Anya and Catherine had always been unusually close. They had initially bonded in 1936, when Michel had taken Anya to meet his mother for the first time. It had been her twentieth birthday, and Anya had once told Nicky that they had sat in the garden drinking champagne and giggling like schoolgirls as they got to know each other. Apparently, they had hit it off in no uncertain terms; Catherine had even predicted, that very afternoon, that Anya and her son would marry one day.
During the war, Michel Lacoste, a journalist by profession, was based in London, where he was a member of the staff of General Charles de Gaulle, leader of the Free French forces, who was headquartered in London.
Anya and Michel, who had fallen in love in Paris before the war, continued to see each other in war-torn England. They were married in 1941 during the Blitz. The wedding took place at the Kossikovsky house in Chelsea, in an austere and badly bombed-out London. Anya was twenty-five, Michel thirty-one.
In 1946, some months after the war was over, Michel had taken Anya and their two young children, Olga, aged three, and Dimitri, aged two, back to Paris.
Life in France in 1946 was full of postwar problems and shortages, just as the rest of Europe was. Because of the shortage of available housing, and their shaky financial situation, Michel and Anya had moved in with his mother. Catherine had been thrilled; she welcomed them warmly, excited and delighted to have her son’s young family with her at long last. The war years had been hard and lonely; she welcomed their company, cherished her beautiful grandchildren.
They had all lived compatibly in the lovely old black-and-white half-timbered house where Anya still lived. The house was big enough for them all, and the garden a boon, a place for the children to play and run free, especially in the warm weather.
At Catherine’s request, Anya had gone to teach parttime at the school; much to her amazement, she had discovered she had a gift for teaching. And then two years later, when Catherine had asked her to take over, she had agreed to do so, confident in her abilities.
Anya was an astute young woman, and soon, under her guidance, the school began to prosper. Anya had a talent for organization, management, and promotion, plus a keen nose for sniffing out exceptional teachers. Like Catherine before her, she always sought out artists who needed to support themselves in a compatible environment while continuing their own creative careers. It was a policy that had always paid off.
But, perhaps most important, Anya had a vision. In her mind’s eye she could see so many marvelous possibilities, exciting ways to expand the little art school by developing its curriculum, adding new courses that taught some of the other important decorative arts.
However, out of respect for Catherine, Anya did not implement too many of her new ideas, nor did she make any really serious changes until after Catherine’s death in 1951.
It was at this time that she slowly and cautiously began to upgrade the school, adding the new courses that taught fashion and textile design, as well as costume and theatrical design.
The classes in art and sculpture were still the mainstay of the school, and as always the most important to Anya. But students began to enroll for the other courses, and she and Michel were thrilled.
Her innovations, long in the planning stages, were working, and both of them were surprised how popular the new courses were becoming. So much so, they acquired the adjoining building when it became vacant, and another a year later.
And then in 1955 tragedy struck.
Michel suddenly and unexpectedly died of a massive heart attack; he was forty-five years old. He and Anya had been married for fourteen happy years, and she staggered momentarily because of her terrible shock and devastating loss.
Stunned and grief stricken as she was by Michel’s untimely death, Anya continued to run the school. In a way, it held her together, helped to get her through those heartbreaking months. When Nicky once asked her how she had managed to do it, she had replied: “I just kept plodding on. Even though my heart was breaking, I knew I couldn’t give in, or collapse. I had so many responsibilities at the school, and many people depended on me for a livelihood, especially the staff, and the teachers. There were my two young children also … to raise and educate, and I had a living to earn. I had to keep going, you know. But it was the plodding that did it … that was the secret. Anyway, I felt I owed it to Catherine’s memory to keep the school open.”
Two years after Michel’s death, in 1957, Anya met Hugh Sedgwick, an English businessman living and working in Paris. A widower and childless, he had been introduced to Anya by mutual friends who thought these two single people were a good match. Hugo came from a theatrical family; his brother, Martin, and his sister, Clarice, were both actors, and Hugo himself was a bit of an amateur artist, painting in his spare time. They seemed to have a lot in common.
