German artist.
“How was it?” Finn asked with interest. “I’ve never been to India myself. I’ve always wanted to go.”
“It was fantastic,” Hope said as her eyes lit up. “It was the most exciting, fulfilling time I’ve ever spent. It changed my life forever, and how I look at everything, including myself. And there are some of the most beautiful spots on earth. I just opened an exhibit of some of the photographs I took there.”
“I think I saw a couple in a magazine,” Finn said as he finished his omelette and started on his salad. “They were photographs of beggars and children, and an incredible one of sunset at the Taj Mahal.”
“I went to some incredibly beautiful lakes too. They’re the most romantic places you could ever dream of, and some other places were the saddest. I stayed at Mother Teresa’s hospital for a month, and I lived at a monastery in Tibet, and an ashram in India, where I found myself again. I think I could have stayed there forever.” When he looked into her eyes, he saw something very deep and very peaceful, and beyond it, deeper than that, he saw two bottomless pools of pain. He could see that Hope was a woman who had suffered. He wondered if it was only about the divorce and her husband’s illness. Whatever it was, he could tell that she had been to hell and back, and yet she was incredibly balanced and peaceful, as she looked across the table at him with a gentle smile.
“I’ve always wanted to do something like that,” he admitted to her, “but I never had the courage. I think I was afraid I might have to face myself. I’d rather face a thousand demons.” It was honest of him to admit it and she nodded.
“It was wonderfully peaceful. We weren’t allowed to speak in the monastery. It was amazingly restful and healing. I’d like to go back sometime.”
“Maybe you need to have some fun instead.” Finn looked suddenly mischievous as he said it. “How long are you here for?” He sat back in his chair and smiled at her. She was mysterious and intriguing.
“I’m going back to New York tomorrow,” she said, smiling at him.
“That’s not enough time to spend in London. What are you doing for dinner tonight?”
“Probably sleeping, after a bowl of soup from room service,” she said with a grin.
“That’s ridiculous,” he said with a look of stern disapproval. “Will you have dinner with me?”
She hesitated and then nodded. She had nothing else to do, and he was interesting to talk to. “I didn’t bring any decent clothes with me,” she said, looking apologetic.
“You don’t need them. You can wear a pair of pants and a sweater. You’re Hope Dunne, you can do whatever you want. Will you have dinner with me tonight at Harry’s Bar? As far as I’m concerned, it’s the best Italian food in the world.” She knew it well, but didn’t go there often. It was one of the most elegant dinner clubs in London, and anyone and everyone who was important would be there. Women would be dressed in elegant, stylish cocktail dresses, and the men wore dark suits. And he was right, the food was superb.
“I’d love to. Are you sure you won’t be embarrassed that I didn’t bring anything dressy with me?” She felt faintly awkward, but liked the idea of having dinner with him. Among other things, he was intelligent, interesting, and quick. She hadn’t been bored with him for a minute all day. He was knowledgeable on a multitude of subjects, well read, well educated, and brilliant. The opportunity to spend a few hours with him and get to know him better was hard to resist. She had come to London just for him. And Paul had left that day.
“I’d be honored to have dinner with you, Hope,” Finn said honestly, and looked as though he meant it. She was the most interesting woman he had met in years. “You can tell me more about India, and I can tell you all about Ireland,” he teased her. “And what it’s like to restore a three-hundred-year-old house.”
Finn told her he would pick her up at the hotel at eight-thirty, and a few minutes later she and Fiona left, after the driver carried out all their equipment. Fiona had been quietly reading a book in the small sitting room, after the maid gave her a sandwich for lunch. She didn’t mind waiting for Hope, and had loved working with her that day.
Fiona got all the equipment organized for Hope back at the hotel, and put away her cameras. It was five o’clock by the time she left, and she said it had been a great day. And after that Hope lay down on her bed for a nap, thinking about her conversation with Finn, and his invitation for that night. It was one of the things she liked best about doing portraits. The work itself wasn’t exciting, but the people she met were. He was such a talented man, as most of her portrait subjects were. She had always loved his work, and it was fascinating discovering the man behind it. He wrote somewhat eerie, even frightening books. She wanted to ask him more about it that night. And he seemed to be just as interested in her work.
