Impossible

by Danielle Steel

  When she awoke on Sunday morning, the fog was so low it was nearly sitting on the rooftops. It was cold and gray and the house was damp. And when she slipped into her bed that night, even her sheets felt uncomfortable, and she was chilled to the bone. Just for a moment, she missed the warm, cozy apartment in New York. What she realized as she tried to sleep was that wherever she went now, her miseries came with her. It didn't matter what city she lived in, or in which bed she slept. Wherever she was, in whatever country, or city, her bed was always empty, and she was alone.

  Chapter 3

  Sasha's life was busy in Paris in December. The gallery was doing a booming business. She met with many of their most important clients, who seemed to want to make important purchases, or sell part of their collections, before the end of the year. And she spoke to Xavier in London nearly every day. She had arranged a skiing trip for herself and both her children. They were leaving the day after Christmas for St. Moritz. She also had several important clients there.

  Her social life in Paris was far more formal than it normally was in New York. Her clients in New York were successful but often more informal, and many of them had become friends over the years. The people she liked there were interesting and varied in their origins and lines of work. In Paris, there were certain social lines drawn that were more typical of Europe. Her major clients came from aristocratic, often titled, backgrounds, or fortunes that had been established for generations, like the Rothschilds, and others who entertained lavishly, many of whom had been her father's friends as well. The parties she was invited to were infinitely dressier and more elaborate than those she went to in New York, or did when Arthur was alive. And here the invitations were harder to turn down, since many of the people who invited her had bought important pieces of work from her. She felt obliged to go. She complained about it to Xavier, and he insisted it would do her good. But even at her age, she was often by far the youngest person in the room, and more often than not, she was bored. For business reasons, if no other, she went anyway. And was always happy to go home.

  In mid-December, working in her office on yet another gray foggy day, her secretary told her that a client had come to see her. She had met him at a dinner party the night before. He was interested in buying an important piece of Flemish work, and she was pleased that he had followed up on their conversation. She left her office to see him, and showed him several paintings that he seemed to like.

  It was obvious to everyone except Sasha, in the course of his two-and-a-half-hour visit, that he liked the gallery owner as well. He invited her to dinner at Alain Ducasse the next day to discuss his eventual purchase with her. It was one of the finest restaurants in Paris, and she knew it would be a three- or four-hour meal, which she found boring and tedious. But she saw it as an opportunity to close a million-dollar sale. All she thought about now was work, except when she called Tatianna or Xavier.

  “Maybe he's interested in more than just the painting, Mom,” Xavier teased her when she told him about the dinner she had accepted for the next day.

  “Don't be silly, my father went to dinners like that with clients all the time. And believe me, no one was pursuing him.” Although she knew a few women had after her mother died. But she never saw her father show romantic interest in anyone. Like her, he had been faithful to his wife's memory till the end. Or at least, it was the impression he had given her. She had never discussed it with him. If there were women in his life over the years, he had been extremely discreet, but she doubted that there were.

  “You never know,” Xavier said hopefully. Neither he nor his sister wanted her to wind up alone. “You're a beautiful woman, and you're still young.”

  “No, I'm not. I'm forty-eight years old.”

  “Sounds young to me. One of my friends is going out with a woman older than you.”

  “That's disgusting. That's child molestation,” she said, laughing at him. The idea of a younger man seemed ridiculous to her.

  “You wouldn't say that if it were a man your age going out with a young woman.”

  “That's different,” she said emphatically, and this time Xavier laughed at her.

  “No, it's not. You're just used to seeing that. It makes just as much sense if the woman is older, going out with a younger man.”

  “Are you telling me that your latest paramour is twice your age? If you are, I don't want to know about it.” And at least, Sasha knew if that was the case, the woman would be gone within a week. With Xavier, they always were, whatever their age. Where women were concerned, he had the attention span of a flea.

  “No, I haven't tried that yet, but I would if I met an older woman I liked and wanted to go out with. Don't be so stuffy, Mom.” She wasn't usually, in fact he loved how open-minded she always was about him. She was very French about those things, and never got upset about his active love life. She had been far more liberal than other people's mothers when he had gone to school in New York and had American friends. She had made a habit of buying condoms for him and all his friends, and leaving them in a giant mason jar in his room. She asked no questions, but kept the jar filled regularly. She preferred to be realistic about such things. In that sense, she was very French.

  “I warn you, if you marry a woman twice your age, I'm not coming to the wedding, particularly if it's to one of my friends.”

  “You never know. I just think you should keep an open mind for yourself.” He knew she hadn't dated yet. They were so open with each other that he knew she would tell him if she had.

  “Maybe I should start hanging out at the local preschool, or hand out my phone number at the Lycée. I can adopt one of them, if I don't find a date.” She was laughing at him, and the utterly absurd and somewhat disgusting visual of herself with a young boy, or even a much younger man. She was used to being with someone older than she.

  “When you want to find a date, Mom, you will,” Xavier said calmly.