Hugo and Anya had dined together several times when she let the friendship drift away. She was far too involved with her children and the school to be bothered with developing a relationship, and, as she later said, the time was not right for her.
A year later they ran into each other by accident at an art exposition, discovered how much they enjoyed each other that evening, and soon began to see each other once more. Very quickly they became involved, and in 1960 they were married in Paris.
Hugo was an enterprising businessman of unusual acumen and foresight. When Anya asked him to help her with the financial management of the school a year after they were married, Hugo agreed. He happily took over these duties from Anya, who was overburdened. Within a year the school turned yet another corner; it became highly profitable for the first time in its history.
Not only that, its reputation began to grow in the ensuing years. More than ever before, students were flocking to the school, many of them from abroad. It had acquired a certain cachet as well as prestige, not the least because many of its graduates had become famous in their given fields. And Anya’s own fame as a teacher and nurturer of young talent had begun to spread. A place at her school had become expensive, and much sought after.
By the mid-sixties it was called the Anya Sedgwick School of Decorative Arts. A few years later the name was changed again, this time to the Anya Sedgwick School of Decorative Arts, Design, and Couture. And it went on growing, and turning out truly exceptional graduates, and Anya’s fame was magnified. She had become a legend in her own time
————
THE SHRILLING TELEPHONE startled Nicky to such an extent, he literally almost jumped out of his skin. He had been so lost in thought, it took him a moment to recoup and reach for the receiver.
“Nicholas Sedgwick.”
“It’s Anya, Nicky.”
“Hello! I was just thinking about you, or, rather, the history of the school.”
“And what exactly were you thinking?”
“To tell you the truth, I was wondering if you were planning on giving some sort of reception later in the year. After all, the school is celebrating its seventy-fifth anniversary in November.”
She began to laugh. “Don’t you think my birthday party is enough celebrating?”
Laughing with her, he answered, “One thing has nothing to do with the other. Just a small reception, Anya.”
“I don’t know, Nicky. Let me think about it.”
“Yes, do that. And we can talk later. Now, what time shall I come to your office to show you the sketches for the theme of your party?”
“I don’t want to see them, Nicky, that’s why I’m phoning you. Frankly, I would much prefer the party to be a total surprise … every aspect of it. I’ll leave it all to you to make the choices and the decisions.”
“But, Anya—”
“No, no,” she cut in. “I trust you implicitly, darling boy. You have the best taste of anybody I know.”
“That’s very flattering, I must say, but I do think I’d feel better if you saw them,” he protested.
“I want to be surprised. Nothing much surprises me these days, I must admit, so indulge me
. I know I’m going to love everything.”
“I sincerely hope so,” he muttered, then added, “but to be honest, I really was looking forward to seeing you.”
“Then you can take me out to tea. That would be nice,
Nicky, and we can have a little chat, visit for a while. We haven’t done that lately.”
“What a good idea, and it’ll be my pleasure. What time shall I stop by your office to pick you up?”
“I’m not at the school. I’m … out. So why don’t we meet at the Hotel Meurice, it’s very beautiful after its re-decoration. Have you seen it lately?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Then we’ll meet there. At four o’clock, oh, and, Nicky, the main entrance is now on the rue de Rivoli.”
“I’ll be there. Four sharp.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THEY SAT TOGETHER IN THE JARDIN D’HIVER—THE WINTER garden—just beyond the lobby of the newly refurbished Hotel Meurice on the rue de Rivoli opposite the Tuileries.
Palm trees in tubs and many other exotic plants helped to create the garden feeling so prevalent in this charming and comfortable spot where lunch and tea were served. Floating above, set in the center of the large curved ceiling, was a glass roof in the shape of a dome, interlaced with metalwork. The milky opaqueness of the glass filtered the natural daylight and gave this garden-inspired room a softness that was unique.
