Chapter 27 #2
“Of course he is.” I know a little about him because he once procured services from Lucie.
I’m tickled that Swanson Enterprises and my roommate share a client.
They probably share many. Lucie always says that art and sex are similarly commodified in capitalism.
“It’s why the saying goes that to sell out as an artist is to prostitute yourself,” she’s explained to me.
“Both sex and art are sacred forms of human expression that powerful people have always been willing to bankrupt themselves for.”
I know the layout of the chateau as well as I know the stalls and rows of the Paris Flea.
Stella had me memorize a floor plan that she drew for me while we were at the cottage on the island.
I could walk through here with my eyes closed, but I allow Matthew to lead me through the maze of rooms. Every wall is adorned in priceless art.
But is any of it real, or are these also reproductions, put on display to impress while the real things are locked away in a vault minting money for billionaires?
I hope they’re real. Stella told me that she believed they were when she lived here.
Her bedroom, or the one that once belonged to her, is up the grand staircase, down a long hallway.
She hasn’t been here in more than a year.
I’m hoping at least one thing is as she left it.
“Can we wander all over the house?” I ask innocently. “Even upstairs?”
“We can go wherever we want.” Matthew puffs out his chest slightly, as if by asking the question I’m challenging his manhood or status within the family.
“Let’s get another glass and see the rooms upstairs,” I say flirtatiously as I squeeze his forearm.
There are plenty of waiters with trays of champagne and a pink holiday punch garnished with sprigs of mistletoe.
A children’s choir is singing somewhere not too far away.
I snatch two glasses and head toward the stairs, only to run smack into Caroline.
She’s all sharp angles, a Modigliani portrait come to life. Not a single person in the room can keep their eyes off her.
“The girl from the café,” she identifies me as her brother kisses her cheek.
“The one and only,” I say, nearly making jazz hands and then very happy that I refrained.
“Your dress is beautiful,” I tell her truthfully.
The floor-length ensemble is a work of art with a flowing skirt of pink and red pleats trailing at least three feet behind her like a bridal train.
Its bodice is embroidered with thousands of small glass beads, all of them a different color, creating a kaleidoscope as the light from above winks off them.
“It was designed for me in Murano.” She stares at my gown, at the raven feathers forming an alluring bodice over my breasts.
It’s modest enough, especially with the cashmere cape that Lucie gave me to wear at dinner, but my bare chest and shoulders sprout goose bumps as she examines me the way she would a painting that’s recently come into her possession.
But after a moment I see a tacit nod of approval, though maybe I imagine it.
“Has Father found you?” Matthew asks his sister.
“No. But he will. He always does.”
“He said he has something to discuss with you.”
“I’m sure our paths will cross before dinner. Do you think he’s outdone Stella with this party?”
“I think he’s outspent Stella.”
Caroline waves her hand in the air. “All the price of doing business. Speaking of the price of doing business, the twins brought the Sultan of Brunei.”
“The actual sultan? Not one of his sons?”
“The actual sultan. He’s been celebrating his fiftieth birthday with parties all over the world this year. Artem and Anton got wind of it and threw him a massive shindig last night at Arpège.”
“Did you know about it?” Matthew asks accusingly.
“If I had, I would have shown up. I just found out. Apparently they’re selling him one of those balloon dog sculptures that Jeff has been making for the entryway to one of his palaces.”
Matthew scoffs. “Those are a joke. Koons is a joke.”
“Anton told me the sultan is going to pay thirty million for the gold one.”
“Dammit. Well, that will make Father happy. The twins are getting better and better at this.”
She leans in to whisper in his ear, but I can hear her anyway. “They’re too good. And they’re dangerous. Find out more.” She raises her voice back to a conversational tone. “Have you seen Mother?”
“She’s here?”
“She is. And in rare form. You need to see her new face; it’s at least fifteen years younger than the old one.
” The siblings laugh together and I’m not sure if I should join in with their wicked fun.
It turns out I don’t have to because two elfin red-haired children hurl themselves at Caroline’s full skirt.
“Mama, may I have a sugarplum?”
“A what?”
“The sugarplum fairies are giving out real sugarplums to all the children, but we didn’t get one.”
