Roulette (23 page)

“That woman just follows you around. You need to scrape her off.”

I burst out laughing. “She’s pretty wonderful. I bet you’ll meet her at some point and you’ll fawn all over her. She’s one of those people everyone wants to hug and be best friends with.”

“As Isabel would say,
blech
.”

I laugh and then ask, “How is my sweet Isabel? I miss her.”

“You want her? She’s driving me fucking crazy. She’s always
bored
. Everything is
boring
. And she’s dying of
boredom
.” Vivian says the words with a long, drawn-out voice, perfectly imitating Isabel’s tween whine.

“I would love to have her for a visit. Are you serious?”

“Well, I was kind of joking, but now that you mention it, I need to come to Italy at the end of August for the film festival. Maybe we could all meet up there?”

“Ugh. My mother’s been trying to get me to meet her there, too. She’s renting a villa and then going to the film festival in Venice. Is that why you’re coming?”

“Yes. You should come. It’s a lot closer than LA.”

“I don’t know. The last week in August is pretty busy for me.”

“You sound like you’re hedging. Please come. For me?”

“You are such a pain. You know I don’t want to see my mother—and Jamie is back in the picture, by the way.”

“Yeah, I saw something about that in
Variety
or something. I think that independent movie he was making in Mexico last year is actually up for some awards. Who knew?”

I sigh. I don’t know why I’m still blaming my mother for having set so much of the Rome nonsense in motion. It’s obviously not her fault. Maybe I just don’t like being reminded that I have that same reckless streak inside me and I need to keep it on a very tight rein.

“Yeah, and my mom was a producer, so I guess they kissed and made up and they’re tooling all around Europe together for the movie.”

“Well, that’s better than having her whining to you, isn’t it?”

“I guess. I don’t know.”

“Look, we’re never going to solve your mother. Just don’t even tell her you’re going. I’m staying in a huge villa on the Grand Canal, and there’s plenty of room. You and Isabel can tour the city while I kiss movie-star ass.”

I start laughing again. “I thought they had to kiss your producer ass.”

She starts laughing, too. “No. It’s the directors who have to kiss my producer ass.” By that point, we’re both laughing happily, and I realize I want to see her in person and hang out in a big hotel bed with Isabel and watch movies and ride around in a gondola and just be silly for a few days.

“Okay, I’ll do it. I’d love to come. Email me your dates, and I’ll meet you in Venice. If you can get there a few days early so we can all hang out together, I’d love that.”

“This might put Isabel in a better mood for a few weeks . . . or a few minutes. It’s impossible to tell these days. Okay, I’m at work—I’ve got to go. Bye, sweetie. Can’t wait to see you!”

As the call disconnects, I pull the phone away and smile at the screen. Then I scroll through my messages and see a few from my mom that I’ve listened to but haven’t returned. It’s been only about a week since we last spoke, but she’s in bizarrely attentive mom mode, so I know she’s going to be all dramatic about not having heard from me in
ages
. I click on her number and gird myself to be verbally assaulted.

“
Finalement
!” she cries into the phone.

“It’s only been a few days—”

“Never mind that. I’m just dying to see you. I have big news!”

Oh, dear. This can’t be good. “What news?”

“Jamie and I are engaged.”

I try to think of something to say, but a few beats of silence
pass.

“To be married,” she adds needlessly.

“Wow.” I’m watching the city gradually turn into countryside out the darkened window to my right. My mother is finally going to get married. How messed up is it that I have basically zero response, other than
Please tell me you’re going to sign a prenup
.

“
Wow?
” Now she’s pissed. “That’s all you have to say to me after all these years of begging me to settle down and be a mature adult? You know what, Miki—”

“Mom! I’m thrilled for you. I’m just surprised, okay? The last time we saw each other, you told me everything was over between you and Jamie—”

“Well, sort of. I was distraught by your father’s death, and that upset Jamie, but, you know, he loves me and I love him. Oh, Miki. I wish you would change your mind and join us in Italy at the end of August. We’re going to do a small wedding the weekend before the film festival. Please say you’ll come.”

That at least I can give her. “As it turns out, that’s why I’m calling. I’m definitely coming to Venice after all. Vivian is renting a villa, and I’m going to meet up with her while she’s there, so I’ll just come in the weekend before and stay with you.”

