For her part, Mandy had had to learn how to eat, how to talk, how to walk, and how to dress. It had been her personal Pygmalion.
She worked hard to fit in. She became friends with Penny and Ravn’s parents, whom she hardly ever saw now, because his father was busy with his life in France and his mother had moved with her second husband to New York, where she lived on Fifth Avenue. They weren’t the nicest people Mandy knew, but they weren’t the worst, either. Now she saw them some years for Christmas, but mostly they were part of neither her nor Ravn’s life.
As Mandy had lived longer and longer with Ravn, she started to realize that she was now part of a very wealthy family, and she had money and influence. When the children were little, she slowly started to better herself with nicer clothes, shoes, and jewelry. She kept waiting for her husband to say something about how she spent money, but he never did. He never said that this was too much or that was too expensive.
Now, after twenty-five years, she knew she could buy whatever she wanted and she did. She went to Paris and bought a Kelly bag and a Birkin bag. She went to Milan to shop for the latest fashions. She had a close relationship with all the fashion houses in Copenhagen, and when Gucci had a sale, they called her so she could have first choice because she bought handsomely even when there wasn’t a sale. It had not been difficult to get used to having money. It had not been easy to become someone who looked like someone who had money. The ease of it—the way the other Hellerup wives just relaxed in their wealth—that had been hard.
It had taken practice to be nonchalant about spending a thousand dollars on Lise Charmel lingerie at BeeLee on Strandvejen. It had taken practice to not balk when she bought her first Chanel pearl necklace with a diamond-studded Chanel logo clasp for ten thousand Euros. It had taken practice to book first-class tickets for the family to travel to Bali to celebrate her and Ravn’s fifteenth wedding anniversary.
Now she was experienced. All that hard work had paid off. She was a bona fide Hellerup wife. She worked out at Well-come at the Waterfront Mall, went to Gun-Britt Coiffure to get her hair done, had her facials at Amazing Space at Hotel d’Angleterre, and took care of nails, waxing, and massage at Evani on Strandvejen.
She had come a long way from having her hair cut at Great Clips in Cedar Hills and buying her underwear at Wal-Mart (because it’s not lingerie when you buy it at a supermarket).
She knew she couldn’t have done it without Penny, who had booked Mandy’s first hair and facial appointments, had taken her shopping, and had taught her how best to mingle with these crowds. And Mandy had been there for Penny whenever she’d needed her. When her supermodel career crashed around her ears because she was photographed in Bulgaria snorting cocaine, Mandy and Ravn had flown to Bulgaria to support Penny. She had been there when Penny’s Parisian billionaire boyfriend Serge Arnault had had a very public engagement with a Parisian socialite before he dumped Penny. Wonderful Serge hadn’t understood why Penny was upset because she should’ve known that he wouldn’t marry a model, not when he was an Arnault. Mandy had been there, letting Penny weep all over Mandy’s new five-thousand-kroner Missoni dress in her and Ravn’s suite at the Ritz.
Oh yes, they had been together through thick and thin, and even though Mandy thought that Penny had had it easy despite the cocaine incident, which only served to give Penny more publicity, and Mandy suspected Penny felt that Mandy had fallen into a pot of gold because of nothing but her looks, they were family, and blood was thicker than water.
“How could you say that to him?” Mandy groaned when Penny told her how she had propositioned Harry. “He’s got a wife.”
“He’s not the loyal type,” Penny said. “That’s obvious.”
“Is Ravn the loyal type?” Mandy asked shrewdly.
“Do you really want to know?” Penny asked.
Mandy licked her lips and shook her head. No, she didn’t want to know. Why stir up a hornet’s nest over nothing? If Ravn was sleeping around, then he was; there wasn’t anything she could do about it, and there was nothing she wanted to do about it. A woman in her position couldn’t afford to have a hissy fit over infidelity. And what if he did sleep around? It didn’t change anything. Her husband was devoted to her. Even after so many years together, they religiously made love every Sunday. It wasn’t as explosive as it used to be, but it was pleasant. She always came and he always came, and it lasted maybe fifteen minutes or so . . . it was nice.