Caroline laughs at her two girls. “Maybe you didn’t deserve one, did you think of that?”
They both shake their heads with vigor. “We’ve done everything you asked. I kissed Grandfather on his cheek even though he smells terrible.” She crinkles her nose. “Cigars and old-man smell.”
“Well, you do deserve some sugarplums.” Caroline’s frosty exterior melts in the presence of her children as she leads them away to the fairies.
“Her kids are adorable,” I say.
“Do you want them?” Matthew replies.
“Those two?”
“I meant children. Do you want your own?” He asks it innocently enough.
Even though I know I’m still young, my answer to that question has always been confusing for me.
Not only am I terrified of passing on my mother’s mental incapacities to a child, but I worry my own creative spark will die out if I give myself over to mothering.
But that’s all too much to share with Matthew, and besides, no man wants to hear it.
“Of course I do. Now, show me upstairs. And what is this new acquisition your father has been talking about?”
“I think he was referring to Chris Ofili’s Virgin Mary made of elephant dung.
Everyone is talking about him right now.
Courtney Love is very into him. But Father could also mean a Cecily Brown.
Have you seen her paintings? Caroline was eager to acquire one.
Father wasn’t keen on it, but he trusts her instincts. ”
“Only once in person. They’re incredible.
” Brown is whispered about in the small avant-garde circles that Pascal frequents.
A graduate of Slade in London, she’s always mentioned in art mag lists of ones to watch.
My heart swells in an irrational way when I learn about the success of another young woman artist. Jealousy and competition, at least among women, has always seemed absurd to me despite the art world feeling so insular and competitive.
Her pieces may seem abstract, but Cecily’s fleshy, swirling strokes call to mind the old masters and she’s reclaimed the female nude in a gorgeous feminist way. I like Caroline more for her taste.
“All right, shall we start in the west wing or the east wing? We should hurry if we don’t want to miss the sugarplums.” Matthew does a strange little jig.
In response I pull him into one of the rooms and kiss him hard on the lips.
Tonight I need him focused on one thing—the possibility of us sleeping together for the very first time.
His heartbeat quickens against my breasts.
His hands are firmly on my ass, right in the spot his father recently vacated.
But this time the pressure feels good and I let myself enjoy it.
Lucie told me to let myself go in these moments, to allow my body to respond to the pleasure if it wants to.
I trail my hand down the front of his perfectly pressed shirt and run my palm over the bulge in the front of his trousers.
“Hello,” I whisper, stroking him through the fine fabric.
He groans when I drop my hand back to my side.
“Let’s finish the tour,” I say.
He’s disappointed, but also completely under my spell now.
“Is there a room with a view of the back? I want to see the tent and the party from above.” I know this will be Stella’s room, the one with the safe.
We move on to the master bedroom of the house. I almost expect it to be filled with Matthew’s father’s things, but Stella told me she didn’t think Louis would take it over until he had a chance to fully renovate. “He’ll be afraid my ghost will come for him in the middle of the night.”
I give no indication that I know it was Stella’s room as I walk through, but I can feel her in here.
She said that she loved the view. From here, she told me, you can gaze out on the rolling lavender hills and winding river beyond.
I place my hands on the cold windowsill and press my forehead to the frosty glass.
The backyard below me is a winter fairyland with tiny gold orbs twinkling in every tree and the lightest dusting of sugar snow on the ground.
There’s an exposed walkway between the house and the massive white tent past the patio.
Waiters in their velvet coats ensure no one is empty-handed as they make the walk with white woolen shawls, all provided just for the one-minute excursion, draped around their necks like capes.
“Want to see the most interesting part of this room?” he asks me.
“Of course.”
Matthew presses on a spot on the wall next to the bed and a door springs open. It had been hidden behind the ornate paneling. “To the secret library,” he whispers.
It’s exactly as Stella described it.
The concealed room is inside an actual turret.
It’s circular and lined with shelves that soar three stories high.
Books perch on every surface, their spines a tapestry of faded golds, deep burgundies, and rich browns.
A massive brass telescope stands sentinel by a curved window, its lens pointed down at the party, as if waiting for us to spy on the guests.