“That’s fabulous! Darling, I can’t wait to see you. I’ve missed you.” Her voice lowers, and she sounds sweetly hesitant. “Do you think next month is too soon to get married?”

“No,” I finally laugh. “I think after fifty-three years, next month is absolutely perfect.”

“Oh, wonderful!” She turns her mouth from the phone and calls into the distance. “Jamie, love, Miki is going to come to Italy for the wedding.”

I can hear him in the background, and he actually sounds sort of genuine when he says, “Excellent!”

“Okay.” Simone is sort of breathless now that she’s once again got everything her way. “So why don’t you fly in that Friday afternoon and we’ll go for a small dinner at Le Calandre, just the three of us, and then I’ll wear a simple white suit or something on Saturday and you can be our witness and we’ll have lunch at the house with a dozen or so friends? Does that sound good?”

“It sounds divine. I’m really happy for you, Mom. I’m sorry I was taken aback at first. No one can ever accuse you of being rash—in this, at least.”

I can hear the smile through her words. “Yes, in this, at least. In many other things, perhaps I
have
been rash.”

“Well, haven’t we all?” I ask kindly.

“Yes. Yes we have.” She’s silent for a few seconds; then we wrap up the call. “So we’ll see you in a month?”

“Yes, I’ll see you then.”

We end the call, and I take a deep breath and realize I just shouldn’t take my phone out when I’m riding around in the back of my car, feeling open-minded. In less than an hour, I’ve managed to get myself roped into ten days in Italy. Leaving Russia feels sort of unnerving all of a sudden. I sink lower into the backseat and shove my phone into the bottom of my bag. I promise myself I’m not initiating or answering any calls for the rest of the weekend.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

D
urchenko’s place looks more like a summer palace than a dacha. My father and Alexei’s dacha is the old-fashioned kind, a rustic log cabin where men go to drink and beat each other up for fun, or to swim in the freezing water of the Gulf of Finland and then beat each other up. Like everything about him, Durchenko has taken the idea of a traditional dacha and pumped it full of steroids, or, in his case, money.

It has to be at least ten thousand square feet; the rustic log exterior stretches in two long wings from either side of the large, double front doors. A huge bear head hangs above the outside entry, beneath the roof of the covered porch that extends around the whole perimeter of the house. As my car pulls up, Durchenko himself comes out the front door to greet me. I grab my weekend bag and my computer case out of the car, tell my driver to pick me up at noon on Sunday, and follow Pavel into the house.

There are ten or twelve people hanging out in the sunken living room. Some of them look remotely familiar and wave to me without getting up. The high glass walls on the far side of the room have an unobstructed view of the gulf, and the summer evening is bright. It’s a beautiful space.

“It’s gorgeous, Pavel. I didn’t even realize I was sick of being in town.” I smile up at him, and he nods.

“Good. This is good. Let me show you to your room so you can put your things away.”

He takes me down a long, wide hall that’s lined with hunting and fishing photographs, of Durchenko, of course—often accompanied by some easily recognizable famous companions—holding up a marlin or a large deer or some other animal I’m pretty sure is not meant to be hunted anymore.

We turn into a smaller hall, and he leads me into a large, simply furnished room with rough-hewn wooden furniture and another pristine view of the gulf through a set of French doors to the covered porch. “This is truly spectacular. Thank you again.”

“I am glad you came.” He pauses, then looks at me carefully. “Aziza is looking forward to seeing you again.”

I look up from where I am setting my bag on a luggage rack at the end of the large bed. “Oh. It will be nice to see her, too.”

“No, it won’t,” he says in that brusque, half-scoffing way of his. “It will be awkward and uncomfortable, but it has to be done. Drinks at eight thirty. Come out and join us whenever you wish.” He leaves the room, shutting the door behind him to give me privacy, and I am left standing there hoping it’s not going to prove
that
awkward or uncomfortable.

I unpack my things and then step out onto the porch and sit for a while, taking in the bright northern evening and listening to the expansive quiet of the forest. Alexei and I have gone on several site visits over the past few months, and, as much as I miss the ocean, it’s been incredible to hike in the forests and other natural areas of this country. It could easily become home, for at least part of the year.

