The Mistress

by Danielle Steel

  She was still up when the maid came in at eight, and she asked her to get boxes when the stores opened. She asked no questions, so Natasha knew that someone had warned her that Natasha was moving out. Ludmilla was very quiet as she made a cup of tea and set it down in the bedroom while Natasha went through drawers. And she asked her to set up racks in the long hallway to her dressing room so she could divide things up between what to keep and what to sell. She knew there would be a lot more of the latter. It was like being deported from the life she had known, and becoming a refugee overnight. Ludmilla said nothing to her as Natasha began dragging clothes out of her closets and putting them on the racks. She tried to think in an organized way, but every few minutes she had to stop just to catch her breath, or sit down. She was trying hard not to panic, and not to remember his face and his words when he banished her, standing on the dock in Antibes.

  The golden life was gone forever, and she didn’t know if she’d miss it or not. She was about to have the freedom she had longed for occasionally to do what she wanted, that she had given up when she accepted being his mistress. She could get to know people as someone other than the woman who lived by his schedule and waited for his commands. But in many ways, she thought it had been a good life, and a safe one. Or maybe she’d been wrong. She wondered now. She thought of the two women who had been murdered the year before while they were in Sardinia, women like her, whose only crime was that they lived in servitude to the men who kept them and paid their bills. Just being his woman had its risks. She saw that now, but she couldn’t allow herself to dwell on it as she made order in her life, or tried to.

  She hung all the gowns on a rack and divided them by designer. They were all haute couture, and she realized quickly that there were far too many for one rack. She filled six racks with them, all with their numbered tags to identify them as haute couture, and she had the presentation drawings to go with them, which she had kept as souvenirs, and the photographs from the fashion shows they were in, with famous models wearing them, before they were handmade for her. She had gone through only the evening gowns by noon, and took a break to lie on her bed for a few minutes and then got distracted by what was in the drawers in her bedroom, mostly papers, and costume jewelry, and some nightgowns, which were all satin and very sexy, the way Vladimir liked them. As she looked at them, she saw them for what they were for the first time, the costumes of a sex object, who wore them to arouse and entice the man who paid her bills. In the end, she had not been so different from her mother, just luckier and better dressed. Now she wanted that to change. She was no longer going to trade sex for protection and a lifestyle. She could see now why Theo Luca had asked her the questions he did, and realized what he must have thought of her. But it hadn’t stopped him from wanting to paint her, and talk to her. She had liked him when they met and would have liked to be friends with him. She thought about calling him at the restaurant to tell him she was glad they had gotten the paintings back, but it didn’t feel right. She had no part in it really. She had informed the police, but Vladimir had had them returned himself, by the same people who had taken them in the first place, without ever being caught by the police. It had been brilliantly done, without a hitch. As revenge for the painting he couldn’t buy, or the one of Natasha. He had proven his point, that he could do whatever he wanted.

  She went back to her sorting then, and took out jumpsuits and winter suits, pantsuits and dresses, and the things she wore out to dinner in London and Paris. There was a rainbow of colors on the racks, in myriad fabrics, each outfit exquisite and wonderfully made. It took her all day to get all the clothes on the racks, and she remembered to call the bank in the late afternoon. She needed to know what she had in the account. It sounded like a large sum of money to her, and then she realized it wouldn’t have been enough to pay for one of her evening gowns, but if she was careful she could live on it for a while. She had never paid rent in Paris, or anywhere, or for a hotel. He had taken care of everything with his staff, and she could only guess what a small apartment would cost to rent, maybe somewhere on the Left Bank on a quiet street. She hoped what she had in her bank account would carry her for several months, and once she sold the clothes and jewels, she would have more, possibly a great deal more. But she had to get busy selling things. She continued sorting and hanging until late at night, and finally collapsed on her bed still wearing her jeans and T-shirt, and fell asleep.

