“No, this is my first time.”
“Well, I can't give you an appointment without a referral, you know.” The telephone rang, forestalling any need for Anne to come up with an answer. “Doctor Ledner's office, how may I help you?” The receptionist listened for a moment, and then looked up at Anne, mildly annoyed. “Hold on one minute,” she said into the phone. She covered the mouthpiece with her hand. “Ask your doctor to give you a referral. Then you can see him.” She went back to her call. “Yes, I can talk, but just for a minute.” She swung her chair around, turning her back to Anne.
Anne's pulse raced. This was the chance she’d been hoping for. She grabbed the bottle of urine from the top of the filing cabinet and furtively slid it into her bag. “Thank you very much. I'll get my doctor to call,” she said loudly and hurried out.
* * *
The old pharmacist looked down at Anne from behind his counter. “Can I help you with anything?”
“Yes,” she pulled out the bottle from her bag. “I'd like a pregnancy test please.”
He took the urine sample from her and pulled out a form. “Name?”
“Anne Turner,” she replied in a clear voice. “And I'd like a written confirmation of the results, please.”
One week later, results in hand, she picked up the telephone and dialed the number of The Plaza, where Bill had been staying since leaving Mildred.
“Could I have Mr. William Brandon's suite, please?” Soon she would be Mrs. Anne Brandon.
“Bill? It's me, Anne. I have to talk to you. Could I see you right away?” she asked. Her voice held just the right amount of anxiety.
* * *
The Palm Court of the Plaza hotel was discreetly out of view, separated from view of the lobby by a jungle of tall, feathery tropical trees. Behind the wall of foliage, tables were far enough apart to give concerned patrons the illusion of privacy. Bill joined Anne at a table and ordered tea and watercress sandwiches.
Anne waited for their order to arrive, and then launched into her prepared speech. “I guess it's just one of those things. I mean, accidents do happen,” she said, her voice only mildly apologetic. “It isn't as though I wasn't careful.”
Bill Brandon looked stunned. “It's impossible. Your period must be late.”
Anne shook her head. “No.” She opened her purse and pulled out the indisputable proof. She held herself from looking triumphant as she handed him the piece of paper. Bill Brandon picked it up apprehensively. As he read, his expression went from one of disbelief to one of fury.
Anne watched, nervously assessing his reactions. I can't really expect him to be thrilled with this. He'll have to fly to Reno for a quick divorce. As soon as we are married, I'll fake a miscarriage. “Bill, it isn't as though you don't like children. You love your own three children. I'm only twenty-four. I want to have children, too. Our children.”
“I don't believe this!”
“Believe it. There's no mistake about it.”
“You bitch,” Bill said, his voice a low menacing growl. He stood abruptly and the table wobbled dangerously. Anne's cup of tea slid out of her hands and shattered on the marble floor. Porcelain and Earl Grey flew everywhere. Brandon towered over Anne, his mouth twisted in anger. “To think I actually believed I was in love with you. You're nothing but a cheap slut,” he sputtered and bits of saliva flew into Anne's face.
“Bill, please! Stop it. You're scaring me.”
“You should be scared, you whore. If I didn’t stop myself, I would gladly strangle you right now. For your information, I am sterile. I have been all my adult life. My children—all three of them—are adopted.” He started to leave and changed his mind. He came near her again and added, his voice like ice, “I just hope Mildred finds it in her heart to forgive me. Otherwise, I will make you pay.”
Anne felt the blood drain from her face as she watched him walk away. No, it can't be. Dear God, don't let this be. How could she have made such a mistake? Not now. Not when she already had him. All she wanted to do was get him to marry her. That was all. She had to find a way to fix things. Maybe she could tell him the lab was wrong. Maybe she could tell him there was a mix-up. If only she had not handed him the written report. Oh God, what do I do now?
* * *
A hundred times, Anne picked up the phone and dialed. A hundred times, she hung up before it rang. It was better that she wait for him to call. Surely, he would. It was just a matter of time.
Two weeks after the fiasco at The Plaza, the telephone rang. She picked it up, her heart already in her throat.
“This is the Kidney Foundation…”
The disappointment was like a stab in her heart. “I am not interested. Why would I want to give your stupid charity my hard-earned money? Don't call me anymore,” she screamed into the telephone and slammed down the receiver. It took half an hour for her heart rate to return to normal. Bill will call. I know he will. She went back to waiting.
Time passed slowly. Days, then weeks, finally one whole month went by. Still Anne, lay in bed, staring at her reflection in the mirror on the ceiling. Since the scene with Bill at the Plaza, she had been unable to find the energy to get dressed in the morning. She didn’t care about clothes or even makeup anymore. She reached over to the bottle of Vodka on her bedside table and took a large swig. Two years! Two long fucking years! She had wasted way too much time trying to snare Bill Brandon, and only to fail miserably.
