The man laughed, so preposterous was her suggestion as she stood atop the cold stone of the Pont Neuf, but the laughter stopped abruptly and Juliet knew that it meant he’d done just as she’d asked. So sure was she that he’d done as she’d commanded that she didn’t even bother to turn, instead focusing her gaze on the dirty, stinking water beneath her.
Perhaps it was the effects of the Green Fairy, but from her vantage point, she swore she could see a hand come out from the Seine to pull her into its blackness. And she was relieved. She would not be alone. And the thought of this comforted her as she leaned out to touch it.
16
Helen Lambert
Washington, DC, June 10, 2012
I was drenched when I woke up. My lungs were wheezing as though I were drowning. Juliet had jumped into the Seine. Wasn’t there a statistic about all the people who drowned themselves off the Pont Neuf? I grabbed my iPhone and called my curse “administrator”—which made him sound like the demonic bureaucrat he was. The fact that it was nearly five A.M. thrilled me.
“You are a fucking bastard, you know that, don’t you?”
“Good morning, Helen.” He sounded groggy and disoriented, which made me happy. “Yes, it is five so I guess that qualifies as morning. As for my being a bastard, you have no idea.”
I could hear him shuffling around. “I was up.”
“No you weren’t.”
“No, I wasn’t.”
“You married another woman?”
“Oh,” he said. “That’s why you’re calling. Do you want me to come over?”
“No. I do not want you to come over. I fucking hate you right now. Stay away from me.” I considered something that I’d forgotten. “Fuck.”
“What?”
“Bastard though you are, I do need a date for this evening.”
“I could be busy.”
“But we both know you’re not.”
“I’m not.”
“I know. Pick me up around six o’clock. It’s a party for an Italian artist, Giulio Russo, at the Italian ambassador’s house. Oh, I should mention… Roger will be there.”
“Oh, that changes things entirely. I’ll definitely be there.”
“She’ll be with him.”
“Try not to kill her.”
“Very funny. Wear a suit.”
“I’m at your service.”
“So you keep saying.” I hung up the phone.
It was one of those perfect June nights in Washington before the stifling humidity bears down on the city. Up in the hills of Rock Creek Park, the Italian ambassador’s house, named Villa Firenze, sat on twenty-two lush, wooded acres. Inside the stone mansion was a blend of Mediterranean meets Tudor with elaborate wood-paneled rooms and stone and tile floors. The house had magnificent views of Washington, so the cocktail reception was held on the blue-green lawn overlooking the woods. After agonizing over the choices in my closet, I decided to wear an Alexander McQueen dress with a white blouse top with bell sleeves and an attached black skirt with a front slit. The entire number was accented with a wide patent-leather belt that pulled it together. It was a striking dress that wasn’t going to appear until the 2013 collection. I had gotten close with the Alexander McQueen team in the last year. Topping off the outfit was a McQueen skull clutch. This was the first time I was seeing Roger and Sara in public. I was taking no chances.
In my head, seeing Roger with Sara was distressing, yet equally disturbing were the intense feelings I had for Luke Varner—a man I’d met a little over two weeks ago. It literally felt like yesterday that Juliet had jumped from the Seine; the betrayal from Luke was still raw.
For his part, Luke looked as comfortable in a suit today as he had in 1898 Paris. We swirled around packs of people. Given that Luke was an art dealer, he was very much in his element.
The guest of honor, Giulio Russo, was an Italian painter whose works were large, dark, romantic, and moody. Each painting was a sad scape depicting loss of some sort—love, innocence, life. To stand in front of a life-size Russo painting was to feel pure sadness almost as though he’d dragged you into the scene.
Russo had been making a name for himself in Europe for years, but he was just entering the global art scene in a big way this year with a show in both London and New York. This dinner had been in the works for more than a year, with Roger and I helping to lure him down to Washington. Originally, we had wanted to have him at one of our dinner parties, but those ended when I moved out of the house. Since then, the Hanover had acquired one of his works, and the dinner at the ambassador’s was part of the unveiling of a painting featuring a girl about to walk into a lake—the question being whether it was purely for a swim or a more melancholy, final plunge. Knowing it was a Russo, the likely outcome was the latter, but the darkness of the painting drew you into the narrative.
I hadn’t seen the painting before the party. Given my dream of Juliet drowning, I found the portrait moving. It had modern-day echoes of Marchant’s work except for the fact that behind Russo’s beautiful subjects was a darkness. Many of Russo’s other works featured elaborate, beautiful settings, but the subject’s faces appeared “off” as though they were enduring the beauty around them while aware of something sinister lurking just outside the frames.
Russo himself looked the part with messy black ringlets that just brushed his shoulders and wide brown eyes. Tonight he wore a garnet-red suit with black Gucci loafers, with a black shirt open far enough that you could see the large silver crucifix that lay against his bronzed skin. I was deep in conversation with him when I saw Roger and Sara walk onto the lawn. If I was honest, I felt them before I saw them. Luke’s arm came around me and rested lightly on my back even before they came into view, so I know that he had the same sensation. I was grateful for the gesture. For nearly thirty minutes, Roger and I circled each other until we faced each other in conversation.
After the incident in her house when the window had fallen on them, Roger and Sara had broken up for a month, but they were now back together. This was the first time I’d ever seen them together. I’m not quite sure if it was seeing me in public that had him flustered, but we embraced each other stiffly and he gave me a kiss on the cheek. Although I did not like Sara, I still felt tremendous guilt about my role in the death of her mother, Johanna, and I was nicer to her as a result. Curiously, Luke introduced himself by his first name only, and I could tell that Roger was puzzled about my date’s identity.
Sara was so tiny that in heels, she barely peeked over Roger’s shoulders. Her blond bob was gathered into a “barely there” ponytail, and she wore a snug black sleeveless shift that fell below the knee.
The entire look was tidy and polished. Roger wore a look of frustration.
Our entire performance was high theater for the guests around us. There was a sense of everyone holding their breath to see if Roger and I could continue to navigate each other well enough to make everyone comfortable. So we made small talk.
“I bet your phone has been ringing off the hook about the Heathcote interview,” said Roger. It was strange. The man who stood in front of me was wooden and sweating even though a cool breeze was coming down through the trees.