If Mandy was honest, and she never would be about this, she would admit that she actually didn’t like to have sex with her husband anymore. She did have sex, and she had an orgasm and everything, but she thought sex should be dirty, a little filthy, for it to be fun. It was strictly missionary all the way for her and Ravn. No kinky stuff. But they were happy. He loved her and she loved him, and she kept a lovely home for him and raised his children and let him have sex with her every Sunday. What more could he ask for?
“And the wife . . . good god, what’s up with her?” Penny asked.
“Did you see her hair? If anyone needs a makeover, she does,” Mandy said. “All those grays, and she’s got that dark hair so it ages her. And why does she dress like a bag lady? She looked okay at the ambassador’s dinner, partly because Lilly took her to Birgitte Green, but yesterday? I mean, what was that she was wearing?”
Penny shook her head. “I thought everyone in America wore jeans and T-shirts for barbecues.”
Mandy snorted. “I’m American, Penny, so I know about America. And yes, a barbecue is casual but . . . this is Hellerup, and she should’ve known better. And she wore Skechers? Really? I mean a pair of heels would have really helped her look—not saved it, mind you, but it would’ve certainly helped.”
If Mandy admitted it to herself, which she wouldn’t do, she made Harry’s Indian wife seem ugly because she had seen an exchange between her husband and that woman by Katrine’s azaleas that made her uncomfortable. She had even grilled Katrine without being too obvious, but her daughter didn’t seem to notice anything at all. It was nothing, really . . . but there was an intimacy to the way in which he had leaned into her as he gave her a glass of water, which meant nothing because it was innocuous . . . there was just something there. But Mandy was too busy denying that her husband was a philanderer, so she refused to acknowledge that Harry’s Indian wife, who seemed to look good even without makeup at her age, despite the grays and the outfit, was going to be a problem for her.
“I think I’m going to try Lucky next,” Penny said.
“Why not just ask Harry what’s going on instead of trying to get into his pants?” Mandy suggested. “Or you know what, let’s take that Indian wife of his out to lunch and see what she knows.”
“It’s not just the looks and clothes, Mandy; that woman looks like she’s half dead,” Penny said. “She’s weird. You talk to her, and one minute she’s talking to you and another she’s tuned you out. I don’t think all the circuits in her brain are in order. I don’t think she knows anything, and by that I mean anything.”
Mandy sighed. “I still think instead of hitting on men you should ask your husband and I’ll ask mine. We can just ask our men what’s going on.”
Penny shook her head and bit her trembling bottom lip. “Come on, Mandy, that was the first thing I did. I have asked Mark and Ravn; and they both patted me on my head and told me it would be all right. They’re telling me nothing, and I can’t go to jail, Mandy. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
Mandy patted Penny’s shoulder. “Darling, we’ll figure it out. I promise. Okay, I have an idea. How about we go away for a weekend to the summer house in Sweden?”
Penny lit up. “You mean like an overnight thing?”
Mandy sighed. “It doesn’t mean you end up in Lucky’s bedroom. He’s . . . I don’t know . . . suspect.”
“He’s Italian American,” Penny said. “And yes, he’s not Harry, but he’s okay. I’ve done worse.”
“Not since you’ve been married,” Mandy said.
> Penny made a face. “You don’t want to know, Mandy. You’re so naïve at times. It is sweet, don’t get me wrong, but you’re an innocent. And I love you for it.”
Mandy wasn’t sure how naïve she was. She knew what was what. She hadn’t lived her life under a stone. Hadn’t she managed to fool all of Danish high society into accepting her as one of their own? A stupid person couldn’t achieve something like that. She was savvy, and she was known as the perfect hostess in their circles. When she threw a fundraiser, money was raised. When she invited people for a party, everyone had a great time. She knew her wine, she knew her bags, and she knew her people. She wasn’t naïve, but she didn’t mind that people thought she was. She had cashed in on her dumb blonde looks for years, and it was an advantage that she fully exploited.
