The Magyar Venus

CHAPTER ONE

September 5

I'M NEVER QUITE CERTAIN WHAT PEOPLE MEAN WHEN THEY tell me to stay out of trouble. What I do know is that no matter what they intend by it, being caught with one of Europe's oldest men hidden under the bed would hardly be considered staying out of it, even if, given he'd been dead for about twenty-five thousand years, I could hardly be accused of the blow that killed him.

I was, however, immeshed in the demise of a more contemporary soul, and, not to put too fine a point on it, almost got myself killed. When, in the harsh light of hindsight, I subject my actions to rigorous self-examination, something I by and large try not to do too often or for too long, it is clear a rather unfortunate chain of events might have been avoided had I paid attention to signs, obvious to everyone but me, that disaster was nigh. Instead, I was swamped with a sort of psychic lassitude, my normal instinct for survival dulled by a fuzziness of thinking, a lack of will. In short, I was in something of a funk.

My friends certainly thought so, even if I wasn't prepared to acknowledge my state of mind, at least not while I was in it, and certainly not out loud.

"I expect you're feeling a little glum about your breakup with Rob," my best friend Moira Meller offered rather tentatively.

"I don't think so," I said. "It was for the best, you know, and really very amicable."

"That's good," she said. "He seems a little depressed. I was worried you might be, too."

"I don't know why," I said. "Neither of us was really getting what we wanted out of the relationship. It may be that I am one of those people who are happier on their own. You haven't been talking to him, have you?" I said suspiciously.

"He did call," she said. "And I did talk to him, but only for a minute, you understand. I think he wanted me to try to talk to you about getting back together. I told him I wouldn't presume to do anything like that."

"Thank you," I said. I looked at her warily. Was there more to this than she was saying? The expression on her face was studiously bland.

"Any time you want to talk about it," she said, "I'm here."

"Thanks, but I'm fine," I said.

"Okay," she said. "Whatever. By the way, if you have some time one evening this week, I could use your advice. I'm thinking of giving the salon a bit of a makeover. I have some color swatches and I'd be grateful if you'd have a look at them. Maybe you and I could go out for a drink and dinner after."

"Didn't you just completely redecorate the place six months ago? It's gorgeous!"

"Urn, yes. But there is one spot I've never been entirely happy about. You know me, obsessive personality that I am. It would be great if you'd come over."

"Okay," I said. Her motives were entirely transparent, and I suppose it was nice of her to try to cheer me up, but I wished she wouldn't bother.

"You'll miss Jennifer, I expect, won't you, Lara?" my neighbor Alex Stewart said.

"I'm sure I'll see her almost as much as I did when her father and I were together," I replied.

"Will you?" he said. "I'm glad to hear that. I was wondering, might there be any chance you could give me a hand with my garden on Sunday? I could use your help moving one of the rose bushes."

"Sure," I said. "I'd be glad to." Not another one! I thought.

When I wasn't doing favors for my friends, I tried to throw myself into my work. That usually does the trick when I'm feeling a little down. Even at the antique shop I co-own with my ex-husband Clive Swain, though, it was not business as usual. Diesel, the Official Shop Cat, who normally ignores me, had taken to leaping into my lap whenever and wherever I was sitting, and doing figure eights between my legs when I wasn't.

The one person I can always count on to show me no sympathy is Clive. "This business with Rob is making you a little crabby, Lara," he said.

"Thank you, Clive," I said, feeling much cheered by this lack of solicitude. "You, of course, are all sweetness and light."

"I rest my case," he said. "You need a holiday. Now that you're unattached, you could go out to one of those swinging singles places in the Caribbean. Sun, sand, sex with no commitment. Very therapeutic. I remember those times with fondness."

"And those intensive therapy sessions would have been while you were still married to me, would they?" I said.

"Worse than crabby. Downright testy," he said. "Isn't there somewhere else you need to be right now?"

"I suppose I should go to that auction preview at Molesworth Cox. I probably won't find anything interesting, though, and even if I do, it will be too pricey."

