"You love all your glass and steel and chrome better, don't you?" Misha said.
"You bet," Serena said. "If I had this old dump I'd get rid of it."
"Serena!" Misha said with surprise in his voice. "You're talking about one of the most historically important houses in all of the United Kingdom. You ate dinner surrounded by exquisite paintings of some of the greatest Englishmen and women of the past."
"Well, I'd get rid of them, too," she said emphatically.
"A lot of those paintings are very fine," Misha protested. "Some of them are Van Dycks."
"I don't care what they are. They're ugly, if you ask me," Serena said. "No wonder this country lost its empire. It's so wrapped up in the past."
Misha felt an angry impatience rising within him. He checked himself before he snapped at her, but he really didn't like her attitude one bit. A Van Dyck painting ugly? How could she say such a thing? Was this grand house nothing more to her than a "set" that had served as a chic backdrop in a fashion shoot?
He supposed so. He reminded himself that she'd wanted to wipe out her own past, so it made sense that she had no respect for the past in general. Could she not see that this evening had been a truly magical one, set amidst all this beauty and history? He suddenly felt saddened by the disdain she held for what had to him been romantic and inspirational in its beauty.
"I'll be back in a minute," Serena said, heading for the adjoining bathroom.
As Misha slipped into his bathrobe, the newspapers, now neatly folded and placed on a table, caught his eye. The maid had straightened up. He picked them up and made himself comfortable on the big canopied bed. First, he began thumbing through the Times, looking for the review of his performances at the Royal Albert Hall.
Suddenly a familiar name jumped off the page. He felt a flutter in his chest, and his hand trembled slightly. Like a ghastly flashback to a terrifying nightmare, the name riveted his attention.
Can it be? he wondered, all thoughts of the review forgotten. With dread he began to read.
SIMON CURZON HAMPTON RETROSPECTIVE
FREDERICA EBERLY GALLERY
Curator Peregrine Lavery-Blunt has assembled an impressive collection of the post-modern paintings by the late Simon Curzon Hampton. The paintings—and there are a large number of canvases—were executed primarily in the early 1990s, before the artist's untimely and bizarre death.
Hampton, a graduate of Eton and the Slade School of Fine Art, is represented in many private collections, including the Saatchi Collection in London. His estate is represented here by the Frederica Eberly Gallery exclusively.
The current retrospective was assembled with the assistance of the artist's family and various well-known collectors. His brother, Mitchell James Hampton, a sometime race car driver, provided five works, and his father, the well-known sports figure, Curzon Cavendar Hampton, of Hastings Lodge, Castledown, Surrey, supplied several others. His mother, Lady Isabel Etherington-Hawkes, has said that none of his works are in her possession because she finds them "too depressing." She resides in Buenos Aires and caused a scandal among the social set in 1972, when she deserted her husband and sons for the well-known South American polo player, Enrique Gomez-Rodriquez.
At the time of his mysterious death five years ago—he was found drowned near the Verrazano Narrows Bridge in New York City—Hampton was in New York City for a show of his paintings at the Schulman Lazare Gallery.
"Good God," Misha whispered as he finished reading the article.
"What is it?" Serena asked, emerging from the bathroom.
Misha looked up. She saw the troubled expression on his face. "This article," he said, stabbing the paper with a finger. "It's about somebody Vera used to know. Used to date, in fact. He ...well, he was a troublemaker." Misha, for some reason, decided on the spur of the moment that he wouldn't tell Serena about Simon Hampton trying to kill him.
"You're kidding," Serena said. "Somebody Vera used to date?" She snuggled next to him in bed. "Here, let me see."
Misha absentmindedly handed her the newspaper. He became lost in thought, wondering if Vera knew about this. If she knew Simon was dead. An involuntary shiver ran through him. Simon's long-ago attack on him, coupled with finding out about his strange death after all these years, left him with an uneasy feeling.
"Wow!" Serena said. "Weird."