  When she got up in the morning, she called the real estate agent she had liked best, and told her she had a cousin arriving from Russia who needed a small, inexpensive apartment in a safe neighborhood, preferably in the sixth or seventh arrondissement, where many of the art galleries were, or a less expensive neighborhood if necessary. She asked who to call for a rental, and the woman offered to help her—they had been great clients and Vladimir had paid a staggering price for the apartment. Natasha hoped he wouldn’t lose money on it now, which was more than most women would have thought in her situation, being banished overnight. The realtor told her how sorry she was to hear that they were already selling, and that she had heard that Natasha had done a beautiful job decorating. So Natasha knew they had already called her to put it on the market. Vladimir had thought of everything and lost no time. The realtor said they were going to begin showing it as soon as she moved out. Vladimir was selling it with the furniture. He wanted no souvenir of their lost life either, which hurt her for a moment, and she forced herself not to think about it. She couldn’t afford to or she knew she would fall apart. She couldn’t allow herself to get sentimental now, or frightened. She just had to keep going until it was over and she had found safe haven somewhere. She told Ludmilla to pile the boxes she had gotten in the living room. Natasha didn’t ask her to help otherwise, and she didn’t offer. She stayed in the kitchen and was about to be out of a job too. Vladimir’s office had notified her that she could stay until the apartment sold, and then they would give her a month’s pay when she left. It was proper but not overly generous. He was a businessman above all.

  The real estate agent promised to call when she had researched some rental listings. The charade of looking for an apartment for a mythical cousin was no longer necessary since the woman knew so much. And Natasha reminded her to keep the prospective apartments small and not too expensive, since she didn’t need much and had a modest budget. The woman assured her that she understood, probably better than Natasha wanted her to, which was embarrassing. She realized that she had countless humiliations ahead now, selling her belongings, moving out, looking for work with no job experience. She wondered if anyone would even hire her. Maybe she’d have to work as a maid in a hotel, she thought to herself in bad moments, but if so, she would have to do it. Or she could take a job as a maid in a private home, when her money ran out and she needed a place to live. She realized that anything was possible now, but she would do whatever she had to. It never dawned on her to try and meet another man like Vladimir, or that another one would come along to save her, and pay for her beauty and her body and company. That was the last thing she wanted, and she was prepared to starve first. She was on her way to freedom now, and nothing would make her turn back. With all the doors closing behind her, there were others opening. She just didn’t see them yet, but hoped they were there.

  It took her four days to empty her closets in an orderly fashion and figure out what to keep and what to sell. She had decided to keep the two plainest evening gowns, and then increased it to four in case she ever got invited somewhere formally again. Three were black and very simple but beautifully made, and the fourth one was red, and she had loved it when she bought it. It was one of the few she had picked herself. There were dozens of others, and she felt guilty when she saw how many she had, but Vladimir had ordered them all. She realized now that she had been an accessory to him, and not a person in her own right in his eyes.

  She kept a few wool suits, and a number of skirts and pants, all her sweaters and blouses, even though the blouses were haute couture
, but she might need them for a gallery job. She kept half a dozen of her heavy wool coats, and some light ones, and had three racks of furs to sell. They were magnificent, and then she hesitated again and kept a black fox jacket, two sporty ones, and she retrieved the sable coat he had bought her at Dior the previous winter. It was so beautiful, she didn’t want to give it up. And she weeded through her shoes too, and kept only those she thought she’d wear, and none of the fanciful ones that she had worn to parties, or lolling on the boat or at home. She kept the ones she’d need for work, and some sober, dressier ones, and her boots. All her fur hats went except the one that matched the sable coat she was keeping. She was going to sell all the Birkins, most of them alligator, and all with diamond clasps, which she had never liked, but Vladimir had insisted on them, as part of the role he cast her in. He had paid over two hundred thousand dollars for each of the Hermès alligator bags with the diamond clasps, and their price at Hermès had gone up since, and she wondered what she could get for them for resale or at auction. She was selling a dozen of them, and she had always heard they sold for high prices to Hermès customers desperate for them on the resale market, so they didn’t have to wait three years to order new ones in the colors they wanted, since Hermès was slow to deliver. It worked in her favor now.