“They discovered that glass roof when they started to tear the hotel apart,” Anya suddenly announced, looking up at the ceiling and then glancing across at Nicky. “It had been covered up, plastered over, and painted for many years. No one had any idea that the central dome was actually made of glass, until the restoration and refurbishment began several years ago.”
“How amazing! And what’s even more amazing is the condition of the glass,” Nicky exclaimed, following her gaze of a moment ago. “It can’t be the original, can it?”
“No, actually it is not. It’s new glass, and, of course, a totally new dome, Nicky, made in the Art Nouveau style, as you can see,” Anya informed him, sounding extremely knowledgeable. “The architects and designers had the original copied. You see, when they found the glass roof up there, it was cracked and broken, ruined in general. It had been damaged by the plaster and paint that had been slathered on for God knows how many years. But it’s beautiful now, isn’t it? I’ve always been a trifle partial to Art Nouveau, haven’t you?”
Nicky nodded and gave her a curious look. “How do you know all this, about the roof I mean?”
Anya smiled a bit smugly. “One of the directors is a friend of mine, and he told me about that glass roof when he showed me around the hotel recently, then took me to dinner here.”
Laughing, Nicky shook his head. “Why do I ever ask you a single question when it comes to such things? I might have known you got your information from the horse’s mouth.”
She made no comment, merely gave a slight nod, and then sat back in the chair, glancing around her. “Catherine Lacoste always loved this hotel,” she confided after a moment. “She used to bring me here for tea. Or champagne. It became a favorite of mine too. Of course, when the war came, she never set foot inside the place. How could she? During the Occupation, the hotel was the headquarters of the German High Command, you see. How Catherine hated les boches.”
“As did the rest of France.”
“Well, thank God for one thing … the Nazis didn’t destroy Paris, although they could have.”
“I shudder at the mere thought of that. It would have been ghastly, a true desecration.”
“Hitler ordered historic buildings destroyed in 1944, when Allied troops were approaching. But General Dietrich von Choltitz, the occupying governor, was not able to perpetrate such sacrilege. He surrendered the city intact to General Leclerc, liberator of Paris,” she explained.
“Hugo once told me something about that,” Nicholas said, and picked up his cup, took a sip of tea, eyed Anya over the rim, thinking how well she looked this afternoon. She was wearing a crisply tailored pale blue wool suit, and her much-loved string of large South Sea pearls and matching earrings, which were a must with her, and had become her trademark, in a sense.
Her softly waved, short dark-blond hair was as elegantly coiffed as it usually was, and she looked positively radiant, just wonderful to Nicky. She forever sang the praises of her sister, Katti, considered her to be the more beautiful, but in his opinion this was not the case. They were very similar in appearance, the two Kossikovskaya sisters, but Anya’s looks were decidedly the more striking, Nicky believed. Her eyes were larger, and a lovely blue, her nose better shaped, and her high cheekbones, even at her age, were quite sensational. She looked twenty years younger than she really was, and in a variety of ways. One thing on her side was her marvelous health, which she attributed to her Russian genes.
Breaking into his thoughts, Anya asked, “Have you had many acceptances for my party so far, Nicky?”
“A lot, yes indeed, and I’m expecting more this week. The first of April was the deadline I gave, but some people will be late, that’s normal.”
“Have you heard from Alexa? Has she accepted?”
“No, she hasn’t, not yet. But I’m sure I’ll be hearing from her any day now.”
“She might not come. She’s not been back to Paris since she broke up with Tom Conners, and if you remember, that was three years ago, just about the time she stopped working with you and Larry. I saw her in New York when I was there last year to receive that award—” She paused, gave him a very pointed look, and finished, “I rather got the impression Alexa was avoiding France … Paris in particular. Because of him.”
“You’re implying she’s carrying a torch.”
“I believe she is.”
