Lies and Weddings(52)

But all her dreams had come crashing down on the night of the wedding banquet. It was as if the gods were trying to spite her. She knew she was ambitious, and that she was a risk-taker, but she was never reckless. Contrary to what others might have thought, Arabella was not clueless about the vagaries of the Gresham finances. She knew that loans had been taken out, but she had assumed that the family trusts—while never as gargantuan as the Grosvenors’ or the Cadogans’—were formidable enough to secure all the lines of credit they would ever need. Arabella subscribed to a philosophy that had been ingrained in her since childhood: Fake it till you make it. She thought that if they could just sustain the Gresham fantasy a little longer, that if she succeeded in marrying off her children to A-list aristocrats, then everyone who was anyone would continue to flock to the hotels, and her dreams of creating a global lifestyle luxury brand that she could sell off to some private equity group for billions would at last be realized.

But Francis never told her how depleted the Gresham trusts actually were. He never told her about the bridge loans to keep the hotels afloat. He never told her he used the Gresham land and the hotels and the art as collateral. He never told her Bellaloha was uninsured. He never told her anything until three days ago. She was so mad at Francis she didn’t realize that she had wandered back into the Picture Room once more, and the chatty silver-haired docent was still there. This time he had the picture planes on the north wall open, and he was in the midst of showing two tall young men A Rake’s Progress, a series of paintings Arabella didn’t think much of because they were rendered in that eighteenth-century English realist style she found particularly dreary.

“Hogarth illustrated the cautionary tale of Tom Rakewell, a young man who inherits a fortune but squanders it with his gambling and reckless spending. The first painting shows the young heir being fitted for new clothes by his tailor, but the seventh painting over here is my favorite, The Prison,” the docent said, pointing up at it. “Tom’s in debtor’s prison with his wife, and he’s trying to repay his debts by writing a play that he hopes to sell for a great deal of money. Look at Hogarth’s incredible eye for detail…do you see the letter next to his elbow…can you make out the words?”

The young man squinted at the tiny inscription on the darkened canvas and read aloud in a Dutch accent, “?‘I have read your…play and find it will…not do.’ Oh—haha, it’s a rejection letter!”

“Awfully wicked, wasn’t he?” the docent said, laughing along with the two Dutchmen.

“Look at his wife now, how ugly and haggard she’s become with her dirty hair and her…are those teeth blackened or broken?” the other young man asked.

“Broken, I think,” his friend said.

“Yes. But what gets me is her clenched fist and that look of rage in her face,” the docent remarked. “Marvelous, isn’t it? She clearly can’t fathom how she went from a rich woman to ending up in such a squalid, pathetic state.”

Arabella studied the painting, her pulse beginning to race. This was an omen. This was going to be Francis and her in a few months. How could she survive in prison without seeing her cosmetic dentist three times a year? Arabella rushed out of the Picture Room and down the steps of the town house. She crossed the street and sat on a park bench, hyperventilating.

I refuse to be broke. I refuse to be broken, she thought. She realized that there was only one person on earth who could possibly help her now. The one person who understood Francis, who understood the children, who understood everything she had been trying to achieve from day one. She knew she would be judged. She knew she would be shamed. But she knew it was time to admit defeat and beg for mercy. As much as she hated to do it, she forced herself to open her Moynat Gabrielle clutch, fish out her telephone, and press the number that she had programmed into her speed dial: Rosina.




Skip Notes

*1 The house was designated a museum by a private act of Parliament in 1833. The act required that the house be maintained “as nearly as possible” as it was left at the time of Soane’s death, and was specifically created by Soane to disinherit his son George, whom he loathed because he disapproved of his debts, his “refusal to engage in a trade,” and his choice of a wife. Hmm…sound familiar?



*2 He was pissed and vomited chicken korma all over her new Ala?a boots. He was charmingly apologetic and showed up the next morning on her doorstep with a clutch of daisies and an invitation to lunch at Le Caprice; the rest is history.





VI



31 RUE CAMBON

PARIS ? MOMENTS LATER




The phone rang eight times before it was picked up. “Wei?” a youthful voice answered in Cantonese.

Arabella did not recognize the voice. “Er…nei go bin go ah?”[*1]

The voice switched immediately to perfect English. “Mrs. Leung cannot come to the phone at the moment, but she asked me to pick up because she saw it was you. This is Kit, her personal assistant.”

“Hello, Kit. When might Rosina be available?”

“Please hold…” Kit could be heard mumbling offline in Cantonese. “I’m putting you on speaker…”

“Arabella! Are you okay?” Rosina said, her voice sounding slightly echoey.

“I’m fine.”