‘Yes, of course, I mean—’ said Ana, slightly blushing. ‘Yes, I love him. Well, I think I love him anyway, in a isn’t-he-nice, aren’t-I-lucky kind of way. Which is fine, right? I mean how do you know if you ever really love someone? I would need Brad Pitt to walk in and offer to marry me to know if I really loved him!’
‘Oh honey, when you know, you know. You know, right? Listen, life is full of decisions and surprises. You want a baby, and let’s face it you’re no spring chicken, so maybe you just need to carry on with Rex. See what happens. Nature has a deciding vote. Try and have a baby, tick that off the list, and then see how you feel afterwards. Or if that sounds too dull, walk out of here and book yourself a ticket to Hollywood, knock on Brad’s door and see what happens. Let me know if you do the second option as I have always fancied a bit of Thelma and Louise so I might just come with you!’
They both collapsed into giggles, and then Ana said, ‘If only it were that simple, Jan!’
‘It is,’ said Jan. ‘Believe me, life’s only as complicated as you make it. I learned that a long time ago.’
There was a hint of sadness to Jan’s voice. Maybe Jan was right, maybe she was just overthinking everything. It was hardly like her life was bad, it was just changing. It dawned on her that she really didn’t like change all that much, and that was a fundamental problem.
‘Thanks, Jan – I had better get upstairs. I’ll get in trouble if I’m spotted here loitering with you again. They’ll think I don’t like my real job!’
‘Keep me updated, Ana, I worry about you and I like to know what’s going on.’
As Ana made her way down the long corridor to the elevator, she paused to stare at Rembrandt’s Danae that was waiting to go up for auction. She thought briefly that if she was a superstar’s wife, she might be able to start her own collection of incredible art. Imagining that, she felt much better about her life.
Chapter Six
Dixie
Dixie’s day passed quickly enough as she completed a tour of Peter’s New York properties and made sure the building managers were happy. Peter left her an envelope of cash to deal with any incidentals or issues and she enjoyed distributing his largesse. Her mind kept returning to Freddie and with every recurrence she felt a lurch of anxiety or excitement; whichever, it disturbed her. She was relieved that he hadn’t given her his number because she might have texted him and that was not her style. She was obliged to attend a cocktail party on Peter’s behalf, somewhere up near Trump Tower. She checked her phone. It would be nice to go with someone interesting. Oligarchs often have quite insistent friends. Grabbing a quick snack at the counter in Sushi Samba, and admiring the easy elegance of the Latino hostess, her phone pinged. ‘I’ll be at your hotel at 7 p.m. Try not to be too fashionably late. Fx’ Fuck, she had given him her number, but the butterflies told her that she was delighted she had, but what else had she told him?
She waited in her room until well after 7 p.m., sitting on her bed in her favourite black jeans and a low-cut emerald green top with slashed back, which revealed just enough to make people stare, but not enough to look like a street walker. She topped her outfit off with a pair of killer leopard print heels. Checking her hair again in the mirror, she knew that she looked hot. She was hot, she told herself, if red was your thing, that is. Before leaving she made sure everything looked acceptable if anyone was to come back with her, and strutted down to the bar. As she walked in and saw Freddie standing at the crowded bar, staring at her, she felt like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, and wondered if she’d made too much effort. He was as handsome as she remembered him from her hazy aeroplane fog, and with his faded jeans and crisp white shirt, he looked the full package. His blue eyes danced kindly in the soft light, and his brown hair fell haphazardly around his face, helping to frame his razor-sharp jawline.
The bar was buzzing, and Freddie was on his first martini.
‘Good evening,’ he smiled as she approached. ‘I wondered if I would be drinking alone tonight, whether you were too good to be true. But here you are, a vision in green, and what’s more, awake, and fashionable, and late. There will be consequences.’
‘Good things are worth waiting for, aren’t they? Glad to see you made it yourself.’
‘What are you drinking? More champagne or something harder now it’s past seven?’
‘Vodka tonic for me please,’ she replied, as she perched on a bar stool. She loved America, loved the vibe of it, the friendliness, and was always excited to be back. It had such a different atmosphere to London, which she often found a little oppressive and unfriendly. London’s bars couldn’t compete with Manhattan’s. She often thought if she could find a way to move to the States and make her life work there, she would.
‘So here we are,’ said Freddie smiling. ‘Just you and me, and to think we only met about twenty-four hours ago on another continent. I think it’s time to get to know you. Let’s see, if you could be or do anything in the world, what would it be?’
She looked around. ‘If I could do anything, I would move to America. If I could be anything, I would be an illustrator. I would live on the East Coast and draw illustrations for children’s books.’
‘Children’s books? Now that surprises me,’ remarked Freddie. ‘Everything you do seems so 18 Cert. I really can’t imagine you sketching a picture of a happy toad trying to cross a road to get to a lost duckling on the other side.’
‘I like to be surprised, don’t you? Is the ugly duckling a story you know well?’ Dixie laughed.
‘No, but doesn’t every kids’ story have a duckling in it?’
‘Not all of them, Freddie, no, but maybe I should try adding a duckling to see if it helps. Isn’t the point that the duckling isn’t a duckling?’
‘See, I have helped you already. It’s the start of something beautiful,’ he said as he reached across her to grab an olive, his arm stroking her breast. His wedding ring glinted and the contact brought home to Dixie what she was doing there. She didn’t want to start messing with someone’s marriage. A drunken one-night-stand with a married man was one thing, but a proper date with cross-examination was another thing. She had no idea of Freddie’s intentions, but he was flirting, rather effectively. Maybe he was just a player who was looking for something exotic.
‘Is your wife at home?’ Dixie asked, surprising herself. Her question was followed by an uncomfortable silence and she watched as Freddie’s eyes closed. She could see them searching for something behind the closed lids. Without opening them he spoke.
‘I, err, lost my wife three years ago.’ He paused, swallowed. ‘Illness. It’s been a tough time, but it’s beginning to get easier.’
‘Oh god, Freddie, I am so sorry, I had no idea.’
‘Why should you? It’s OK. It’s best just to get it out in the open anyway, otherwise I tend to find it can kind of ruin a night out. Anyway, that is all incredibly depressing. I thought you were taking me to a party!’
‘Oh good god, I am! I’d almost forgotten about that. I think we’ll need a couple of shots first to get us in the mood. Are you ready? Are you sure you want to? Russian emigrés live unusual lives. There will be Jeroboams of Krug champagne, vodka on ice and only just more prostitutes than plastic surgeons working the room.’