Page 75 of The Lost Heiress
“I thought this was just a hobby,” RJ said. “Something to occupy your time.”
“I hope it can be more than that,” Astrid said. “I know I’ve gotten a bit of a late start—”
“A late start? You’re a grown woman,” RJ said. “You cannot be serious.”
“Yes, I assure you, I’m quite serious.”
“I don’t want you going there anymore,” RJ said, returning his attention to his steak.
“Where? The studio?”
“Yes,” RJ said, taking a bite. “Look how thin you’ve gotten. You don’t fill out your clothes anymore the way you used to. Where have your hips gone, your breasts? You’ve turned into a wisp of a woman.”
“I rather think a slender silhouette is becoming more fashionable these days,” Astrid said in her own defense. “Look at the sheath dresses in the storefronts at Harrods. They’re not at all flattering if you have any sort of curves.”
“I do not care for sheath dresses, nor the type of woman that they flatter,” RJ said. “And what of your social obligations? You never come out anymore or call on any of your friends. It’s as if I’m married to an eccentric recluse. Cressida just remarked to me the other day that you hadn’t called on her in over a fortnight.”
“I rather think Cressida prefers your company to mine,” Astrid said, and RJ didn’t even have the decency to color or look ashamed at the barely concealed accusation. “Besides, all those women—they’re a bunch of bores. I admit, if I’m half drunk, they’re almost tolerable, but nothing like the girls at the studio. Or Madame Petrov. Now, there’s someone worth knowing. We should have her over for dinner one night. The stories she has, the life she’s lived. Oh, I can only imagine.”
“We are not having that woman over to this house,” RJ said. “I’ve been more than patient. I thought this ... thing ... you do was a passing fancy, something you’d grow bored of. But every day you fall more and more into it, grow more and more delusional. I now see that I’ve indulged this far too long.”
“Come now, RJ—” Astrid said.
“I did not marry a ballerina!” RJ said, slamming his fist down on the table. Both Astrid and Florence jumped in their seats. Florence dropped her fork on the floor, and the butler rushed to the kitchen to fetch her a clean one. Astrid took a sip of her drink and stared down at the table, but Florence could see the way the color had drained from her face, the way her hand shook as she set down her glass.
The next morning, they did not go to the studio. Astrid greeted her husband at the breakfast table with a kiss on the cheek, dressed in a blue Chanel scoop-neck tea-length swing dress that brought out her eyes. The dress was belted at the waist, accentuating the hourglass figure that RJ had claimed was diminishing the night before.
“You look chipper this morning,” RJ said over the top of his newspaper.
“I thought I’d do some shopping,” Astrid said. “Givenchy’s fall line just came out. And then I was thinking of calling on Gemma. It’s been too long since I’ve seen her.”
“That sounds like a marvelous day,” RJ said.
“It does,” Astrid agreed, taking a sip of her coffee.
RJ helped Astrid and Florence into a cab as he headed off to work. They took a left off the street, and as soon as the house disappeared behind them, Astrid redirected the driver to Notting Hill.
“Harrods isn’t in Notting Hill,” Florence said.
“No, it isn’t,” Astrid said with a smile.
At the dance shop, Astrid asked for her first pair of pointe shoes. She sat in an upholstered chair by the window as the salesgirl measured her feet and examined her arches. She brought out an armful of boxes from the back.
“Stop looking so dour,” Astrid told Florence. “You’re dampening the mood.”
Florence bit her lip. “I’m sorry. It’s just ... last night, RJ seemed really serious.”
“I’m sure he was,” Astrid said. “But so am I.”
“What if he finds out?”
Astrid shrugged. “He’s not going to find out. I’ll eat some cake, put on a couple pounds. This bra and crinoline are doing a lot of the heavy lifting right now, which is fine, but I won’t always be wearing them when I’m with him.”
“But what about your feet?” Florence asked. She glanced down at Astrid’s bare feet—the toes that were bruised and bandaged, the rough calluses on her heels. “Won’t they give you away?”
“I’ll soak them,” Astrid said. “And powder them if I have to. If there’s one thing RJ’s not going to be looking at when I’m naked, it’s my feet.”
The shop attendant slipped a pink satin slipper onto Astrid’s foot. “How does that feel?” she asked.