I wonder if he told anyone. People are probably talking about me and laughing. Maybe she should move somewhere else. Florida maybe, or California. There would be other opportunities there, plenty of other opportunities. No point in crying over spilled milk. I have to get on with my life, she thought, still unsure of what exactly she would do. She forced herself to sit. As she did, a sudden wave of nausea hit her. Oh, not again. I thought this damned flu would be over by now. For three days now, she had been carrying this stomach flu. If I did not know any better, I would think I really was… Oh, my Lord! A horrible thought occurred to her.
* * *
This time, Anne handed the druggist a bottle of her own urine. One week later when she went back for the results, the druggist smiled down at her. “Congratulations,” he said. “You're going to have a baby.”
Anne walked home in a daze. What she had always feared most was happening. She was in no better a situation than her sister was. I know what I have to do. I'll call Alex. He will help me. After all, I am carrying his baby.
* * *
At LaGuardia airport, he boarded the plane and handed his ticket to the stewardess. She glanced at it quickly and handed it back with a pleasant smile.
“Welcome aboard Air France, sir. I hope you have a pleasant flight.”
“Thanks,” replied Alex Ivanov. “I'm sure I will.”
* * *
Chapter 18
Inside Le Gallet the ceiling, the walls, everything, was painted black. Even the floor was covered in a velvety black carpet. The result was a room that seemed to go on forever. Here and there, throughout, were large sculptures of twisted, gleaming metal, shining brightly under narrow beams of light. Enormous paintings were strategically placed under spotlights, the only splashes of color in an otherwise colorless vacuum. The effect was surreal; pieces of art appeared to float in midair.
Brigitte walked into the gallery filled with hope. The door closed softly behind her, and she became aware of the silence inside. She hugged her canvases tightly to her chest.
Suddenly, the stillness was interrupted by the sound of laughter. Across the cavernous room a group of people were gathered around a large, white canvas with a single, small red dot in the center. One man stood slightly apart from the others. Chubby and middle-aged, he wore an elegant gray suit and was pointing to the painting. Fortune, thought Brigitte, recognizing him from the many articles she had read of the famous gallery owner.
From forty feet away, he turned to look at her. Brigitte felt his eyes travel over her, from head to foot, before he casu
ally turned back to the couple. The dismissal was obvious, and Brigitte was suddenly aware of the shabbiness of her dress. Three and a half years ago, when Marcel had bought it, it had been her favorite outfit. Now it was faded and outdated. I'm being silly. The man wants to see my paintings. He won't care about my clothes. She pulled her shoulders back, held her head high and walked over to the far end of the room. She leaned her canvases against the wall, and choosing the nearest painting, pretended to study it while trying vainly to stop her knees from shaking.
Fifteen minutes later, when the people had left, Fortune walked over. She seemed to be studying the painting, an expression of avid concentration on her face.
“Mademoiselle Dartois, I presume?”
She took a deep breath. “Yes. I'm sorry I'm late, the métro…”
With a wave of his hand, Fortune interrupted her. “Judging from the single painting of yours that I saw, you appear to have some talent.”
Brigitte smiled nervously. “Thank you.”
“How do you like this one?” He indicated the oil she had been staring at for the last fifteen minutes.
Brigitte risked another smile. “I like it. It's…very nice.”
“I don't think 'nice' is quite the word I would use to describe it.”
Brigitte turned to look at the painting again. Streaks of red, purple, and yellow intermingled indiscriminately as though someone had thrown the paint haphazardly onto the canvas. There didn't seem to have any rhyme or reason to the piece. Indeed, it seemed no more than a jumble of angry colors. “Well…I guess it doesn't leave anyone indifferent.”
“Ah! And that my dear is the true mark of genius!” exclaimed Fortune. “Art must awaken emotions. That is the whole raison d'être of art. If a painting does not make you feel something—love, hate, anger, sadness, melancholy, anything—it is not art. It is,” he paused dramatically, “garbage! And now, we will find out if what you paint is art. Are those yours?” he asked, looking in the direction of the stack of oils leaning against the wall. Brigitte nodded. “Let's take them into my office for a closer look.”
With her heart hammering against her ribs, Brigitte followed him into the back room.
Fortune bent over the oil and peered at it through his gold rimmed glasses. The expression on his face was inscrutable. “Where in heavens did you learn to use a brush this way? And the subjects you choose! What in the world made you think of painting an old wall with pealing paper?”
Brigitte listened helplessly while Fortune made one critical comment after another. She could feel tears hovering dangerously behind her lashes. Instead of the happy occasion she had expected, the meeting was turning out to be a disaster.
Fortune laughed. “And look at this, an old lace tablecloth on a clothes line.”
Brigitte jumped up. “I don't have to listen to this,” she said, her voice trembling with emotion. “You are under no obligation to like my work, but I'll be damned if I'll stand here while you make fun of it.” She pulled the painting from his hands and made a fumbling attempt to pick up the others.