  “I don't want to,” she said firmly, the laughter fading from her voice. It was a subject she didn't want to explore with him, or anyone else.

  “I know. But hopefully one of these days, you will.” His father had been gone for fourteen months, and he knew better than anyone how lonely she was. She called him night after night from home, and he could hear the sadness in her voice, whenever she wasn't at work. He hated to think of her that way. Tatianna was off in India and much less in touch with their mother than he. And he had the feeling that his mother spoke more openly to him. They had that special bond that sometimes exists between mothers and sons, as confidants and friends.

  She told him she was going to New York for a board meeting the following week, and she was flying back the day before Christmas Eve.

  He and Tatianna were due to arrive in Paris the afternoon of Christmas Eve. And the day after Christmas, they were off to St. Moritz. They were all looking forward to it. Her new prospective client had a house there, too. She hoped to have made the sale by then.

  The following day her client came to pick her up for dinner, and took her to Alain Ducasse at the Plaza Athénée. She would far rather have had a simple but elegant dinner at Le Voltaire, but this was business, and she had to go where the client wanted. It was easy to figure out that he was trying to impress her, but she had never been particularly fascinated by complicated, rich food, however many stars the chef had. Alain Ducasse had three.

  Predictably, it was an astounding meal. The conversation had been interesting, and the sale seemed imminent as Gonzague de St. Mallory drove her home. He was charming, well educated, extremely rich, a count, and an enormous snob. Le Comte de St. Mallory. He had been married twice, had five children he spoke about and acknowledged, and three she knew he didn't. In matters of that nature, France was a small country, and Paris a small city. His affairs were legendary, his mistresses well taken care of, and his illegitimate children the talk of the town.

  “I was thinking that I might like to try the painting in the house in St. Moritz, before I make a decisi
on,” the count said pensively, as he drove her home in his Ferrari. A car like his was a rare sight in Paris, where large cars were inconvenient. Sasha drove a tiny Renault, which was easier to park and maneuver. She felt no need to show off with an expensive car in Paris, or anywhere else. “Perhaps you could come and see it and tell me what you think,” he said as they pulled up in front of the hôtel particulier that housed the gallery, and her home.

  “I could do that easily,” she said pleasantly. “We can ship it to you in St. Moritz, and I'll be there with my children in two weeks.” He looked annoyed the moment she said it.

  “I was thinking you could stay with me. Perhaps you'd like to take them there some other time.” Her children were easily dispensed with, as far as he was concerned. She didn't agree.

  “I'm afraid that's not possible,” Sasha said clearly, looking him straight in the eye. “We've planned this trip for a long time. And even if not, I'm looking forward to a holiday with my children.” She was trying to give him the message that he was barking up the wrong tree, regardless of her children. She had no intention of mixing business and pleasure, particularly not with him. He had an extremely racy reputation. He was fifty-four years old, and well known for carousing with young women.

  “I assume you want to sell the painting,” Gonzague said just as clearly. “I think you understand, Mademoiselle de Suvery.”

  “I do, Monsieur le Comte. The painting is for sale. I'm not. Even for a million dollars. I'll be happy to come and look at it while I'm there,” she said, a little more gently. But by then, his eyes were blazing. They had both made themselves clear. And he didn't like what he was hearing. Women never said no to him, particularly not women Sasha's age. As far as he was concerned, he'd have been doing her a favor to sleep with her. She looked like a sad, lonely woman to him. But apparently not as lonely as he thought. And not desperate for a sale.

  “There's no need to come and see it,” he said coldly. “I've decided not to buy the painting after all. In fact, I have some serious concerns that it might be a fake.” As he said it, he got out of the car, and came around to open her door politely. She was already standing on the sidewalk, looking at him with fury, as he reached her side of the car.

  “Thank you for a lovely dinner,” she said coolly. “I had no idea, from your reputation, that you purchase women, and at such high prices. I would think that a man with your charm and intelligence would be able to get them for free. Thank you for a delightful evening.” And before he could say another word, she walked to the bronze door, let herself in with the code, and disappeared. Seconds later, she heard him race away. She was shaking with outrage as she let herself into her house. The bastard had tried to buy her along with the painting, and thought she was so hungry for the sale that she would sleep with him. It was beyond insulting. No one would ever have dared treat her that way when Arthur was alive. She was still shaking when she called Xavier and told him the story moments later. He positively crowed with glee when she told him what she had said to him at the end.

  “You're fantastic, Mother. You're lucky he didn't run you down with the Ferrari when he left.”

  “I'm sure he would have liked to. What a total rotter he is,” she said, and he laughed again.

  “Yeah, I'd say. But you should be flattered. I hear he goes out with girls younger than Tatianna. He spends a lot of time at Annabel's over here.”

  “I'm not surprised.” It was a private nightclub in London, frequented by all the most elegant people, as well as a lot of old men and much younger women. She and Arthur had been there many times. They were members of the club, as well as Harry's Bar, both of which were owned by the same man. “How do men get away with behaving that way?”

