He tossed and turned in bed, wondering if he should go to Paris and try to see her. But if she wanted contact with him, she would have called, and she hadn’t. Or maybe she was too embarrassed, or in need. He barely slept all night, and had almost decided to go to Paris when his mother called him in the morning. She had slipped on the last step on the staircase in the studio, and sprained her ankle. She had just been to the emergency room, and asked him if he could cover for her for a week. She was truly sorry and apologetic, but she was in pain and couldn’t get around. The doctor had given her crutches.
“Sure, Maman.” He could always go to Paris in a week, and he was used to running the restaurant now, after her long stay in Italy with Gabriel. And he didn’t mind it as much as he used to. “Do you need anything?”
“No, Gabriel is waiting on me hand and foot.”
And Theo had made a decision by then. As soon as his mother was back at the restaurant, he was going to fly to Paris to see Natasha, and thank her for what she’d done. He had no delusions that something would start between them now, even if she and Vladimir were no longer together. He understood more about her life now, and how unsuited she was to be with “regular” people. Whether it was Vladimir or someone else, she lived in a rarefied world, and Theo was sure she would find another man like him, or perhaps already had. But hopefully a kinder one this time, and a less dangerous man than Vladimir. He hoped so for her sake. And he just wanted a chance to thank her for having the guts to speak up to the police. It was the most generous and courageous thing anyone had ever done for him. And there was no way of knowing if her informing on Vladimir had forced his hand and made him bring the paintings back. Either way, Theo wanted to thank her. He owed her that at least.
Chapter 15
Natasha’s last week in the apartment on Avenue Montaigne was a whirlwind of activity, and left little room for emotion. She packed up what she was taking with her. She had bags of new linens scattered among the boxes, and had Ludmilla wash them before she left, so she wouldn’t have to do it in a washing machine shared with the entire building, since there was none in the new apartment.
She had all the furniture from IKEA she needed, and she and Dimitri were going to put it together. The auction houses picked up everything she was selling as promised, the day before she left. She had so much that they took it out on racks, and it filled an entire truck. She wasn’t sorry to see almost her entire wardrobe go. The Birkins were in their original Hermès boxes, and there were stacks of them in the truck, and cartons of unworn designer shoes.
And on the day she moved, she rented a van again to move her suitcases, a few boxes, and her portrait. Dimitri, her new handyman, came to help her carry it and load it in the van. She thanked Ludmilla and shook her hand, and gave her a handsome tip for her help in the past few weeks. She was pleased with the amount Natasha gave her. And Natasha saw the concierge as she was leaving and thanked her too. She left no forwarding address. She wasn’t expecting any mail. She never got any. She had no relatives or friends, and the limited communication she had was by email. She knew her credit card tied to Vladimir’s account had been canceled. She got a new one from her bank with a small limit on it, unlike the unlimited credit cards Vladimir had given her.
And when she got to the new apartment, Dimitri got to work putting all her IKEA furniture together: the bed, a chest of drawers, some closets where she could hang clothes, a desk. She had bought bright, fun, contemporary furniture, and the apartment looked cheerful, as she hung her portrait over the fireplace herself.
She and Dimitri conversed in Russian, and they worked late into the night until everything was done. And when it was, she thought it looked terrific. She had bought flowers and gotten a couple of vases, and she set a vase of bright flowers on the coffee table. The apartment was warm and inviting, and she had even bought rugs she liked. Lamps, two big comfortable chairs, and a very good-looking leather couch. It would be a nice apartment to come home to at night. He charged her a ridiculously small amount to put it all together, and she thanked him and gave him a big tip.
It had taken her a month to get everything organized, but she had done it, and she felt as though she had severed all ties with her past. She hadn’t heard from Vladimir and didn’t expect to. She had never contacted Yuri again and had no intention of doing so. She had a home and enough money in the bank to live on for a while, and when her things sold in the fall, she would have more. She still needed to look for a job, but she knew she couldn’t until the fall. Everyone was on vacation in the summer, in either July or August, and most of the galleries were closed. And she was thinking of signing up for an art history course at the école du Louvre. She felt as though she had been reborn as a new person. All vestiges of her past life were gone, except a few clothes.
And as she looked around her new apartment on her first night in it, she felt like she was home. She didn’t need to live on Avenue Montaigne, or on a five-hundred-foot yacht, or in a legendary villa in St. Jean Cap-Ferrat, or a house in London. She had all she needed, and everything in it was hers. Every now and then she’d feel anxious for a few minutes, but then she’d remind herself that she could take care of herself, and that what she didn’t know how to do yet, she would learn.
—
It took Maylis a week longer than she’d hoped to get back on her feet again with her sprained ankle. And as soon as she did, and was back at the restaurant, Theo booked a flight the next day to Paris. The story was almost over for him, but he still wanted to thank Natasha. And he wanted to do it in person. It was the first week in August by then, and Paris was dead. Shops and restaurants were closed, there was almost no one on the streets. There was no traffic. The weather was hot, and it looked like a ghost town, as he walked down Avenue Montaigne to number fifteen. He hadn’t told his mother where he was going. And he hadn’t told her about Natasha informing on Vladimir, he thought the fewer people who knew, the better for her. He didn’t want to do anything to put her at risk any further, just to thank her.
The building looked deserted when he got there. He rang her bell, and no one answered. And then he rang at the concierge’s lodge. She came to the door and looked at him suspiciously when he asked for Natasha.
“Why do you want to know?” she asked him.
“I’m a friend of hers,” he said, stretching the truth a little.
“She doesn’t live here anymore. She moved a week ago.”
“Do you have a new address for her?” he asked, looking sorely disappointed. He had missed her.
“No, I don’t. And if you were a friend of hers, you would know it. I don’t know where she went. She didn’t tell me. She doesn’t get mail here anyway. It’s all for him.” He nodded, not surprised to hear it. “She sent everything away the day before she left. She just had a few suitcases with her the day she moved. And there was a Russian man with her.” Dimitri had come to help her with her heavier suitcases.