"Here," Misha said, snapping out of his reverie. He took the newspaper from her, folded it, and placed it on the bedside table. He looked at her and smiled. "Let's try to forget about that, okay?"
"Sure," she said.
"Why the solemn look all of a sudden," he asked. "Is it the article?"
"God, no!" she said. "I didn't know him! It's ...it's nothing."
"Come on, Serena," Misha cajoled. "What's going on in that beautiful head of yours?"
"Oh, I was just thinking," she said. "In the bathroom. I'm ...I'm really sick of these assignments."
"You mean like this one?" he asked. "Fashion shoots?"
"Exactly like this one," she said harshly. "I'm starting to really hate them."
"Was it just this shoot?" he asked.
"No, Misha," she replied. "A lot of the others, too. I've been thinking about this for a very long time. I'm sick and tired of taking pictures of celebrities, no matter who they are, and I'm sick of fashion shoots. It's getting to be old hat. The same old thing over and over. Nothing new. Besides, I want some respect for my work."
"Serena," he said, "everybody likes your work. Why else would you have such a huge contract?"
"I know that," she said. "But it's not those people I want to please anymore. It's a different crowd I'm after."
"You mean the critics?" Misha asked.
"I guess so," she said. "I want to start doing some serious photography. The kind of stuff that'll get me gallery shows and reviews."
"But there've been shows of your work," Misha pointed out.
"Yeah," she said, "but at places like the Fashion Institute of Technology. I'm talking about something completely different, Misha." She looked at him. "I want to do serious pictures that'll be bought by museums and collectors. Like that guy that Vera knew. His paintings. I want to go in that direction. You see what I mean?"
Misha looked at her and expelled a deep breath. "You're talking about switching from commercial to art photography," he said.
"Right," Serena said, looking at him with a smile.
"Are you certain about this?" he asked.
"Yes," Serena answered, "and I'm going to have a confab with Coral about it. I want to start taking some serious pictures."
"That's going to be quite a switch," he said. "And a huge challenge. You know, the critics will be gunning for you because you've been so successful commercially."
"I know all that," she said. "And I'll just have to take that chance."
"Do you have anything in mind?" Misha asked.
Serena shook her head. "Nothing definite yet," she said. "But I've been giving it a lot of thought."
"And what have you thought?" he asked, tenderly brushing a strand of hair from her face with his fingertips.
"Oh, just that maybe next month when I'm in the Far East on another fashion shoot"—she turned to him with a grimace on her face—"I might make some side trips. Go to Vietnam, Cambodia. Like that. See what I can get."
"You're absolutely serious?" he asked.
"Yes," she nodded. "You know. Things like, what's Hanoi like now? The killing fields? Pol Pot's successors? There's a lot of stuff there that's open now, stuff that I know I could get to. Pol Pot's prisons and all. It might be really interesting. And serious. It might get me some respect as a photographer."
"This sort of thing might keep you on the road a lot more than what you do now," Misha pointed out. "And it might be a bit depressing to boot."
She nodded. "I know. I've thought about that, too," she said. "I know I can handle the ...unpleasantness of some of it. And I figure that if you really love me, you'll put up with it. I might be
gone a lot for long periods of time." She studied his face.
Misha sighed. He didn't like hearing this. He had envisioned her eventually scaling back some of her commercial work so that they could have more of a home life, a family life—and children.
"I hadn't expected this," he confessed in as neutral a tone as he could muster.
"No," Serena said. "But it's the direction I'm definitely going in, so I had to tell you."
"But what about being with me?" Misha said with mild exasperation. "And what about those children you said you wanted?"
"Oh, Misha, please." She scowled and slapped the bed with a hand. "There's plenty of time for all that kind of stuff."
He stared straight ahead. This is almost like deja vu, he thought. Like all those years ago when she refused to budge an inch, career-wise, so that we could have more time together. But then neither did I.
"Misha," she cajoled, "this is very important to me. Please, don't be angry."
He turned to her. She looked like a lost child, vulnerable and afraid. He pulled her to him and stroked her hair. "I'm not angry, Serena," he said.