"Have I mentioned your less than positive outlook on life?" Clive said. "Get going. And by the way," he called to my departing back. "I didn't have nearly as many affairs as you thought I did, and not until it was basically over."

"You sound like Prince Charles," I said. "Trying to justify Camilla what’s-her-name."

"The auction?" he said, treating my comment with the contempt it no doubt deserved.

I hesitated in the doorway, waiting for the parting shot, something along the lines of "by the way, you were no Princess Diana." It didn't come. Instead he said, "Moira and I are attending the gallery opening at the Cottingham. If you're going, we'll see you there." Even Clive, I thought glumly, was being nice to me. At least he had stopped short of asking me for help with an imaginary project. I'd moved three rosebushes before Alex decided they had looked better where they were, and we moved them all back—which couldn't have done the roses much good, regardless of what it did for me. In a related activity, Moira, ostensibly with my help, picked a color for the walls of the changing rooms at her salon that only a creature with a preternatural sensitivity to color could possibly have noticed was any different from the one that was already there.

And anyway, I was fine. I managed to park my car without scraping the curb or hitting the parking meter, something I seemed to have had a propensity to do ever since I'd parted company with Rob—that and slamming file drawers on my fingers and cutting myself on every sharp object within miles—and made my way into Molesworth Cox, Auctioneers. Just as I predicted, it didn't look very exciting. One of the rooms contained a display table that, intentionally or not, was entirely covered in pairs: silver candlesticks, twin Staffordshire china dogs, matching table lamps, salt and pepper shakers, gold cufflinks, pearl and garnet earrings, two of everything. It made me think of my bathroom at home, with its identical bottles of shampoo, tubes of conditioner, packets of mint-flavored dental floss, waxed, two tubes of toothpaste to brighten your teeth and avert gum disease simultaneously, and even two hairbrushes. Only one of each pair belonged there, the other having until recently rested on a shelf in Rob's bathroom before I'd packed up and moved out.

Staring at those identical twins, I realized that if someone actually asked me why I'd done what I had—and my friends were assiduously avoiding doing that, for all their concern—I wasn't sure what I would say. On the surface, Rob Luczka and I were very compatible. We hardly ever argued, I adored his daughter, and we liked so many of the same things. Forced to explain it from my perspective, I would have said something to the effect that we fundamentally saw the world differently. In the end I'd simply told him that the relationship just wasn't working for me. His hurt and baffled expression was now engraved on my brain.

There was nothing at the auction house that even remotely interested me. In fact there was nothing at all at the moment that engaged me. I just didn't care that a shipment had gone missing somewhere between Denpasar and Los Angeles, or even that we'd been selected as one of only two antique dealers to exhibit at a posh design show. As recently as the day before I had been thinking I should sell my half of the business to Clive, and move to the south of France or something, and indeed, had even suggested it to him. He told me to go have a massage.

It was a muggy day, summer's last gasp, the air thick enough to cut, and as I left the auction house, a light drizzle began to fall. A drifter was sitting on the sidewalk, water dripping off his filthy baseball cap, a scruffy dog at his side. It was all so unspeakably dreary. It was five o'clock and another depressing evening alone at home loomed. I had the invitation to the gallery opening Clive had talked about, but I couldn't summon the energy to go. I wanted to do something, something fun, with somebody who didn't know anything about Rob and me, and who would therefore not try to engage me in conversation about how I felt, or invent some completely unnecessary activity to keep me busy. I just didn't know what that something would be.

And then, there it was!

"Lara? It is you, isn't it? Lara McClintoch?" I turned to a woman who looked vaguely familiar. "Diana MacPherson," she said. "Remember me? From Vic? The place on Dovercourt?"

"Vic" was Victoria College at the University of Toronto. Dovercourt was the street we'd both lived on. It was also a long time ago. "Diana!" I exclaimed. "Of course I remember. How are you?"

"I knew it had to be you," she said. "The strawberry hair.

