Remembrance

by Danielle Steel

  “Well, famous lady, how does it feel to be the hottest model in New York?”

  “I don't know.” She smiled at him as she sat next to Teddy on the floor one Sunday with the paper. “I'm too exhausted to feel a thing.” And then she looked at him with an impish smile. “It's all your fault, you know, Teddy.”

  “Nah, it's all because you're so ugly.” He leaned over to kiss her on the cheek and then a question came into his eyes. “Have you had any dates?”

  She wondered why he asked, but she was noncommittal. “I haven't really had time.” And then she decided to be honest with him. He was her best friend, after all. “But I'd like to. I think I'm finally ready. Why, do you have anyone in mind?” It was the first time he had ever asked her.

  “To tell you the truth,” he said, looking a little shy, “I have a friend who's a surgeon who's been begging me to introduce you to him. If doctors had lockers, his would be plastered with pictures of you.”

  She laughed at the image. “Is he nice?” Lately she really had been wishing to meet a man. It had taken her four years to get over Brad, but suddenly she led a different life now. In San Francisco her life was too reminiscent of him, but in New York everything was different. “Would I like him?”

  “Maybe. He's divorced. And he may be a little too quiet.”

  Serena laughed. “Are you telling me I'm loud?”

  “No.” He grinned at her like a brother. “But you've got awfully glamorous, kid. Maybe you'd want someone more flamboyant.”

  “Have I really changed that much?” The thought shocked her. Brad hadn't been flamboyant. He had been loving and solid and strong. That was what she still wanted now, but on the other hand she wasn't the same girl Brad had married. She had been nineteen then and it seemed an aeon ago, those years after the war when she was so dependent on him. She wasn't dependent on anyone now, except, in a very relaxed way, Teddy. “Why don't you arrange a dinner with your friend?” It was obvious that she was interested, and it was there that Teddy saw the greatest change in her. Six months before she would have refused instantly.

  But as it turned out, the dinner never came to be. Serena's schedule was impossible to rearrange. In truth, she didn't have time to have dinner with Teddy's friend. After trying a few times to arrange it, Teddy finally gave up, not quite sure of his own reasons, still uneasy about the depth of his feelings for her. The agency kept her going at fever pitch. Even Vanessa complained about it sometimes. “I never see you anymore, Mommy.” But on her daughter's seventh birthday Serena had gone all out and taken her and four of her friends to the circus. It had been a grand event, and Vanessa had forgiven her for the chaos of the past few months.

  But things did not improve after Christmas. She had literally one day off for Christmas, and spent it with Vanessa and Teddy, but the next morning she was running through the snow in a bathing suit and a fur coat for Andy Morgan, leaping into the air with her blond mane flying straight up. Two weeks later she was sent to Palm Beach for a shoot there, then to Jamaica, back to New York, off to Chicago. She managed to take Vanessa with her each time she went, which wreaked havoc with the child's schoolwork, but she worked on it with Vanessa every night when she finished work, and she was so happy doing what she did mat somehow it made everyone forgive her for the long hours that she was busy.

  By the following summer Kerr had raised her rate to two hundred dollars an hour and “The Princess” was the talk of New York and a prize for every photographer in the country. Dorothea Kerr kept a close watch on her career and controlled everything she did with an iron hand, which pleased Serena. She valued the older woman's guidance and they had become friends. They seldom saw each other outside business hours, but they spent long hours talking in Dorothea's office, and the advice she gave Serena was always excellent. Particularly in regard to Margaret Fullerton, who for the moment had stopped being a problem. Serena was just too successful for her slanderous reports to have any effect. And Dorothea was pleased for her.

  “I hope you're enjoying this, Serena, because it's fun while it lasts, but it doesn't last forever. You'll make a bundle of money. Put it away, do something sensible with it”—Dorothea had started her own agency, but Serena had no ambition in that vein—”and realize that it's only for a time. You have your day and then it's someone else's tum.” But she had been impressed from the first with the way Serena handled it. She was an intelligent girl, with a sense of direction, and she didn't fool around. She worked hard and she went home, and whatever else she did no one ever knew. Dorothea was tired to death of models who got drunk and arrested, who caused disturbances, bought sports cars and cracked them up, got involved with international playboys, and then attempted suicide in the most public manner possible, and then of course failed. Serena wasn't like them. She went home to her little girl, and Dorothea always suspected that there were few men in her life, and even at that, only very circumspect dates, there hadn't been anyone serious since her husband.

