“You seem to be one yourself,” I compliment him. “The architecture projects, the virtual reality. You don’t give yourself enough credit.” He smiles giddily at the praise. I almost want to pat him on the head.
We wait for Louis to finish to a rousing round of applause from the room. He beelines for his son after the performance.
“Bonsoir, Monsieur Swanson,” I say sweetly.
“Hello, Ms. Hart. Thank you for being here,” Louis Swanson replies in a gruff New York accent that Matthew says he reserves exclusively for people from the East Coast of the States to make him seem tough.The rest of the time he’s essentially British, Matthew had explained.People assume he’s smarter for it.
I beam at Louis. “So pleased to see you. Thank you for having me.”
“You’re one of the loveliest guests my son has invited to this event. He brought a circus chimp one year.”
Matthew nods with a smirk. “Baron von Banana was an excellent houseguest. Until he began licking the Monet.”
“You’re incorrigible, Matthew. Always have been. Have you seen your sister?”
“Not yet.”
“If you do, tell her to find me. We have to prepare something.”
I see a shadow darken Matthew’s expression, but it passes quickly. “Yes, sir.”
“Go show this beautiful woman around. Make sure you visit our latest acquisition. She’s almost as gorgeous as you are.” Before we walk away, I feel a hand move down the small of my back and onto the curve of my ass. There’s a small but commanding squeeze. Both of Matthew’s hands are thrust deep into the pockets of his white tuxedo pants. Louis is groping me in full view of his party. I move carefully out of range. Once we’re out of earshot I tell Matthew about his father’s wandering hand.
“Typical,” he says. No admonishment. “Do you want me to introduce you around? I think I see the former prime minister over there.”
“Oh, you don’t have to.” I want to remain as anonymous as I can.
“You don’t even want to meet Madonna?”
“Madonna’s here?”
He winks. His dark mood from the car has passed. “You never know who will show up. But don’t worry. We don’t have to talk to anyone if you prefer. Let’s wander. Then we can check in on the ice sculpting. The Paris symphony won’t be performing for about an hour.” He checks his watch. “And after that I think we have aNutcrackerperformance by the Bolshoi Ballet. They flew in from Moscow last night.”
I raise my eyebrows.
“The owner is a client of Swanson.”
“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 anartist 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 château 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 redpleats 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.
