The Imperial Wife by Irina Reyn Read Free Book Online

ladies from the hall come forward and Sophie is happy to see the girl who had welcomed her standing among them, a single star in silver. Her first Russian ally.

 
    Tanya
    PRESENT DAY
    In the east midtown offices of Worthington’s Auction House, the phones continue to ring. Is this a terrible time to sell? First-time buyer here—any good deals to be had on Soviet nonconformist? I heard New York is getting out of the Russian art business, is that true? Even the richest of clients are skittish. They trust nobody and who could blame them? The Russian economy is plummeting, everyone is lying low, paintings are going missing, and the sanctions are making life difficult. Have you heard, they gossip, it’s getting bad back home, the ruble is weak and getting weaker, another fake Kandinsky at the Tate, and do we know how this Ukraine nonsense is going to end? We are just going to wait this one out—our businesses are hemorrhaging.
    Regan, sporting a carefully messy topknot and blood-orange lipstick, is arguing into the phone in fluent Russian.
    â€œLook, we know the climate, but we’re really excited about some rare lots this time around.” And later, “No, we can’t put aside a piece just for you. An auction is open to everybody.”
    The girl is almost six feet tall, with a booming voice that commands the room. She turned out to possess the right temperament for working with clients like this, clients who believe auction company policies are drawn up for everyone but them. Who are always angling for a shortcut, a loophole. What is the first rule of working with the special wealthy Russian client? I grilled her during the interview. Regan, unblinking: We never ask them how they made their money. What is the second rule? You never know who’s on the other end of the line. Hired! Regan gestures for me to pick up the phone, pointing to the bar of skin above her lips. It’s our sign for the Big Fish.
    He’s the very definition of Russian oligarch: Berezovsky, Abramovich, Khodorkovsky, and finally, Medovsky. One of the originals, worth untold billions, Ukrainian-born Jew, the eternal expat in London, owner of a minor rugby team, of five properties around the world including the requisite penthouse at the Time Warner Center, a mansion in Knightsbridge, a villa in Monaco.
    â€œSasha! Where have you been? It’s been dull without you around here.” Do I sound hearty enough? Since Carl left, they’ve all noticed it at work. I’m late in the mornings, I lose the thread of discussion at meetings. These days, I’m riveted by the construction outside my window, the soothing repetition of jackhammering.
    â€œBusiness, always business, Tan’ka. Counting down until Monaco.”
    â€œYou’re a lucky man, Sasha. I’m vacationing in New Jersey this year.”
    â€œThat is crime, we will see what we can do about that. I know this is early, but I wanted to make sure you have right phone number for auction. I will be back in London after all, so use British cell.”
    This is how my clients operate: initial chitchat but then right to business. But this is Alexander Medovsky and I’m not about to lecture him on manners. It’s because of Sasha’s contacts that I finally started a client list to rival Christie’s, a list that gave me a chance to compete with Nadia Kudrina. It’s because of Sasha that I received my first bonus this year. But until he turns active, until more of his friends sign on, my job might be as fragile as my predecessor’s. That woman lasted exactly sixteen months in the job, I’m on month thirty-nine. It’s as though I’ve been working toward this very auction for almost ten years.
    I repeat the digits, the London area code and the rest of it, crisply and succinctly. Medovsky is satisfied. He must be anxious for a particular lot. The catalogue not even printed yet but the art world is insular and those