  And she had all the jewelry neatly stacked in the boxes it had come in. Vladimir had been more inclined to highly styled design pieces than large stones, but she was sure there would be a market for them. She just didn’t know where yet. Undoing a life to this extent was entirely new to her, but she was organized and methodical about it.

  And the real estate agent called about three rental listings after a few days. She said they were very small and not too expensive, and she asked if Natasha would have any furniture since the apartments didn’t, and Natasha suddenly realized she hadn’t thought of it. But the realtor suggested she go to IKEA, where they had everything for the home, and it was dirt cheap. She could even buy it online, which would be a new experience for her too. She was going to be living a real life now, not that of a rich man’s mistress. But it was a long way from the dormitory and factory in Moscow. She had been banished from her luxurious life, but she would not drown. And once she sold almost everything, she would have enough to live on for a long time. She no longer had Vladimir’s protection, but she had her own. Her life of luxury had been on loan, and she was returning it in exchange for her freedom and independence, which were even more valuable to her now. The suddenness of her change in circumstances was shocking, but it felt right.

  The realtor described the three apartments to her, and said she hadn’t seen any of them. She suggested they go that afternoon, and she had the keys to two of them, and could get keys to the third if Natasha was free. She had been in the apartment, working feverishly, for five days by then, and thought it might be good to get out, and she needed to start researching where to sell her clothes. And she had no idea where to go with the jewelry, except maybe to put it up for auction at Sotheby’s or Christie’s, but she thought she might want the money sooner, and they might not have room in an auction for many months. She agreed to see the apartments that afternoon, and braced herself for what they would look like. The prices sounded reasonable to her, and the real estate woman warned her that they were very small, and not what she was used to. Natasha assured her that she wouldn’t mind.

  She took a cab to the first address on the rue du Cherche-Midi and met the realtor outside. Natasha was dressed simply in jeans again, but had put on heels and a decent blouse and was wearing one of the Birkins she decided to keep, a “So Black” with black hardware that she had pulled out of the “sell” pile before she boxed them up. And she had pulled out a black leather Kelly bag too. And whatever she kept she could sell later, if she needed more money.

  The apartment was a third-floor walkup, with no elevator, that looked out on a back courtyard, and was dark and seriously depressing. And they both knew that it was too awful, even at a decent price. The bedroom was barely big enough for a bed, and the living room was small too, and the kitchen and bathroom were grim.

  “I don’t think so,” Natasha said politely, and the realtor agreed. They walked to the next one on the rue St. Dominique. There was a string of restaurants up and down the street, and they both thought it would be noisy, and it was more expensive than the others. It was nice enough, although the elevator was rickety and the size of a phone booth, and it was on the fifth floor and lighter than the previous one, but Natasha said she would prefer something cheaper. So they went on to the last one on the rue du Bac around the corner from a gallery and a small bistro, and there were a pharmacy and a small grocery store nearby, which seemed practical. It was the least expensive of the three options, so neither of them expected much, and Natasha was shocked by how small it was, but it was on the second floor with no elevator in a pretty little building that seemed well kept and clean.

  “The woman who owns the apartment owns the building, and her daughter lived in the apartment but is married and just had a baby, so they moved upstairs to a bigger apartment. And I think the owner may live in the building herself.”

  Natasha didn’t see how a couple could have lived there, let alone with a baby, but it was immaculate and sunny. It had a tiny bedroom like the last one, but there were flower boxes outside the windows, which gave it a cheerful look, and high ceilings since it was an old building, and the living room was a decent size with a fireplace. The closet space wasn’t great, but she wasn’t keeping many clothes. And they had put in new kitchen appliances when her daughter got married, and there was a funny old-fashioned bathroom. It was a far cry from Avenue Montaigne, but Natasha could see herself living there, and the area was safe, and the building well tended. There was a door code and an intercom, so no one could get in who didn’t belong there. And the price seemed about right for what she guessed her budget might be eventually. She was being very cautious, to make whatever money she got last longer. And she had enough money to pay rent now from what was left in her bank account, which wasn’t a lot. And she wouldn’t need a lot of furniture, just the basics—a couch, chairs, table, a bed and a dresser, some lamps, a carpet.