You still look nineteen!" she exclaimed. It was a lie, of course, but a nice one. "I would have known you anywhere. How long has it been? Twenty years?"

"At least. You look exactly the same, too." She didn't, any more than I did. Her hair, once dark, was gray now, and her face bore the mark of experience, some of it, judging by the lines around her mouth, bitter.

"Do you ever see any of the old gang?" she asked.

"Not for ages," I said. "I don't know why, really. We've just lost touch."

"Are you married?" she said. "Kids?"

"I was married," I replied. "Once. But, no, no kids."

"Me, neither. This is so great," she said. "I can't believe I've run into you after all these years! Do you have time for a drink?" she asked. "I'm meeting a couple of our former classmates, maybe three. You remember Cybil, don't you? Cybil Harris. It's Cybil Rowanwood now. And Grace? Grace Young? You have to remember her. And Anna Belmont? There's a chance she'll be there, too."

"Of course, I remember," I said.

"So will you? Come for a drink right now, I mean?" she said. "It would be such fun, a mini college reunion."

I hesitated.

"What am I thinking?" she said. "This is so last-minute. I'm sure you already have something planned for this evening."

Normally I would rather chew glass than attend any event with the word reunion associated with it. The only activity I could think of for myself that evening, however, was watching my toiletries doing the Noah's ark thing in the bathroom, two by two. "I'd love to come," I said.

"That's great!" she said. "We're meeting up at the bar on the top of the Park Hyatt, for a quick one. Some of us are off to another event after. I can't believe I've just run into you like this. This is so great. Do you want to take the subway, or share a cab?"

"I have my car," I said. "I'll give you a lift."

"Great!" she said again. "This is just so much fun! The others will be so surprised!"

The hotel was only a block or so from the shop, so I parked in my usual spot off the lane way behind it. The store was already closed up tight.

"Oh my goodness!" Diana exclaimed, putting her hand up to her mouth. "Is this yours? The shop I mean? Are you the owner? I've walked past this place at least once a week for years, and I've never run into you. I've even been in it. I don't know why it never occurred to me that the McClintoch of McClintoch Swain would be you."

"There's no reason why you should have," I said.

"We always knew you would be a success," she said.

"I don't know that I would actually call this business a success," I protested. In truth, Clive and I are happy when we turn the smallest of profits.

"You're in Yorkville," Diana said. "Don't be so modest. It's one of the fanciest places in town."

"You see it as fancy. I see it as high rent," I said.

"You say tom-ay-to, I say tom-ah-to," she laughed. "Well, I'm a freelance bookkeeper for a small agency. Right now I'm working at a museum."

"That sounds interesting," I said.

"You see it as interesting. I see it as a position in danger of being replaced by a new software spreadsheet program."

"Oh," I said.

"Here we are," she added rather unnecessarily, as we stepped off the elevator at the eighteenth floor and turned left into the bar.

"Over here, Diana," a woman's voice called from the alcove on the far side of the room.

"Hi, girls. Look who I found just walking along the street," Diana said. "You remember Lara."

"Oh my gawd," a rather large and seriously middle-aged woman shrieked. "I don't believe it!"

"Hello, Cybil," I said. I didn't believe it either. "And Grace! How are you?" I said to a slim dark-haired woman who in truth did look much the way she had in college. And…" For a moment the name escaped me. "Anna," I said. Even though Diana had already mentioned Anna, I had trouble identifying the rather shy and retiring woman of indeterminate age in front of me with the dynamo called Anna I'd known in college. "It's great to see all of you."

"We have a surprise for you, too," Grace said, gesturing toward an empty chair and a lipstick-smudged drink glass. "She's just gone to the ladies room."

"Who is it?" Diana asked.

"Guess," Cybil said. "You never will."

"Hello, Diana," a voice said behind us. "And Lara! I didn't know you were coming. What a nice surprise."

"Hello, Vesta," I said. "I didn't know I was coming either."