Nicky sighed. “I always warned her about him, and so did Larry. Repeatedly. Tom’s hauling far too much emotional baggage. No woman needs that, Anya.”
“Perhaps he’s discarded some of it? By now?” A blond brow lifted, and she gave him another penetrating look.
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you … but I just don’t know …” His voice trailed off lamely, and then he threw her a helpless look. “Tom was always an odd chap.”
“In what way?”
“A loner. Kept his thoughts to himself. Standoffish. Yes, I suppose that’s what I mean. He was very independent and self-contained. Not at all confiding.”
“Don’t you ever see him these days?” Anya leaned forward, her light-blue eyes focused on him more intently. “I was under the impression he represented quite a few people in show business.”
“That’s absolutely true, he did. Probably still does. But I haven’t run into him for the longest time, for at least a year. Maybe longer even.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “Why? What are you getting at?”
“I do so want Alexa to be at the party. I was just wondering if there was any way we could make it easier for her?”
“By inviting him too?”
“No, no, don’t be so silly, Nicholas! That wouldn’t make her feel more comfortable, quite the contrary. What I meant was that perhaps he’s left Paris.”
“I doubt it.” Nicky sat up, an alert expression on his face.
“But if he no longer lives here, we could tell her that, don’t you see?” Anya pressed.
“Yes, I do. But I’m pretty sure he’s still a resident of this fair city. He was born here, it’s where he belongs.”
“Some people retire, move location, go south to Provence, somewhere like that.”
“Not Tom, take my word for it. Incidentally, I did hear from that nice Italian girl, the one who was in Alexa’s class. Maria Franconi. She was practically the first to accept.”
A wide smile spread itself across Anya’s face. “I’m so glad she’s coming! She’s such a lovely person. And she has such enormous talent, wasted probably these days.”
“What do you mean?” Nicky asked, frowning.
“She could be doing a lot more than desig
ning textiles for that antiquated family business she’s stuck in, I can tell you that, darling boy. The girl’s an extraordinary artist—at genius level.” Not giving him a chance to make any kind of comment, she continued. “Kay Lenox will come, that I am certain of, but not Jessica. I don’t think she’ll be able to face Paris, in view of what happened to her.”
“You mean Lucien’s disappearance?”
“I do. That was a mystery, one that’s never been solved, and I don’t suppose it ever will be. C’est dommage.”
“I agree with you. And so you think Jessica will forgo your party because Paris holds bad memories, too much pain for her?”
Anya nodded and sat back in the chair. “I really do, Nicky, I’ve never seen anyone so distraught. I remember it so very clearly, it might have happened only yesterday. One minute she was full of life, happy, madly in love, looking to a future with him, and the next she was plunged into the most horrendous anguish and despair.” She shook her head. “I honestly thought she would never recover. It’s different when the person you love dies. There’s an awful finality to death. But it is final. The end. And there’s the funeral, family gatherings, grieving, all of those necessary rituals, and they help, believe me they do. Somehow you go on living, by rote perhaps, and for a long time it’s by rote. Eventually, though, you begin to feel a little better. Life is for the living, you know. I’ve come to be a firm believer in that cliché. But when the object of your love just … disappears, as if into thin air, then everything becomes impossible, and in a peculiar way there’s actually no way to deal with the grief and the pain.”
“Because there’s no closure,” Nicky suggested.
“Correct. No body. No burial. No grieving as such. Therefore no closure. No end to the pain, because you don’t know what happened to him. It’s as simple as that. For Jessica it was a nightmare. I was really concerned for her, worried to death. To be very frank, I thought she was in danger of becoming … well, mentally ill. For a while, she was demented, couldn’t come to grips with the loss, and since Lucien Girard had no family, there really was no one for her to grieve with, or be consoled by in the way she needed. Alain Bonnal was wonderful, but like her he was nonplussed, confused, and, not unnaturally, very baffled. Still, they were supportive of each other, helped each other for a while.”
Three Weeks in Paris Page 12