  That summer Serena had been in New York for a year, and she was so busy that she could barely spend a minute with Teddy. Fortunately for her, Vanessa was in camp for two months.

  By the middle of August Serena was so booked up with jobs every day that she asked Dorothea to stop scheduling so many. She needed some time off and she had decided to give herself at least a week before Vanessa came back.

  “Can't you put them off for a couple of weeks?” She looked pleadingly at Dorothea.

  Dorothea looked at the waiting list of people begging for Serena, and smiled at her with a knowing look. “You're a lucky lady, Serena. Just look at this.” She handed the list briefly to Serena, who shook her head and groaned as she fell into a chair. he was wearing a white linen skirt, a little red and white striped halter, and red sandals, with red and white bracelets all up and down one arm. She looked like a peppermint stick as she stood there, all fresh and blond and young and groomed to perfection, and it was easy to see why half the photographers in town wanted to use her, not to mention at least a dozen in Italy, France, Germany, and Japan. “You know, I almost envy you. I'd like to think it was like this for me. But I'm not sure it was. On the other hand”—she smiled again—”you have a much better agency than I had in my day.” Serena laughed and ran a hand through her hair.

  “So can you get me a break in the next couple of weeks, Dorothea? I really need it. I haven't been away all year.” Teddy had fled to Newport a few days before, and she really envied him his time at the seashore. He had offered to take her to the Cape, but ever since Vanessa had gone, she had been doubly busy, and she hadn't been able to get away. Now at least, if she could have some time to herself, she could go out to the Hamptons, or even stay in town and, luxury of luxuries, stay in bed for a few days!

  “I'll see what I can do.” She mused over the list again. “The only one I actually don't think I can change is Vasili Arbus.” She glanced at the name.

  “Who's that?”

  “You don't know him?” Dorothea looked surprised.

  “Should I?”

  “The British think he's another Andy Morgan. He's half English, half Greek, and totally crazy, but”—she thought about him for a moment—”he does extraordinarily good work.”

  “As good as Andy?” After a year in New York Serena knew them all, and Andy Morgan had also become a friend. She occasionally met him for lunch at the studio between jobs, and when they had a shooting together, they stayed on after hours to talk about work. There was nothing physical about the relationship, but she was very fond of him as a friend and a colleague.

  Dorothea was still pondering the question. “I don't know. He's awfully good. His work is different. You'll see.”

  “I have to do him?” Serena looked annoyed.

  “We have no choice. He booked you three months ago, from London, for a job that he knew he had coming up over here. He's only here for a few weeks to service some of his American accounts, and then he'll go back to London. I hear he keeps a house there, another in Athens
, an apartment in Paris, and a villa in the South of France.”

  “Does he only travel or does he also work?” For some reason the very sound of his name annoyed her. He sounded spoiled, and she had already met a few of his genre. International playboys hiding behind cameras, using it as a new and interesting way to pick up girls. And that she did not need. As Dorothea said, she was a pro, and she worked like one. Vasili Arbus didn't sound like her cup of tea.

  Dorothea looked at her over her glasses. “Why not give him a chance?” And then she added with thoughtful deliberation, “As a photographer. Not as a man. He's charming as hell, but Vasili Arbus is not someone to get involved with. Not that you would.” She smiled at Serena, who looked amused.

  “I must be known in this business as The Ice Maiden.” Serena grinned, but Dorothea shook her head.

  “I don't think so, Serena. I think most of the guys just know that you don't fool around. It makes you easier to work with, I suspect. There are no expectations other than the obvious professional ones.”

  “Well, I'll just see that Mr. Arbus understands that.”

  Dorothea couldn't repress a smile. “With him, I must admit, you may have a little more trouble.”

  “Oh?” Serena arched an aristocratic eyebrow. She never had trouble with anyone she worked with, because she chose not to.

