“I can tell by the way you look at him.”
“Tell what?”
“He’s rich.”
“Is that why you slept with him?”
“That’s what you think?”
Field watched the smoke drifting from darkness to light.
“Charlie’s not the man you think he is,” she said.
Field did not answer.
“He’s a little sad.”
“I’m sure.”
“You Englishmen.”
“What about us?”
“Always like little boys, like someone hurt you.”
Field cleared his throat. “I don’t see Charles Lewis as a victim.”
“Why? Don’t they say money doesn’t buy you happiness?” Natasha rolled over onto her back. “Charlie was angry when I asked him to leave,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t think a Russian girl has a right to say no?”
Field stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray in front of her. “What have you done with all the photographs?”
She looked at him, and even in this light he could see the depth of her annoyance. “I do not understand.”
“The bookshelf in the living room. I just wondered what had happened to all your photographs.”
“Which photographs?”
“When I came around the other day, your bookshelf was covered in photographs.”
“I took them down.”
“What did you do with them?”
“It is not your business.”
“Can I see them again?”
“Why do you ask this?”
“Just . . . interest.”
“No. You cannot.”
She sat up, moved to the side of the bed, and picked up her gown. She slipped into it and tied the knot around her waist. “I’m sorry, this has been unfair of me. I said to you that I am weak.”
“Stop.”
She turned to him. “What do you mean?”
“I mean don’t go down that road. I mean stop.”
“Stop what?”
“I know what you are going to say and I don’t want you to say it.”
Natasha sighed, closing her eyes.
He knelt on the bed. “Everything has changed.”
“Richard—”
“No. You said, ‘Everyone needs to dream.’ So let’s dream. Longer. No more questions.” He stood. “Let’s . . . do something. Let’s get out of here. Now. We can go for a walk.”
She was still looking at him, confused and uncertain, and for a moment he thought that she would reject him again.
She stood and began quietly to dress. She pulled on her stockings first, unselfconsciously, knowing his eyes were upon her. She indicated with the tap of a finger that he should button her dress, and as he did so, he wanted to kiss the curve of her back.
They did not speak as they walked down the stairs and, outside, she led the way, as if this had been her suggestion and she had a destination in mind. It was cooler this morning. A light breeze rustled the leaves of the sycamore trees.
A barge honked on the river, but the street was quiet save for the hiss of the gas lamps and their footsteps on the pavement. She wore a simple blue dress, a string of pearls around her neck, her hair untidy. She looked as if she had just got out of bed, and for some reason this pleased him.
Natasha took his hand, her own warm in his. She squeezed harder and he responded and then, as he was becoming used to this public display of affection, she let go.