"Thank God," she said, snuggling closer. She ran a hand down his chest, then unknotted his bathrobe and ran her hand down between his thighs.
Misha immediately responded, leaning down to kiss her. "How could I be angry with you?" he whispered, already forgetting his worries and irritations, already swept up in an overpowering hunger for her.
Chapter Thirty-four
Candles. Dozens of beeswax candles.
Chandeliers in the living and dining rooms and candelabra placed strategically about the apartment glimmered iridescently, their Old World luminescence suffusing the apartment with an air of mystery and romance.
On the deserted dining table, the shifting light of tapers, now burning low, glinted off the imperial silver and china. It danced against antique Russian crystal, casting prismatic shards of color about the room.
Flowers, hundreds of them, all old-fashioned fullblown English roses—palest pink Abraham Darby, fading red Othello, creamy ivory Heritage, and pale yellow Thomas Graham—were stuffed blossom to blossom in silver mint julep cups that ran the length of the dining table. Fragrant nosegays of them were placed throughout the rooms, their combined aromas imbuing the air with a sweet intoxication.
Vera had gone all out to make the evening a truly memorable one for everyone. Sonia and Dmitri had officially retired from their full-time positions at Juilliard, and Vera wanted to mark the occasion with a very special dinner.
Misha had offered to take them all out for a lavishly expensive dinner—Le Bernardin, La Chanterelle, Petroussian, anywhere—but Vera had insisted that they have a family dinner at home. Sonia and Dmitri were thrilled with her thoughtfulness, but had told Vera to go to no trouble, knowing that she had so many responsibilities. Vera, however, was determined that no one—not even her richest and most important international clients at the auction house—would ever have a more beautiful dinner party than that which she would give for her beloved in-laws.
Sonia was now seventy years old and Dmitri seventy- two, and although they would continue to teach a handful of talented students at home, their public professional careers were at an end. It was a big transition for them, Vera realized, and while they were both in good health, she could also see that they were beginning to slow down considerably. There was a bit less spring in their steps, a bit less of that indefatigable energy that had propelled them so very far in life.
From the dining room Vera peered unseen into the vast living room's flickering light and couldn't help but smile with pleasure. She loved watching Misha interact with his parents, especially when he was in an expansive mood. Tonight he had been at his most ebullient—the old Misha, she thought wistfully—happily jabbering and gesticulating, animated and engaging and—loving.
The interplay between the three of them was both heartwarming and inspiring. She had always hoped that the relationship between herself and Misha and Nicky could be like that. It was at times like these—simple, small moments, most people would call them—that she realized the importance of family, its awesome capacity for warmth and goodness and love.
Oh, how I wish it could always be this way, she thought. That tonight would never end.
But she knew that her wishes were futile. Tonight was exceptional in more ways than one. Misha's gregarious mood would inevitably dissipate into withdrawal and quietude, casting a cloud of gloom over the house, and she and Nicky would be excluded from his world, as if they were strangers. Sonia and Dmitri would suffer the same alienation, if at a distance, because Misha would undoubtedly neglect seeing them for weeks at a time when he withdrew into his other, exclusionary world. And in this other world, she was certain, Misha was not lonely, like her. No. It was a world he shared with—
"Vera, tonight was really lovely," a voice from behind her said.
Vera turned around, her reverie interrupted by the familiar voice. Manny stood watching her, a crooked smile on his face. Almost a smirk, she thought. Or am I imagining it? He was slightly flushed from the copious amounts of wine he had drunk.
"Thank you, Manny," she said. "I'm glad you enjoyed it, and I'm glad you and Sasha came. He's worked for you such a long time, and I feel like we got to know him a little better tonight."
"He loved it," Manny said. "The food was exceptional. I can't believe you did all this yourself and didn't have it catered."
Vera smiled. "I try," she said. She looked at him. "Can I get you something?"
"No, no," Manny said quickly. "I was just ...just upstairs using the bathroom. Sasha was in the powder room down here. We're going to be going in a bit."