"You have to call her Morgan now," Cybil said. "It's her professional name. Doesn't it suit her?" It did, rather. Morgan was tall, very slim in a smashing scarlet silk suit, beautifully made-up, with matching fingernails and red silk shoes. I immediately felt like a middle-aged frump.

"One could hardly have a modeling career with a name like Vesta Stubbs," Morgan said.

An extra chair was found and squeezed in around the circle, another glass of wine fetched. "I can't believe my eyes," Diana said. "The Dovercourt Divas together again. After all these years!"

"Wasn't that the most awful place?" Morgan said. "The way the bugs in the kitchens scurried about if you turned on the light without making a lot of noise first. The smell from that restaurant below. The whole place should have been condemned as a fire trap. We did have fun, though, didn't we?"

We did, indeed: six University of Toronto students who lived in a little warren of tiny bachelor apartments over a Chinese restaurant on Dovercourt Road. You got up to the apartments through what the landlord rather optimistically called a courtyard at the back. We named ourselves the Dovercourt Divas, and for a year or two we'd been inseparable.

But that had been a long time ago, and at first it was rather heavy going with none of us quite knowing what to say, other than "it's been years," or "you haven't changed a bit." By the time the second round of drinks had been ordered however, we were all talking at once.

"Stop," Diana said. "I think we should each summarize our lives since we left Vic. Let's make it twenty words or less. I'll start. Graduate school, master's degree, doctorate, taught for awhile but failed to get tenure. Took up bookkeeping. Never married. I think that's too many words."

"It is, but I'll make mine shorter to compensate," Cybil said. "Got knocked up, shotgun wedding. Never graduated. Had four kids. Gained forty pounds. Divorced the creep. How many's that?"

"Sixteen," Diana said. "Unless shotgun is two words, or knocked up is one. I never was so hot at spelling as you may recall. Lara?"

"Traveled. Brought back stuff. Opened store to get rid of it," I said. "Got married. Got divorced. Lost store in divorce. Started another one. Got back in business with ex-husband. Not sure why. No kids. Live alone."

"You and I always were the talkers," Diana said. "That's way too many words. You'll have to buy the next round. Morgan?"

"Traveled. Modeled. Got too old," Morgan said, counting on bejeweled fingers. "Married well. Big house. Husband screws around. No kids. Starve to keep thin. Love botox. I believe that is exactly twenty."

"What's botox?" Cybil said.

"It's a poison you inject into your forehead to get rid of your wrinkles," Morgan replied.

"You're kidding," Cybil said.

"I'm afraid not," Morgan said.

"A poison?" Cybil repeated.

"It's related in some way I do not understand to botulism."

"Yikes," Cybil said.

"I tell everyone I have it done because it helps my migraines," Morgan said. "Which maybe it does. But since you know me all too well, I'll confess that's a lie. I do it to look younger. I've also had my eyes done, twice, in fact."

"All I can say is that you're gorgeous, and you would be even with wrinkles," Cybil said loyally. "And you don't need to be a toothpick, either. Not that I'm suggesting you let yourself go the way I have. I said forty pounds, but it's closer to fifty. Okay, sixty."

"I envy you. I put on three pounds and my charming husband tells me I'm getting fat," Morgan said.

"You envy me?" Cybil snorted. "Not. Why don't you just leave him if he's so picky?"

"Given I have no marketable skills to speak of, the modeling thing being a young person's game, I have to hold on to him. Did I mention that I have to walk on my toes when I'm in my bare feet because I've been wearing very high heels for too long?"

"A rather pathetic attempt to gain our sympathy, Vesta. I mean, Morgan," Cybil said. "It won't work."

"You're also cheating on the number of words, Morgan," Diana said. "With all these additional comments. And we have yet to hear from Anna and Grace. Anna, you're next in the circle."

"No, please," Anna said, blushing. "I couldn't."

"Have another sip of wine, " Morgan said. "I've been candid. We all have."

"Anna doesn't have to if she doesn't want to," Cybil said in a protective tone.

"Why not? How bad could it be?" Morgan asked. Cybil shot her a warning look.