“So, who should we invite?” Mandy asked, pulling out her iPad from her new brown Prada hobo bag, recently purchased at Birgitte Green, to make a list of the invitees.
“Well, the Americans obviously, and us . . . and then a few others just so it seems like a natural thing,” Penny said.
“How about Bjarke and Leah?” Mandy asked.
Penny nodded. “They are nice. And maybe we can find out from Bjarke what his newspaper is doing reporting on my taxes.”
Bjarke was the editor-in-chief of Børsen, the top financial newspaper in Denmark that had broken the Mark and Penny tax investigation story. Leah, his wife, worked with handicapped adults. They were a down-to-earth couple who had known Mandy for as long as she had lived in Denmark. She didn’t confide in Leah as she did in Penny, and Leah didn’t confide in Mandy, but they were friends. They went to Zumba class together on Saturday mornings at Well-come Spa.
“How about the children?” Mandy asked.
“No children,” Penny said. “Let’s keep it child free. Nothing cramps my style more than having Jinny and the kids around. I love them, Mandy, but now is not the time to bond with them. I need to make sure I can bond with them in the next five years, which will be hard to do from jail.”
“Ravn will never let that happen,” Mandy said emphatically.
That evening, when they were in bed, Mandy told Ravn about the weekend she was planning, and as was the norm between them, he put it on his calendar without asking any questions. She in turn didn’t ask him to “please be on time” as a nagging wife would, especially when he was never on time.
“Penny is so worried,” Mandy told him. “She thinks she’s going to end up in jail.”
Ravn, who was reading through something on his iPad, snapped his head up. “I’ll never let that happen.”
“That’s what I told her,” Mandy said, delighted with herself for knowing her husband so well. “But what about Mark?”
“What about Mark?” he said, his focus back on his iPad.
Mandy sighed. She knew that tone of voice. It was the this discussion is over tone of voice.
“The Americans, do you think they’ll come for a weekend like this?” Mandy asked, carefully moving along with the items on her nighttime conversation agenda.
“Sure,” he said, and then, as if realizing he was being short, he added, “They know no one here. It’s nice of you to invite them. And more Americans are joining them; they have a team in the United States working on the IT Foundry acquisition as well, and some of them are coming next week to Denmark. Why not invite them, too? We have enough bedrooms at the house.”
Mandy turned on her iPad and looked through her invite list. “How many more people did you say?”
“I don’t know. Why don’t you give Lucky a call? He arranges these things for Harry,” he said. “And ask that Vietnamese guy, what’s his name? Phan? Ask him to come so he can cook. I don’t want you cooking for all these people. He can shop and take a car and set up there. Last time was a disaster with all of us chopping and cleaning in the kitchen.”
“I thought it was cozy,” Mandy said, as she added a note to tell Phan to keep the weekend free. She didn’t use him all the time, but lately he had started to cook for them once in a while, especially when they were having guests. Mandy took too much pride in her cooking to outsource it, but this is what the wealthy did; they invited a cook along to weekend parties.
“It was cozy, skat,” Ravn said, turning to look at his wife. “I just don’t want you to stress out when we’re going to be so many people.”
Mandy smiled. “Oh, you’re always so considerate,” she said, and went back to making plans for a weekend party.
Yes, they would have Vietnamese rolls as appetizers on day one; they were Ravn’s favorite, after all, and then for the main course . . .
Chapter 12
Ravn’s Ballerinas
“I’d like to take you out to lunch,” Sanya heard Ravn say when she picked up her cell phone to a strange Danish number.
How did he get my number? she wondered. I can barely remember it.
“Where?”
“Café Around the World,” he said, and added in Danish, “Café Jorden Rundt.”
“I don’t know if I want to go around the world with you,” Sanya said.
“I’ll pick you up in ten minutes. Can you be outside your apartment?” he asked.
“But I won’t go around the world with you,” she said.
“Have a salad instead,” he suggested.
He hung up.