“My dear Madame Dartois, please, don't throw a tantrum. I don't like tantrums. What gives you the impression that I don't like your paintings?”
“Y-you said…”
“I said art must awaken emotions. Your paintings do that. When I look at yours, I feel amusement, tenderness. The point is, I feel. I like your paintings very much, Madame Dartois.”
Brigitte swallowed hard. “You like them?”
“I like them.” Fortune handed her a tissue. “Here. Dry your eyes. I can’t stand to see a woman cry.”
* * *
Brigitte’s feet almost flew her home. She was full to bursting with news. With Fortune's advance she repaid Réjeanne. “And I still have enough left over to invest in canvases and paints to prepare for my vernissage,” she told Réjeanne excitedly. “Fortune likes my paintings. Do you know what that means, Réjeanne?” She lifted up her skirt, revealing her long lean legs as she twirled around the room. She stopped and turned to David, who stood watching, his green eyes filled with merriment. “Did you hear me mon chéri? Fortune likes my paintings.” She scooped him into her arms and waltzed him around the apartment.
Although he wasn't sure what his mother was so happy about, David laughed with glee. “Does that mean you won't have to leave me any more?” he asked when Brigitte finally put him down.
“Well, I'm still going to have to work hard.” David's face fell. Brigitte quickly continued. “But I'll be able to spend much more time with you. I promise.”
“Fortune is a really nice man, isn't he?” he asked, his childish face full of wonderment. “Is he like Santa Claus?”
“I guess you could say that!” answered Brigitte, laughing. “And today is like Christmas.”
After putting David to bed, Brigitte sat with Réjeanne, making countless plans. “First, we're going to take a Holiday. I've always wanted to go to the Riviera.”
“What do you mean 'we'?” asked Réjeanne.
“You're coming with David and me,” answered Brigitte. “If you come with us, I can take my easel and do some painting.”
“I think that's a great idea,” answered Réjeanne, who was becoming more and more excited at the thought of traveling.
That night, Brigitte fell asleep on the old couch, her mind filled with visions of lazy days spent lying on a sun drenched beach. In all my life I've never been on a real Holiday. I think it's about time.
The next day when she told Fortune of her plan, reality came crashing back.
“You have no time for a vacation now. You have a vernissage to prepare for,” he told her firmly.
“But, what about all the paintings I already have?”
“Ma chère mademoiselle Dartois, you could barely sell them in Montmartre. Do you really think I will allow you to show those in my gallery?”
“But you said you liked them.”
“True, but I don't put everything I like in my gallery. Under my guidance, you will produce paintings better than any you've ever done, I promise you. Those are what you will show for your vernissage.” Then Fortune gave her detailed plans of the work he expected from her.
Brigitte listened aghast. “But, that amount of work will take months to do.”
“As I said, you don't have time for a vacation.” With that, the subject was closed.
The next morning, when Brigitte showed up at Le Gallet, Fortune showed her into a large, sunny studio in the back. For the rest of the day, under the watchful eye of her new mentor, Brigitte began to learn technique.
That night, she arrived back at her apartment in Montmartre, bone tired. “You think I’m hard on myself? You should hear Fortune,” she told Réjeanne. “He doesn't like a thing I do. Every time I pick a color, he tells me it's wrong. Every time I put my brush to the canvas he yells at me. According to that man, I can't do anything right. I don't understand why he wants to work with me.”
“Are you sure you want to continue working with him?”
“Of course I do. I've never learned so much in my life. He's brilliant!” It was true. Under Fortune's expert guidance, Brigitte's technique was improving rapidly. Her natural talent was being honed and polished until the results astounded even her. From early morning to late at night she stood at her easel, patiently adding stroke after stroke under Fortune's sharp eye, until the results satisfied him. Then, at last, he allowed her to put away her paints for the night.
Long after Brigitte had left, Fortune would stay behind and study the work she had accomplished that day. Her paintings were like nothing he had ever seen. The woman had a style all her own. Her choice of subjects and her compositions were always surprising. She combined colors and textures, working with a speed and a force unexpected in such a young and inexperienced artist. She managed to break all the rules and still her works were brilliant. Her few weaknesses would quickly disappear. She's wonderful. More talented than anyone I've ever worked with. But I'll be damned if I’ll let her kno
w.
In preparation for her vernissage Brigitte created a bold new collection. She ventured into creating portraits and they were bright, colorful, and erotic. She painted people from the street, vendors and beggars and prostitutes. Her paintings had the harsh, raw edge of reality, seen through the eyes of a romantic. It was a thrilling combination. Even Fortune, who was never entirely satisfied with anything his protégés accomplished, was overwhelmed. “Mark my word,” he whispered to a few people, “this girl is going to take the art world by storm.” As he expected, his words were repeated, until everyone waited in unabashed anticipation for the mythical Dartois collection to be revealed.
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