She fell asleep for two hours, and woke in time to shower and dress for dinner. As she had warned him, she wore black pants and a sweater, and the only pair of high heels she had brought with her, and was relieved that she had brought a fur coat. At least, she wouldn’t totally disgrace him at Harry’s Bar that night. She couldn’t compete with the fashionable women there, but she looked sober, and simple, and decently dressed. She wound her hair in a bun, and put on just a little makeup and bright red lipstick before she left her suite to wait for him downstairs.
Hope was sitting in the lobby when Finn walked in promptly five minutes later, in a dark blue suit, and a beautifully cut black cashmere coat. He was a striking figure and heads turned as he greeted her and they walked out together. Several people recognized him as he escorted her to the Jaguar he had left at the curb. This wasn’t the evening she had planned on before she met him, but it was fun being out with him, and she smiled broadly as they drove away.
“This is great. Thank you, Finn,” she said warmly, and he turned to her with a smile. The restaurant was only a few blocks away.
“I’m looking forward to it too. And you look terrific. I don’t know what you were worried about. You look very chic.” It had been a long time since she had been out to a fancy dinner. She didn’t do much of that anymore. She rarely went out in the evening now, except to museum parties, or her own gallery shows. Dinners like the one at Harry’s Bar were more part of Paul’s old world, and no longer hers. She was part of a more artistic crowd in New York, that was more in keeping with her work. They went to little bistros in Chelsea and SoHo, never fashionable restaurants.
The headwaiter greeted Finn warmly, and obviously knew him well. He led them to a quiet corner table amid well-dressed diners from a variety of countries. She could hear people speaking Italian, Arabic, Spanish, Russian, German, and French as well as English. And Finn ordered a martini as soon as they sat down. Hope ordered a glass of champagne, as she looked around. The same cartoons were on the walls. Nothing had changed since the last time she’d been there with Paul. It had been years.
“Tell me how you got started taking pictures,” Finn asked as their drinks were served, and Hope took a sip of her champagne.
She laughed at the question. “I fell in love with cameras when I was nine. My father was a professor at Dartmouth, and my mother was an artist. My grandmother gave me a camera for my birthday, and it was love at first sight. I was an only child, so I was good at entertaining myself. And life was pretty quiet in New Hampshire when I was growing up. As long as I had a camera in my hands, I was never bored. What about you?” she asked him. “When did you start writing?”
“Just like you. When I was a boy. I was an only child too, so I read all the time. It was my escape.”
“From what?” she asked with interest. Their art forms were different, but their creative talents were nonetheless a bond.
“A lonely childhood. My parents were very close, and I think I felt left out a lot of the time. There wasn’t a lot of room for a child in their lives. They were older. My father was a doctor, and my mother had been a famous beauty in Ireland. She was fascinated by his work, and a lot less interested in me. So I developed a rich fantasy life, and spent all my time reading. I always knew I wanted to write. I wrote my first book at eighteen.”
“Was it published?” she asked, impressed. And he laughed as he shook his head.
“No, it wasn’t. I wrote three that were never published. I finally got published with my fourth. I had just graduated from college by then.” She knew he had gone to Columbia and then later Oxford. “Success didn’t come till a lot later.”
“What did you do until you were published?”
“Studied, read, kept writing. Drank a lot.” He laughed. “Chased women. I got married fairly young. I was twenty-five, it was right after my second book came out. I worked as a waiter and a carpenter too. Michael’s mother was a model in New York.” He smiled sheepishly at Hope. “I’ve always had a fatal weakness for beautiful women. She was a terrific-looking girl. Spoiled, difficult, narcissistic, but she was one of the prettiest women I’ve ever seen. She was young too, and things fell apart very quickly when we had Michael. I don’t think either of us was ready to have a child. She stopped modeling, and we partied a lot. I didn’t have a lot of money, and we were both