  “I’ll take it,” she said gratefully. It was available on the last day of July. It seemed meant to be. She felt lucky that she had an apartment and would have some money left to furnish it and live until she found a job. The money from the clothes and jewelry would be her nest egg to use over time as she needed it.

  “I hope you’ll be happy here,” the realtor said with a sympathetic look. Natasha had been quiet and polite, and the woman felt sorry for her. It was obvious she was leaving a grand lifestyle and was obliged to live simply now. She had already guessed what had occurred, and she liked Natasha and wanted to help. She normally never did rentals and referred them to someone else, but she had sensed that something bad had happened, and felt concerned for her. The realtor wrote down the name IKEA on a piece of paper and handed it to her.

  “You’ll find everything you need there, furniture, linens, plates, rugs, lamps.” Natasha hadn’t thought of all that, but she had only her clothes. She didn’t want to ask Vladimir for anything from the apartment, and she was sure he wouldn’t give it to her. She was lucky he was letting her have her clothes to sell, since he thought she had betrayed him. She wondered how he knew, or if he had sensed it. She knew he could have thrown her into the street with nothing, so she didn’t want to ask for more, and was just grateful for what he was allowing her to take. What shocked her was how willingly and suddenly he had given her up, like an object he no longer wanted, with no emotion. It was still hard to understand. She had wanted to believe they loved each other, which was clearly not the case. And she wasn’t heartbroken either. Just scared and sad, which was normal after eight years with him, and having everything change overnight. “Someone will have to help you put the furniture together,” the real estate agent explained about IKEA, and Natasha looked puzzled. “It all comes taken apart, in
pieces, but I’m sure you can find someone to put it together for you. My son and I have bought a lot of it for his apartment, and he’s a whiz at assembling. It’s a nuisance, but it’s not hard. I have a great Russian handyman, if you want his name.” Natasha’s face lit up when she said it.

  “That would be wonderful. I’m not so good at putting things together,” she admitted, and they both laughed.

  “Neither am I, but I’ve learned.” Natasha knew from their earlier conversations that she was divorced and had two grown children.

  The realtor promised to get her the lease in the next few days. It was a standard French lease, for three years, with two three-year renewals at a minimal increase each time, and she could leave anytime with sixty days’ notice. The realtor explained that French rentals favored the tenant more than the owner. And if Natasha wanted to, she could stay in the tiny apartment for nine years. She’d be thirty-six then, and had just turned twenty-seven, so if her situation never improved, she would have a home for a long time. It was comforting to know that now, and she felt sure she could manage the rent with a decent gallery job. She didn’t want anyone else helping to pay her rent ever again. She wanted something she could afford on her own.

  Thinking about her tiny new apartment, it was a shock when she went back to the apartment on Avenue Montaigne with all its grandeur, boiseries, and high ceilings, and the antiques she had bought, but she couldn’t allow herself to think of it. She had a place to go, and there was no point looking back or comparing her old life to her new one. And she had so much left to do, she couldn’t falter now. She looked up auction houses in the phone book that night, and found some she recognized, and wrote down their phone numbers. It was time to let go of her possessions and her old life. And knowing where she was going now, she had a better sense of how much she could keep. She put more of her wardrobe on the racks to sell that night, and told herself she didn’t need it. But she couldn’t afford to buy new clothes either, so she kept anything practical, and a few things she felt pretty in, and she liked what she kept. The rest had all been advertising for Vladimir, and she didn’t have to do that anymore. There was some comfort in that.