  “You'll see. He's just like a big charming child.”

  “Terrific. I want to go on vacation, and you stick me with working for a childlike playboy.” Dorothea mused for a moment, Serena had inadvertently come up with the perfect description of Vasili. That was just what he was—a childlike playboy. “Anyway, see what you can do. If you can't cancel him, I'll do it. Just so he does the work quickly, and I can get the hell out of town for a rest while the rest of my family is still away.” She had two weeks before Vanessa came back from camp and Teddy returned from Newport.

  “I'll do what I can.”

  But the next morning Dorothea informed her that she had been able to shift everything around except Vasili Arbus, arid he expected her to come to his studio at two o'clock that afternoon.

  “Any idea how long he'll be shooting?”

  “He thought maybe two days.”

  “All right,” Serena sighed. Two days she could handle, and then she could go somewhere for a few days and relax. She couldn't join Teddy in Newport of course, because of his mother, but she didn't even mind that. She knew that his life there was a round of parties, and when she went away, she didn't even want to comb her hair.

  She got the address of the studio Arbus was using, checked her supplies, makeup, hair spray, mirrors, an assortment of brushes, four pairs of shoes, a bathing suit, some shorts, stockings, three different brassieres, and a little simple jewelry. You never knew what you were going to need when you went to work.

  She reported to the address she'd been given at exactly two thirty and was led into the studio by his assistant, a very attractive young man. The boy spoke English with an accent, it was not quite a lisp, and not quite a slur, he had dark brown hair and olive skin, big black eyes, and a boyish air about him, and Serena guessed correctly that he was Greek.

  “We've seen a lot of your work, Serena.” He looked at her admiringly. “Vasili likes it very much.”

  “Thank you.” She smiled pleasantly at him, wondering how old he was. He looked about nineteen, and she felt like his grandmother at twenty-eight.

  “Would you like some coffee?”

  “Thanks. Should I start working on my makeup?” She also wanted to know how they wanted her to do her hair, but the young man with the black eyes shook his head.

  “Just relax. We're not shooting this afternoon. Vasili just wants to meet you.” At two hundred dollars an hour? He was paying just to meet her? Serena looked a little surprised.

  “When do we start working?”

  “Tomorrow. The next day. When Vasili's ready.” Oh, Jesus. She could see her vacation flying out the window as they got acquainted.

  “Does he always do this?” To Serena it seemed foolish. If there was work to be done, she wanted to do it and go home.

  “Sometimes. If the client is important and the model is new. It means a lot to Vasili to know his models.”

  “Oh, really?” There was an edge to Serena's voice and she hoped that it didn't mean too much to him. She was not there to play with Vasili. She was there to do her work before the camera and that was it. But just as she began to say something else to the assistant, she felt a presence behind her, and she turned to see a man looking into her eyes with such magnetic power that she caught her breath. He had startled her, standing so close to her, but everything about him was startling. His hair shone like onyx, his eyes were like black gems, sparkling at her with barely hidden laughter, he had a broad angular face and high cheekbones, a rich, sensuous mouth, and a suntan that gave him almost honey-colored skin. He was tall and broad shouldered, with narrow hips and long legs. He actually looked mere like one of his own male models than a photographer, and he was wearing a red T-shirt and jeans and sandals.

  “Hello. I am Vasili.” He had a distinct but subtle accent, an interesting mixture of both British and Greek. He held out a hand to her and she shook it, and for an instant she was spellbound, and then suddenly she laughed in embarrassment, feeling foolish to have been so taken with the way he looked.

  “I'm Serena.”

  “Ah.” He held up a hand as though to command silence.” “The Princess.’ ” He bowed low, and then stood up with a broad grin, but even as he teased her his eyes seemed to caress her, and one felt an almost irresistible pull toward the broad chest and powerful arms. “I'm glad you could come here today to meet us.” Either he spoke in the royal we, or he was referring to his assistant, and Serena smiled.

  “I thought we were going to be shooting.”

  “No.” He held up the imperious hand again. “Never. Not on an important job like this one. My clients always understand that I must get acquainted with my subjects.” She couldn't help thinking that it was costing them a fortune, but apparently that didn't matter to him.

