Smiling with an apologetic shrug, Aimée introduced herself to the women. “Your guide took ill,” she said, re-explaining the situation.
Tatyana and the bodyguard looked her up and down. Did Tatyana’s gaze linger a second longer before turning to the diva?
“The boring Ritz and some cultural tour?” The diva laughed. “No way.”
Aimée’s heart sank. Thought fast on how she could use this. “Actually, the tour company suggested me because I conduct shopping tours also. I’m collaborating with my journalist friend on her book—Chic Pas Cher—a fashion guide to what Parisians wear. We’re doing a spread in ELLE.”
That much was almost true.
“ELLE?” The diva sat up. “Vogue’s my, how you say, bible.”
Aimée beamed her a smile. “But ELLE’s au courant for the young set like you.”
The diva ate that up—Aimée could tell—cocking an eyebrow at Tatyana, who grinned back like a lapdog. “I like this idea. We go shopping. You take us to where Parisiennes go.”
“Hermès, Vuitton, you mean?” Aimée asked.
“Nyet. Like you. You do good job, get good tip.”
In the Mercedes limo, the chauffeur tipped his blue cap. Large shoulders, Slavic cheekbones, and an accent. “The Ritz first, Madame Bereskova?”
The diva leaned back in the seat and pointed at Aimée. “Change plans. Tell him.”
Tatyana and the diva drank champagne from the bar in the back. The bodyguard, Svetla, poured and checked her cell phone. The women weren’t much for small talk with the help. Aimée racked her brain for a way to engage them, turn the conversation to the painting somehow. But the diva, not one for culture, flashed francs like Métro tickets. The chauffeur, stocky and phlegmatic, interested her. Even more when she noticed the bulge under his jacket. The oligarch kept his wife protected. She doubted the chauffeur had a license for that.
“You with the KGB?” she winked.
“We don’t call it that anymore. It’s the FSB,” he said. “Retired.”
Great. His thin mouth set and he ignored her further attempts at conversation.
But he couldn’t guard the diva in the changing room. Aimée hadn’t thought this through, as usual, but she’d seize whatever opportunity she could. Doubted she could keep the charade up too long; the guide might have second thoughts and check with her boss. She flicked on the tape recorder in her bag.
The glass partition of the limo closed. Bad news. She had to bide her time until she got Tatyana alone. She directed the chauffeur to agnès b., then Lolita Lempicka, for starters.
Aimée steered the diva away from a strapless teal wide-legged jumpsuit, and the flamenco-inspired tie shrug. Guided her to a bronze metal-mesh tunic, helped her accessorize with a tasseled clutch and T-strap heels.
Tatyana stuck to the diva like glue, even in the dressing room. Two shops and several thousand francs later, Aimée understood none of what they said.
While the diva was in the dressing room, Aimée stepped outside and called Marevna, the translator. Busy.
“You are holding out,” said the diva, her voice shrill, when they were back in the limo. “We want fashion must-haves for the Parisienne. Why we not find more accessories?”
Aimée cringed inside but smiled. “Excellent point. I can’t fool you. But you must understand, a Parisienne builds a seasonal wardrobe. Invests in certain basics, the foundation—” What had Martine said? “A good bag, coat, or jacket and heels. Then it’s simple to mix and match.”
“Teach us accessorize,” she said, accompanied by a burp.
The back of the limo filled with hoots of laughter.
The girls were out for a good time. How could she turn it around? Only a car seat away from Tatyana, who appeared to be having the time of her life. The champagne flowed. Meanwhile, Aimée’s twenty-four hours were ticking away.
Had she gone up the wrong allée? She’d assumed the diva negotiated with Tatyana for the Modigliani. Time to push.
“Fashion’s an art, you know. Style takes thought.” Aimée pretended to think. “Think of building the perfect outfit as an artistic process. One must visualize the background, shade it with a working color scheme, accessorize to heighten the mood. Evoke a feeling. Think of a great painting. A Modigliani.”
Tatyana’s mascaraed eyes narrowed. Had Aimée gone too far? Had Tatyana finally recognized her?
The diva was speaking into her cellphone in loud Russian. Apparently someone on the other end was chewing her out.
“Da, Dmitri.” She clicked off and her fuchsia mouth sagged in disappointment. “Must go Ritz hotel.”
“But you booked the afternoon,” Aimée said, trying to keep calm. “We haven’t even hit Louboutin. His must-have red-soled heels.”
The diva sighed. “For one time I having fun. With French woman, like friend, see real Paris. Not stupid boring Ritz. Meetings, always business.” A bitter laugh. “My husband Dmitri book me.”
Dimitri kept his diva on a tight leash. For a moment Aimée felt sorry for her. How sad, if she really regarded Aimée as a friend.
“Your husband appreciates art?”
The diva snorted. “Dmitri buys culture. Like everything else. Now he buys museum.”
Like Oleg had said.
“Pay her.” The diva nodded to her bodyguard as the limo pulled up at the Ritz. But Aimée hadn’t even talked to Tatyana, had learned nothing. She couldn’t let her get away.
A wad of francs were thrust in Aimée’s hand as she emerged. “Keep extra. It’s your tip.” The diva and Tatyana disappeared under the portico.
Holding in her anguish, Aimée smiled at the bodyguard. “That’s too kind. But I’d like to give her my card. You know, for a more detailed tour.”
“I handle that.”
“Of course, please do.…” She played it another way. “I love the ladies’ room here. They wouldn’t mind if I used it, non?”
The bodyguard leaned closer, placing her dry hands on Aimée’s … a fraction too long. Her scent of leather and champagne filled Aimée’s nose.