"I want to," Anna said. "It's just… Give me a minute."

"Okay," Diana said. "Grace, your turn."

"Hmm. Medical school in the States. Family practice five years. More medical school. Surgeon at Toronto General. Married ten years to a really wonderful man. Widowed now, and haven't found wonderful man number two. I would say no time to find man number two, but I've run out of words."

"You're cheating too," Diana said. "Sneaking in extra words under the guise of an aside."

"A surgeon!" Cybil said.

"Very impressive," Morgan said. "What kind of surgeon? Plastic, I hope, so I can get a discount for old times' sake." We all laughed, even Anna.

"Heart," Grace replied. "Sorry."

"Boy, two doctors here, Diana the PhD, and Grace the surgeon. I always knew you two were smart. All of you were smarter than I was. Yes, you were," Cybil added as we all demurred. "Grace, you make me think of that riddle we used to tell each other while we were in college," she went on. "You know, the one about the man and his son who are in a car crash. The man is killed and the kid is seriously injured, and when he's brought to the hospital, the surgeon says "I can't operate on this boy because he's my son,' and you're supposed to guess how that might be."

"The surgeon is a woman," Diana said. "I remember that. Some people actually couldn't guess the answer. I suppose we've come a long way. I'll bet you have lots of stories to tell about what it was like for you along the way, though, Grace."

"I do, but it would take a lot more than twenty words."

"Would it be way too awful to ask about your husband's death?" Cybil asked.

"Heart attack, wouldn't you know?" Grace said.

"Oh dear," Cybil said.

"Yes. The way I see it, he died because I wasn't there. One could argue whether I should have been at the time or not, or if I had been whether it would have made any difference or not, but there you are."

"Oh dear," Cybil said again.

"Got married. Had three beautiful children," Anna suddenly blurted out. We all looked at her. She was twirling a lock of dirty blond hair around her finger and her face was red. "The little boy died. I had a nervous breakdown. Daughters live with their father. I live with my mother." There was an audible gasp from the rest of us.

"My God," Morgan said. "I had no idea. What happened?"

"An accident," Cybil said, patting Anna's hand.

"How awful," I said. "Anna, I'm so sorry."

"It is awful," Morgan said. "And of course, here I am complaining about dieting. Well, as I'm sure you all remember, I am nothing if not extremely shallow."

"You mustn't blame yourself, Anna," Grace said.

"Please," Anna said. "There's nothing you can say. It's nice to be here with you again. It makes me feel as if I could start over. I want to hear more about what everybody has been doing. Do any of you travel to faraway places? I'd love to hear about that."

"We have all kinds of catching up to do," Cybil said. "I want to hear all about Lara's antique business, too."

"Love to, some other time," Morgan said, looking at her watch, a Cartier, I believe. "Command performance. Exclusive event. People there my husband wants to impress. I wish I could take you all with me. Which," she said, digging about in her purse, a lovely embroidered silk evening bag, "perhaps I can. Here," she said, pulling out an engraved card. "It's for me and a guest. I wonder if they'd allow me to have five guests."

"Maybe we don't want to come," Diana said. "What is it?"

"The Cottingham Museum. They're opening a new gallery of prehistoric art. I could take one of you."

"Doesn't your husband count as your date?" Cybil said.

"Believe me, darling, Woodward does not need an invitation. Now who would like to come with me?"

"Would that be Woodward Watson by any chance?" I said.

"Of course," Morgan said. "Did I not mention that?"

"I don't believe you did. I, too, have an invitation to the opening," I said, pulling an identical card out of my bag. "I wasn't sure whether I wanted to go or not, but I'm game if someone else wants to come, too."

"I'm actually a member of the museum," Grace said. "I have an invitation as well, but I'm afraid I already have a date."

"A date!" Cybil said. "That's rather nice."

"He's gay," Grace said. "And you all know him. Remember Frank Kalman?"

"Frankie! I didn't know he was gay," Morgan said. "Didn't I date him?"