Getting up reluctantly, I put on my imaginary social armor and head into the living room.

“Mikhaila!” Aziza’s voice is high and excited. She walks across the large room and pulls me into a tight hug. “How are you?” she asks after she’s released me but is still holding on to my upper arms.

“I’m fine. How are you?”

“No, no, no.” She shakes her head, and her long earrings swing. “I mean, really, how
are
you? Let’s go sit outside.” She slips her arm though mine and leads me out to the enormous back porch. “Pavel, we’ll be back soon.”

He blows a kiss to Aziza and I want to make fun of him, but then I realize he’s actually in love with her. The flash of pride or adoration or whatever is unmistakable. He can’t really take his eyes off her as we walk outside.

“Sit,” she orders, gesturing toward a large, comfortable sofa. She stands in front of me for a few seconds; she’s wearing tight black pants and a fitted boatneck top that clearly outlines the round curve of her stomach between her narrow hips.

She sees the direction of my gaze and begins to rub her stomach lovingly. “I’m having a baby.”

“I heard.” I look up, and she smiles and takes a deep breath, then sits down next to me.

“I owe you every apology, Miki. May I call you Miki?”

Awkward
does not even begin to describe how I feel. The last thing I want is some heart-to-heart with this woman I barely know.

“Aziza, please. Of course you should call me Miki. I mean, we met at Margot and Lulu’s—”

She swipes her hand impatiently in front of my face. “No. We have to speak the truth. Rome cares for you so deeply, Miki. You must know that?”

My stomach drops a few inches, and I want to squirm off the sofa and run back to Saint Petersburg in my strappy sandals if I have to. I do not want to sit here like a trapped creature and listen to this blissfully happy woman tell me why I should be with someone who is so entirely ill-suited to who I really am.

Even though she looks far younger, I know Aziza is in her thirties. I have no doubt she has seen her share of life’s ugly side, between her childhood in Somalia and the work she’s done to help refugees since then. Lulu and Margot genuinely like her, and she is probably a wonderfully insightful and charming woman. Still, I don’t want to hear what she has to say.

“Aziza. Please listen to me. It’s all in the past and—”

“No!” She sounds really angry, and I realize I’ve underestimated her, misled by her dazzling smile. The smile is now distinctly absent. “I will not listen to you.”

Well. Okay, then. I sit back and rest my hands on my lap, the picture of a schoolgirl ready to receive her punishment.

Aziza grips her hands together and groans. “I have a horrible temper. Pavel told me I should hold my tongue, but I cannot.”

I should have known if she could take on the likes of Pavel Durchenko, she’s someone who knows how to manage stubborn people.

“Fine. Say what you need to say,” I respond rather coolly.

Then she looks as if she might cry. “I’m so emotional with the pregnancy. I can’t stand it!” She smiles and her face softens. “I am not an overly emotional person by nature. That’s probably why Rome and I became such good friends at university in Lausanne. Stone-cold hearts, the both of us.”

I hate when she says Rome’s name. I don’t want to think too hard about why it bothers me so much.

She sighs again. “Okay. So, I won’t go on about Rome. But I hope you know that everything he did for me was . . . for me. I asked him to get engaged when things fell apart with Pavel after I told him about the baby.” She looks through the plate-glass window back into the large living room, where Pavel is now laughing hoarsely with one of his cronies. When she turns back to me, it’s all in her eyes. “I just love him so much. How does such a thing happen?”

I want to like her, I really do, but this woman is driving me bananas. I don’t want to get drawn into why she’s in love with Pavel or any of it. “I don’t know,” I answer honestly.

She narrows her eyes at me. “You are tougher even than Pavel, aren’t you?”

I shrug. “Look, Aziza, I don’t want to be rude. I know you’re friends with Margot and Lulu and everything. But what happened with Rome . . .” I hesitate because I’m not sure how to say it, exactly. “Well, it’s over. That’s the bottom line.”

“But what if—”

“Please.” My voice is slightly more shrill than I’d like. I take a breath and continue. “You seem like a person who respects other people’s decisions, Aziza. I’m happy for you and Pavel, I really am. I bet we’ll spend a lot of time together over the years. But it doesn’t need to be rainbows and butterflies for everyone, all right?”