  “What are we shooting?”

  “You.” Obviously, but the way he said it made her feel unusually important, as though she were mere as herself, not just a model to make a dress or a car, or a set of towels, or a new brand of ice cream look good.

  She tried a different tack, as his eyes gripped her. He never seemed to let go of her once with his eyes. It was almost as though she could feel him touch her, and she felt an odd stirring deep within. It was a stirring that she resisted, a feeling she pretended not to have, and yet for an instant she sensed that Vasili Arbus was going to become an important part of her life. It was almost as though she had a premonition, and she didn't have any idea why that should be. She forced her thoughts of him from her mind and returned to the questions about the sitting. “Who's the client?”

  He told her and she nodded. They were going to be photographing her with children, two male models, and alone, in an important ad for a new car. “Can you drive?”

  “Sure.”

  “Good. I don't have an American license. You can drive me out to the beach and we'll shoot there.” For two hundred dollars an hour she wasn't usually asked to play chauffeur, but with him everything seemed so easy and natural and friendly that one wanted to go along with whatever he said. He looked at her with interest, and she knew that he was probably studying the planes of her face for the shooting, but she felt oddly naked as he watched her. She was used to arriving for a job, getting ready, and going to work in an almost anonymous fashion. It was odd and a little uncomfortable to be moving along at such an easy pace. It made her feel conspicuous as he looked at her, as though he was seeing her and all that she was and was not. Not just “The Princess,” the creation of the Kerr agency, but someone real. “Have you had lunch?” She looked instantly startled. In her year of modeling in New York no one had ever asked her if she was tired or hungry or sick or exhausted. No one had ever care
d if she'd had lunch or not.

  “I … no … I was in a hurry.…”

  “No.” He wagged a finger at her. “Never, never rush.” And then, with a deliberate air, he set down his cup of coffee, said something in Greek to his assistant, and picked up a bright green Shetland sweater off a chair. “Come.” He held out a hand to her, and without thinking, she took it. They were halfway out the door before she remembered her things.

  “Wait … my bag … I forgot it.…” And then, nervously, “Where are we going?”

  “To get something to eat.” His smile dazzled her with its snowy perfection. “Don't worry, Princess. We'll come back.”

  She felt foolish being so nervous around him, but his informal manner threw her off, and she didn't know what to expect from him. Downstairs was a silver Bentley with a chauffeur. He hopped in nonchalantly and spoke to his driver, this time in English, directing him to a place that Serena did not know. It was only when they crossed the Brooklyn Bridge that Serena began to worry.

  “Where are we going?”

  “I told you. To lunch.” And then he narrowed his eyes as he looked at her. “Where are you from?”

  She hesitated for a moment, not sure what he was asking. “New York …” and then, “the Kerr Agency.” But he laughed at her.

  “No, no. I meant where you were born.”

  “Oh.” She giggled nervously at him. “Rome.”

  “Rome?” He looked at her, startled. “You're Italian?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then the title—it's real?” He looked astounded, and she nodded. “Well, I'll be damned.” He turned in his seat to smile at her. “A real princess.” And then, in Italian, “Una vera princi-pessa.” He held out his hand to her in formal Italian greeting. “Piacere.” He kissed her hand then and looked amused. “My English great-grandfather was a count. But his daughter, my grandmother, married beneath her, she married a man with an enormous fortune and no aristocratic connections at all. He made a great deal of money buying and selling factories, and in trade in the Far East, and their son, my father, must have been a bit of a madman. He patented a series of extraordinary gadgets that related to ships, and then got involved in shipping in South America and the Far East. Eventually he married my mother, Alexandra Nastassos, and managed to kill both himself and my mother in a yachting accident when I was two. Which”—he leaned toward her and spoke in a whisper—”is probably why I'm a little crazy too. No mother and father. I was brought up by my mother's family, because my father's parents were both dead by the time my parents died. So I grew up in Athens, went to Eton, in England, because they thought my father would have liked that. I got kicked out of Cambridge,” he said proudly, “moved to Paris, and got married. And after that it all became very boring.” The dazzling smile shone at her like a noonday explosion. “Now tell me about you.”