“Neither am I, but I’ve learned.” Natasha knew from their earlier conversations that she was divorced and had two grown children.
The realtor promised to get her the lease in the next few days. It was a standard French lease, for three years, with two three-year renewals at a minimal increase each time, and she could leave anytime with sixty days’ notice. The realtor explained that French rentals favored the tenant more than the owner. And if Natasha wanted to, she could stay in the tiny apartment for nine years. She’d be thirty-six then, and had just turned twenty-seven, so if her situation never improved, she would have a home for a long time. It was comforting to know that now, and she felt sure she could manage the rent with a decent gallery job. She didn’t want anyone else helping to pay her rent ever again. She wanted something she could afford on her own.
Thinking about her tiny new apartment, it was a shock when she went back to the apartment on Avenue Montaigne with all its grandeur, boiseries, and high ceilings, and the antiques she had bought, but she couldn’t allow herself to think of it. She had a place to go, and there was no point looking back or comparing her old life to her new one. And she had so much left to do, she couldn’t falter now. She looked up auction houses in the phone book that night, and found some she recognized, and wrote down their phone numbers. It was time to let go of her possessions and her old life. And knowing where she was going now, she had a better sense of how much she could keep. She put more of her wardrobe on the racks to sell that night, and told herself she didn’t need it. But she couldn’t afford to buy new clothes either, so she kept anything practical, and a few things she felt pretty in, and she liked what she kept. The rest had all been advertising for Vladimir, and she didn’t have to do that anymore. There was some comfort in that.
—
Her conversations with the auction houses in the next few days were educational. She called the two most important ones she remembered, and they asked her if it was an estate, and she said it wasn’t. They wanted to know how old the clothes were, and she said they were all fairly recent, and some from this year’s collections and not yet worn. They told her the items would be sold for approximately half of what the seller had paid for them, or less, with a reserve if she liked, and she would have to pay the auction house a twenty percent commission of the hammer price of everything that sold. So she would receive eighty percent of half of whatever Vladimir had paid for any of it, which seemed acceptable. Unless, of course, people went crazy and bid the prices high, in which case, she’d get more, but some of it might not sell at all. And both houses had auctions in September, when the H?tel Drouot opened for the fall, where they rented auction rooms. One of the houses had a big Hermès auction coming up, and they were anxious to see her Birkins and photograph them for the catalog if she agreed to sell through them. She made an appointment with their expert to come and see them the following week. Natasha explained that there were too many for her to take to their office. And she sat down with a pad and paper that night, to figure out the original cost of her things, and what she might derive from a sale. It was an impressive sum and would keep her going for quite some time. She felt relieved when she saw the numbers, and at ten o’clock, she decided to walk up to L’Avenue, where she had had lunch with Theo, and get something to take home. Ludmilla was off for the weekend, and there was nothing in the house. She didn’t want much, but she needed to keep her energy up.
She ordered a salad to go, and some smoked salmon and mixed berries, and sat at a table on the terrace waiting for them to give it to her. It was a busy Saturday night, and she heard someone call her name as she sat staring into space, thinking about her conversations with the auction houses. It was the undoing of a life, and exhausting to organize, but thank God she had something to sell. Without that, she’d be penniless and destitute, and might be on the street. Those things happened to people, and she never forgot that, just as Vladimir didn’t, although he had nothing to worry about, and was dependent on no one but himself, unlike her, who had been entirely dependent on him. She heard her name called again and looked around, and then she saw a tall, good-looking older man in black jeans and a white shirt, with gold chains around his neck and a heavy gold and diamond Rolex on his wrist. He was twenty years older than Vladimir, but still attractive. He and Vladimir knew each other from Moscow. They’d had him on the boat several times for dinner, always with very young Russian girls who appeared to be interchangeable and giggled a lot. He liked them very young. His name was Yuri, and his face lit up the moment he saw her.
“I’m so happy to see you!” he said, looking genuinely pleased. “Will you join me for dinner?” There was nothing she wanted to do less. He talked a lot, and was very jovial, and she wasn’t in the mood. She wasn’t ready to see anyone yet, and he wouldn’t have been high on her list, or on it at all, as someone to have dinner with.
“No, thank you.” She smiled at him, trying not to look as exhausted as she felt. It had been an endless week of stress, fear for the future, mental adjustment, and hard work lugging boxes and suitcases around and emptying closets, and making decisions and trying not to think of Vladimir. He hadn’t called her at all. “I just ordered dinner to take back to the apartment.”
“You must eat with me,” he insisted, as he sat down across from her at the small table, without invitation. “Champagne?” he offered, and she shook her head, but he ordered it anyway, and had the waitress pour her a glass when it came, and she didn’t have the energy to resist, so she accepted. “I saw Vladimir two days ago, in Monte Carlo, at the casino, with…friends…” He hesitated just a beat, and from the way he looked at her, she understood instantly that Vladimir had already been with another woman and was trying to impress her at the casino, and that Yuri knew that Natasha was no longer part of the picture. Vladimir hadn’t lost any time. She knew he wasn’t a gambler, but only went to the casino in Monte Carlo when he wanted to show off to guests. Otherwise he wasn’t interested, although he played high-stakes roulette and blackjack when he was there.