reminded her to keep the prospective apartments small and not too expensive, since she didn’t need much and had a modest budget. The woman assured her that she understood, probably better than Natasha wanted her to, which was embarrassing. She realized that she had countless humiliations ahead now, selling her belongings, moving out, looking for work with no job experience. She wondered if anyone would even hire her. Maybe she’d have to work as a maid in a hotel, she thought to herself in bad moments, but if so, she would have to do it. Or she could take a job as a maid in a private home, when her money ran out and she needed a place to live. She realized that anything was possible now, but she would do whatever she had to. It never dawned on her to try and meet another man like Vladimir, or that another one would come along to save her, and pay for her beauty and her body and company. That was the last thing she wanted, and she was prepared to starve first. She was on her way to freedom now, and nothing would make her turn back. With all the doors closing behind her, there were others opening. She just didn’t see them yet, but hoped they were there.
It took her four days to empty her closets in an orderly fashion and figure out what to keep and what to sell. She had decided to keep the two plainest evening gowns, and then increased it to four in case she ever got invited somewhere formally again. Three were black and very simple but beautifully made, and the fourth one was red, and she had loved it when she bought it. It was one of the few she had picked herself. There were dozens of others, and she felt guilty when she saw how many she had, but Vladimir had ordered them all. She realized now that she had been an accessory to him, and not a person in her own right in his eyes.
She kept a few wool suits, and a number of skirts and pants, all her sweaters and blouses, even though the blouses were haute couture, but she might need them for a gallery job. She kept half a dozen of her heavy wool coats, and some light ones, and had three racks of furs to sell. They were magnificent, and then she hesitated again and kept a black fox jacket, two sporty ones, and she retrieved the sable coat he had bought her at Dior the previous winter. It was so beautiful, she didn’t want to give it up. And she weeded through her shoes too, and kept only those she thought she’d wear, and none of the fanciful ones that she had worn to parties, or lolling on the boat or at home. She kept the ones she’d need for work, and some sober, dressier ones, and her boots. All her fur hats went except the one that matched the sable coat she was keeping. She was going to sell all the Birkins, most of them alligator, and all with diamond clasps, which she had never liked, but Vladimir had insisted on them, as part of the role he cast her in. He had paid over two hundred thousand dollars for each of the Hermès alligator bags with the diamond clasps, and their price at Hermès had gone up since, and she wondered what she could get for them for resale or at auction. She was selling a dozen of them, and she had always heard they sold for high prices to Hermès customers desperate for them on the resale market, so they didn’t have to wait three years to order new ones in the colors they wanted, since Hermès was slow to deliver. It worked in her favor now.
And she had all the jewelry neatly stacked in the boxes it had come in. Vladimir had been more inclined to highly styled design pieces than large stones, but she was sure there would be a market for them. She just didn’t know where yet. Undoing a life to this extent was entirely new to her, but she was organized and methodical about it.