Page 1 of Casanova LLC

Episode 1

“Cultivating whatever gave pleasure to my senses was always the chief business of my life; I have never found any occupation more important. Feeling that I was born for the sex opposite mine, I have always loved it and done all that I could to make myself loved by it. I have also been extravagantly fond of good food and irresistibly drawn by anything which could excite curiosity.”

? Giacomo Casanova

Claire

Six months ago, the house manager would have answered the call from the doorman and told him to admit this one, lone visitor. Now, I did it.

Six months ago, I had a house manager. And a housekeeper, a chef, a driver, and as many visitors as I would allow up to my home on the thirty-first floor of this building. This building with thirty-one floors.

Six months ago, I had a husband, too.

Now, I was the only one left to turn to the woman waiting in my kitchen, the woman from Sotheby’s whose name I couldn’t remember, and field her questions. To the best of my limited ability, anyway.

Yes, I had paperwork for the Chihuly chandelier in the foyer; the red leather chairs in the screening room were some limited-edition line by Maserati; yes, the car company; no, I didn’t know anything about the safes (he’d had safes? Plural? In the house?); no, I didn’t know if the Viking stove was in working order because I never used it. Weren’t they conveying to the new owners anyway? No, she told me, no. The new owners were taking the place down to the studs. Including the industrial-grade kitchen. Including, and this broke my heart, the dance-like gesture of the curving Italian marble staircase.

When descending that staircase, I could almost believe I was the princess he’d made me.

Six months ago, I had been devastated by the death of the man I loved. A man who had worshiped me. To him, I was even more pristine than the objects d’art that filled our home, never to be touched for fear of damaging their perfection. For all his faults, Richard had prized me above everything else.

Ironic that it was his actions which ultimately sullied me.

Sorry, I said: but did they know the staircase was Calacatta marble? They knew, she said.

Four months ago, I was naive enough to think I might be able to keep my home. But that was after the initial wave of individual lawsuits and before the tsunami of those brought by the US government. The unholy trinity of the IRS, FBI, and DOJ.

They showed no mercy. Rightfully so. The Hamptons house, gone. (I never went anyway. That was his refuge with “the boys.”) The yacht, the jet, the ten-thousand-bottle wine cellar. I hadn’t even known the Vail house existed. The jewelry, my lawyers fought to let me keep until I clarified that I didn’t want any of it. But, they told me, the wives always wanted to keep the jewelry. Yes, well, I only wanted my wedding ring. The symbol of the one thing that had been real about Richard, his love for me. I told them that everything else should—no, must—go to the highest bidder. And all the proceeds to the victims. They were to be made whole. Please.

It is difficult, probably, to be a lawyer—especially an expensive one, especially my late husband’s—and be told not to fight.

To the victims—and the world—my husband, Richard Craven, head of a multibillion-dollar hedge fund, was nothing more than a deceitful, crooked, Machiavellian prick. I had my own opinion. But that didn’t change the fact that now he was gone and I was still here. Not just facing it, but the literal face of it.

Was it wrong I envied him his death?

Now, the Sotheby’s woman clapped her hands and moved on to discussing the art. Art in every house, in his offices, in climate-controlled storage units across the city. We needed to inventory it. Next week, I said. After I was moved out of here.

The art, it had been discovered, was nothing more than a laundromat to him. Dirty money in, clean money out.

From the stock in our home, there was only one I fought to keep. My lawyers argued I’d brought it into the marriage, which was true, if only by a matter of hours. It was by an unknown artist and I’m sure it cost me more in legal fees to keep than it was worth. But to me, it was priceless.

The doorbell rang, a formality, as the front doors were wide open. The fleet of appraisers and movers working with Ms. Sotheby went in and out in tandem with the new owners’ contractor and his subs.

I told her I had a meeting. She said she had everything she needed. She said it kindly, effusively even. She was chipper and professional, not letting on that she knew this—all of this—was a scandal. But I wouldn’t give her any grist for the gossip mill. No tears, no anger, no woe-is-me. When she told this story, and she would, she wouldn’t know exactly how to describe me. Stoic? Composed? She certainly seemed innocent, she would say. But you never really know, do you?

Prior to this…debacle, I was regarded as poised. Elegant and staid and erect. Audrey Hepburn as Princess Anne in Roman Holiday walking down her own marble staircase. A statue. Seemingly solid. But hollow.

Princess Anne before the holiday.

I stole a quick glance at my reflection in the glass of a cabinet door.

Hair in a low bun, no flyaways. Cashmere turtleneck, white. Makeup from my own line, flawlessly applied.

But:

Thinned. Brittle. Tired.

I found myself wondering, what will he think of you now and shoved it down. Had anything ever been less important? Really, Claire.

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