I can tell she’s insulted, but I don’t really care. Who the hell is she to tell me about Rome? Fuck her.

She sits up straighter and blinks once. “Okay, then. I just wanted to apologize—”

“Accepted,” I interrupt again. “Again, not to be rude, but it’s private. And it’s over. But mostly it’s private.”

“I totally respect that. I shan’t bring Rome up again—”

Stop saying his name!
I want to scream.

“As long as you know he was acting entirely on my behalf, as a gentleman, to defend my honor.”

Now not only does she want me to forgive him, but I’m supposed to elevate him to some chivalric hall of fame? I take another deep breath. “Thanks for letting me know. I really appreciate it.” I so desperately want this conversation to be over, I will say anything just to make it end. I look over my shoulder, back into the living room, and manage to catch Pavel’s eye. I widen my eyes at him, silently begging him to rescue me from emotion central, and I see him excuse himself from his conversation and head toward the porch to join us.

He comes outside and stares down at Aziza. “I told you it would be awkward and uncomfortable,” he says bluntly. “Miki doesn’t give a crap about any of that emotional bullshit. Just drop it, Azi. All right?”

“Well, all right, but—”

“Azi.” His voice is implacable.

“Fine!” She jumps up and goes to stand next to Pavel. He pulls her into a one-armed hug and kisses the top of her head. The way her eyes slide shut and she presses her cheek against his chest is almost despicably adorable. I stand up to go back inside with them.

“Sorry about that, Miki,” Pavel says.

“No need to apologize—”

“Since I’ve apparently apologized enough for all of us!” Aziza says with a laugh. We go back inside and join the others for an obscenely large and indulgent supper.

Aziza totally respects my boundaries the remainder of the weekend. She never mentions Rome again, and the rest of the people at the party turn out to be an entertaining mix of business associates and old friends of Pavel’s. Over dinner on Saturday, Pavel and Aziza announce they are officially engaged. They’ll be getting married in a private ceremony within the next few weeks. Lots of champagne and bawdy toasts follow, and I go along with the festivities as much as I can.

When Sergei arrives Sunday at noon, I practically run out to my car. Note to self:
No more house parties. Ever.

Sergei takes me to the office, instead of home. I spend a few hours doing work, then book my flight to Venice. Vivian has sent pictures of the villa she’s rented on the Grand Canal, and I start to get excited about spending time with her and Isabel. I’ve been to Venice only once, and it was with my mother when I was a surly teenager. I trailed around behind her as if she were leading me to jail.

I send Isabel a text letting her know how excited I am to see her and for the two of us to hang out. She replies in about seven seconds with lots of Emojis, telling me she’s excited, too. I shut down my computer and look around the office. I picture Rome handing me that first cup of coffee and my skirt slipping and my shirt coming undone. I’m not sure how it could have gone any differently for the two of us. Crossed wires and all that. I sigh and get up from my desk and head home.

The following week, Aziza and Pavel get married in a top-secret ceremony in Cyprus; he even manages to get her recalcitrant parents to come. When vast amounts of money are involved, even Pavel can save face.

I keep all my attention on work, putting a new deal together with an Indonesian group. We are going to acquire a few thousand acres, but I also get to sit on the board of a conglomerate that is fighting deforestation in that country. I now realize this is how I should have started back in March—testing the water gradually instead of diving into the deep end of the pool with the likes of Jérôme de Villiers and Pavel Durchenko.

As the Venice Film Festival approaches, I start to feel giddy with excitement. I haven’t really allowed myself any frivolous pleasures for months, and the idea of drinking a Bellini at Harry’s Bar with Vivian while we look at beautiful people stroll by is very appealing. She’s also got passes to some of the superstar-studded receptions, so Isabel and I can join her and gawk at Michael Fassbender and Benedict Cumberbatch up close.

I’m also fortifying myself against the fact that Rome might be there and I’ll just have to be a grown-up and speak to him politely if we do meet. I’m fortifying myself with serious fashion. I’ve got one red gown in particular that is being shipped in from Lanvin. It’s a splurge, but I figure what the hell. I’m spiteful, apparently, because I want to look stunningly beautiful when Rome sees what he’s missing.