"So soon?" Vera said.
"Yes," Manny said. "Early morning, you see."
"Don't leave without a good night kiss," Vera said. "I'm just seeing to a couple of things here and will be back in the living room in a minute."
"Right you are," Manny replied. He turned to leave, then stopped. "Vera?" he said.
"Yes?" she replied, looking at him questioningly. "What is it?"
"I know I shouldn't be asking this of you," he said haltingly, "but ... but I wondered if you might try to convince Misha that doing the tour of Russia would be a good idea."
"He's already said no to that," she said. "Yet again. I know Sasha talked to him about it earlier this evening."
"Oh, I know," he said. "But I mean have him think about the future. Because the opportunity is always there. And it is golden, you know."
Vera looked at him with curiosity. Why is he suddenly trying to conspire with me? she wondered. "I know it's a golden opportunity, Manny," she said. "And I think it's high time Misha let go of all those resentments he's
harbored for so long against Russia. But he still feels very strongly about it."
"I know, Vera, but—" he began.
"Manny," she interjected, "I'll try to talk to him about it again. I have before, but I don't know how much good I can do."
"Well, thanks, Vera," he said.
"You're welcome," she replied.
Manny turned and crossed the dining room and disappeared through the arches into the flickering light of the double-height living room.
Vera picked up a silver candle snuffer and began putting out the low-burning tapers on the dining table. How odd, she thought, that as Misha has grown apart from us—from Sonia and Dmitri and Nicky and me—he has grown closer and closer to Manny. They seem to have become practically inseparable. Misha always seems to be over at Manny and Sasha's. Or going somewhere with them.
She hadn't particularly wanted Manny and Sasha here tonight, but Misha had insisted. Then she herself had decided it was a good idea to have them, remembering that old adage: Keep your enemy close.
She was certain that she knew what this new closeness was all about. It was simple, really. Misha had found allies in Manny and Sasha. Allies in the battle he was having to extricate himself from his wife and son. Because Manny detests me, and a
lways has. She could imagine the sorts of conversations they must have. Misha pouring his heart out in confession. Manny listening attentively, telling Misha that it was all right, that it wasn't really his fault. He must do whatever he felt because he was an artist.
Artist! What shit! she thought. It doesn't matter if you're a coal miner or the greatest painter alive. Infidelity is infidelity. Neglecting your child is neglecting your child.
She snuffed out the last of the guttering candles with an especially emphatic tap, splattering tallow with satisfaction, then replaced the silver snuffer on the sideboard. She stood back and looked at her reflection in the ornate Venetian mirror above it. She was wearing a long, body-hugging, corseted dress by Dolce & Gabbana, with sliplike shoulder straps. It had been delicately hand-painted with flowers in yellows, reds, whites, and purples, their wispy greenery trailing the length of the gown. It was truly beautiful, she thought.
But was it a good choice? she wondered, smoothing it down at her hips. Then suddenly she decided she didn't want to play that game. She refused to think that her appearance could be the cause of her husband's disaffection. She wasn't going to start agonizing over every choice of dress and makeup and hairstyle, hoping that her decisions pleased him.
Squaring her shoulders, she turned and walked elegantly back into the candlelit living room. She was surprised to see that everyone was getting ready to leave.
"There you are!" Sonia said. "I thought maybe Nicky had waked up. Is he all right?"
"Oh, yes. He's sleeping soundly," Vera said. "Are you already leaving?"
"It's getting late," Dmitri said, "and Manny and Sasha have offered us a lift home. So we're taking advantage of it."
"It's been really lovely, Vera," Sasha gushed, which was totally unlike him. His pale blond hair shone in the candlelight, and his ever watchful gray eyes seemed sincere.
"You must both come again," Vera said, accepting a kiss on the cheek from Manny.
"The apartment looks so beautiful, it's hard to leave," Sonia said. "Darling, we'll never forget tonight. The food, the flowers, everything! It was perfect, and we appreciate it so much."
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