Sanya was still in one of Harry’s white undershirts. He kept a stack of old soft ones just for her. And then, when the ones she wore got holes in them, he would just transfer more to her closet. It wasn’t flowers or small blue boxes of precious items, but it was his way of showing love. It was making sure for nearly two decades that Sanya always had what she needed to sleep in.
Maybe she took the shirts for granted and he took . . . no, used to take Sanya for granted. Sanya wasn’t sure how Harry felt about her anymore. Since the implosion, Sanya certainly had trouble sorting her emotions, but she had more trouble than usual gauging Harry.
A few years ago she had asked Harry, if he could change anything about her, what would he like to change?
His response had been immediate: “Nothing.”
She should’ve been flattered, but she wasn’t, because she knew he answered the way he did because he didn’t know Sanya. If he knew her, he would’ve said, “I would like for you to be authentic, not this caricature you’ve made yourself into to make the world happy.” If he really knew his wife, he would’ve said, “Sanya, I wish you still loved me.”
Sanya refused to feel guilty as she discarded the soft white nightshirt and changed into a pair of jeans and a white T-shirt. She took a black sweater along just in case she got cold and then for safety wrapped around her neck a black-and-white silk scarf. She was nailing this whole layering thing.
Ultimately, Ravn didn’t take Sanya around the world; instead he took her to the New Carlsberg Glyptotek, a museum with a café in the atrium.
“I changed my mind,” he said. “My wife said she was meeting my cousin there after her workout. She goes to the gym every day.”
“Of course she does,” Sanya said.
“I run. Do you run?” he asked.
“All the time, and away from lots of things,” she said.
“I have a wife,” he said.
“I have a husband, and at our age, people usually tend to have baggage,” she said when they entered the museum. “And how do you know that you won’t bump into someone you know here?”
“Copenhagen is a village; I can absolutely bump into someone I know here,” he said. “I just don’t care to bump into, as you put it, my wife.”
“Would she mind you having lunch with me?” she asked.
“I have no idea,” he said.
“What if Harry asked your wife out to lunch?” Sanya prodded.
“I seriously don’t give a fuck who Harry has lunch with . . . even my wife,” he said.
They stood in the atrium of the museum, at a crossroads. In one direction was the museum entrance. Another path led to the c
afé, one to the house of sculptures, one to specifically Rodin, and the last straight ahead to the impressionist art collection. They walked straight ahead.
“This museum was built by Carl Jacobsen, the son of the guy who built the Carlsberg breweries. Cees ’t Hart, the CEO of Carlsberg, is a friend of mine. Nice Dutch guy,” Ravn said. “They could have just called it Glyptotek—glypto is Greek for glyphein, which means ‘carvings’ or some such thing, and theke means ‘a place of storage’—but since everyone has an ego the museum is called the New Carlsberg Glyptotek.”
“A warehouse for carvings,” Sanya mused.
They walked through the hallways, a few tourists scattered around. No one paid them attention. A man with a scar on his cheek and a damaged woman holding herself together. Nothing to see.
“Are you into impressionistic art?” he asked.
Sanya shrugged. “I don’t know much about art. I like that Munch guy with the screaming man.”
“That painting was stolen from the Norwegian Art Museum in Oslo a few years ago in broad daylight,” he said.
“I read about it. It must’ve taken balls to steal something so important in broad daylight,” Sanya said.
They stepped into the first room, where beauty dripped from the walls in the form of oil paintings, some old and some new. Curators said it took oil paintings that are layered, glaze over varnish over paint over paint, years to dry. Some of the old masterpieces were still not completely dried. Sanya liked the idea of that. Something this timeworn was still in the process of firming itself, finding itself, letting the fluid amalgamate and harden into something that could last an eternity, stolen or otherwise.
“The French collection is the most impressive, with Monet, Pissarro, Renoir, Degas, and Cézanne,” Ravn said.
Sanya had heard these names before, and she knew Monet made that painting with haystacks and water lilies, and wasn’t Degas the dude with the ballerinas? The rest were just names.
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