  “Some women love it. Most gallery owners would probably have slept with him to sell the painting.”

  “Yes, and when they did, the next day the painting would come back anyway.” Her father had warned her about men like that when she came into the business. Gonzague de St. Mallory was anything but unique, and certainly ill mannered, as far as Sasha was concerned.

  She was still fuming about it when she lay in bed that night. And the next morning she told her gallery manager that they would not be selling the painting to the count.

  “Oh? I thought you were having dinner with him last night,” Bernard commented.

  “I did. The count behaved very badly, and is lucky he didn't get slapped. Apparently, he was expecting to buy my services along with the painting. He thought I should stay with him in St. Moritz, and cancel my holiday with the children.”

  “And you didn't accept?” Bernard pretended to be shocked. “What bad salesmanship on your part, Sasha. My God, think of it, a million dollars. Have you no sense of responsibility to your father's business?” He loved to tease her. After fifteen years at the gallery, they were friends.

  “Oh shut up, Bernard,” she said with a half smile, marched into her office, and went back to work. As far as Sasha was concerned, it was the most insulting offer she'd ever had. And the following week she told her manager about it in New York, who was genuinely shocked.

  “Americans don't behave that way,” Karen said, staunchly defending her fellow countrymen.

  “Some of them probably behave worse. I'm beginning to think it's about men, not nationalities, although admittedly the French might be a little bolder about things like that. But I'm sure it happens here as well. Hasn't anyone ever implied that you should sleep with them in order to sell a painting?” Sasha sat back in her desk chair with a chuckle. It was finally beginning to seem funny. Karen, her New York gallery manager, thought about it for a minute, and then shook her head.

  “I don't think so. Maybe I missed the point.”

  “And what would you have done?” Sasha was playing with her now.

  “I would have slept with him, and paid him the million dollars,” Marcie, her assistant, piped up. “I saw him in a magazine. He's gorgeous, Sash.”

  “Yes, he was,” Sasha admitted, looking unimpressed. She thought her late husband was far more handsome. She didn't like the overpolished, sleazy looks of the count. She preferred Arthur's far more clean-cut Gary Cooper appearance. Men like Gonzague de St. Mallory were a dime a dozen, with or without a Ferrari. She knew the type.

  The three days Sasha spent in New York were busy and went quickly. She had a number of artists to see, big clients she had promised to have meetings with, and the board meeting that had brought her over. The first two nights she spent in her apartment, going through some of Arthur's things. She had promised herself she would put at least some of them away. It had taken her fourteen months, and her closets looked empty and sad when she had done it. But it was time.

  On her last night she went to a Christmas party given by friends. There was something very bittersweet for her about being in New York before Christmas. It reminded her of when her children were small and she took them skating at Rockefeller Center, and of when Arthur was alive, two Christmases before. It was hard for her being there. She was glad to see her friends, but tired of explaining to them that there was no man in her life. It seemed to be the only question anyone asked her anymore. As though she didn't exist unless she was attached to a man. It made her feel like a failure, in an odd way, that her husband had died, and she was now alone. Watching all her married friends leave with each other made her feel like the only single species on Noah's ark. She was relieved to go back to Paris the next day, and excited that her children would be there the day after.

  She had someone come in and cook Christmas goose for them on Christmas Eve, and she had decorated a tree, and put decorations around the house. She was thrilled to see Tatianna, whom she hadn't seen in two months. She looked well and happy and had had a wonderful time. She could hardly wait to show her mother the photographs. They were sorting through them, as Xavier told her about Gonzague.

  “Mom nearly canceled our trip to St. Moritz” was his opening volley. Tatianna looked surprised. “She was going to go withou
t us, to a sell a million-dollar painting to a French count.”

  “No, I wasn't, you rotten kid.” She told Tatianna the story then, who looked shocked that a Parisian playboy had tried to bed her mother, with the lure of his purchasing a million-dollar painting.

  “That's disgusting, Mom,” Tatianna said with feeling, and sympathy for her mother. She could easily imagine how humiliating it must have been for her.

  “No, it wasn't. I think she should be flattered,” Xavier added.

  “You're a disgusting chauvinist,” Tatianna said, glaring at her brother. “That's horrible for Mom.”

  “All right, all right. You both win. I'll go and punch him out. Where does he live?” He turned to his mother and she laughed.

  “I never should have told you. You'll never let me live it down.”

  “Yes, I will. And by the way, I keep forgetting to tell you. Liam is finally sending you slides. He showed them to me. They're good,” he said proudly on behalf of his friend.

  “I'm looking forward to seeing them.” She knew that sometimes Xavier had a good eye, and sometimes he tried to help his friends, at her expense. She was never sure which to expect, but it was worth a look. She had been hearing about the young American artist in London for ages. Far more about his adventures and escapades than his art.

  “I think you'll be impressed by his work,” Xavier reassured her. Sasha nodded and didn't comment. She still hoped she wouldn't. He sounded like a handful to her.