"We all did, I think," Diana said. "You dated everybody, Morgan," she added. That was true. Morgan as Vesta drank, smoked, skipped classes, and, if the stories were true, slept with just about any guy who asked. A lot of guys asked.

"I liked him because he was the only guy I dated who didn't paw me," Morgan said. "I guess I now know why. Speaking of dating, I want you to know, Lara, that I've forgiven you for stealing Charles Miller away from me," she said.

"Who? What?" I said.

"You've forgotten," Morgan said.

"What?" I repeated.

"That you stole Charlie away from me."

"I did?"

"The graduation ball? You and Charlie?"

"Yes. So…"

"He and I were dating."

"You were?"

"You didn't know?"

"No," I said. "Since when would anyone date me if they could date you?"

"Don't be ridiculous. Did you really not know?"

"No, honest," I said. "As a matter of fact, I thought he'd been dating Grace."

"So you stole him from me," Grace said.

"Did I? No, that's not fair. It's coming back to me. You and I went for a coffee and I asked you and you said it was all over between the two of you, and you didn't care if I went to the dance with him."

"And you believed her?" Cybil said. "Silly you."

"Perhaps I did say that," Grace said. "And I may or may not have meant it at the time. A lot of water under the bridge, either way."

"I thought Charlie was the most beautiful man I'd ever seen," Anna said. "I still do."

"Charlie was adorable, wasn't he?" Cybil said. "Smart, funny, very good-looking. We were all jealous when you went to the dance with him, Lara. Pea green with envy. Did you date him too, Diana?"

"I did not," Diana said in a rather tart tone that suggested further questions on that subject would not be welcome.

Cybil did not appear to notice. "You did, too, Diana. I saw the two of you together smooching by Hart House."

"I am sure you are mistaken," Diana said. "If you want to know, I loathed him. I thought he was a pompous, self-centered, egotistical pig."

"I'm not sure I would go that far," Grace said. "But he was always rather more interested in people who could help him get ahead. Given I was there on a bursary because my parents couldn't afford the tuition, I was of no interest. The truth is, Lara, he dumped me. I was just too proud to tell you."

"Perhaps I should have known that," I said. "But I didn't. I suppose that's the reason you froze me out the last semester, is it? I always wondered what I'd done to offend you."

"I wish you hadn't brought that up, but yes, that's why. Ridiculous when you think about it."

"You really didn't know?" Morgan repeated. "About Charlie and me?"

"I really didn't know that either," I said. "I swear."

"Too bad. There's twenty years of bitterness and recrimination totally wasted."

"You're kidding," I said.

"No, I'm not," she said, but she couldn't keep a straight face, and soon we were all laughing, even Anna, just like the good old days.

"I was rather enamored," I said. "I have to admit it."

"Me, too," Morgan said.

"Me three," Cybil piped in. "He was a dish."

"My husband was a truly wonderful man, but he wasn't Charlie," Grace said almost wistfully. "Maybe that's a good thing," she added.

"Did we all date him?" I said.

"If we didn't, we wanted to," Anna said.

"So how many of us slept with him, I wonder," Morgan said.

"Oooh, Vesta. Morgan, I mean. You always were—what's the word I'm looking for here?—daring? Bold?" Cybil said.

"I expect the word you are looking for is shameless," Morgan replied. "Or maybe it's just plain tacky. I can see we will have to wait for another time before the confessions really start. Maybe we'll have a nightcap after the museum thing."

"I don't think shameless is the right word," Cybil said. "I always admired the way you said what you thought."

"It has gotten me into a lot more trouble than I dare tell you," Morgan said.

It had been a very long time since I'd thought about Charles, but the mere mention of his name transported me back to spring of my final year—walks in the park, notes passed back and forth in lectures, stolen kisses in the back row of the movies—all terribly prosaic, of course, but at the time Charles Miller had been the man with whom I wanted to spend the rest of my life. It had ended when we'd both gone on to do other things. For awhile we'd written. I'd penned notes I thought were touching and profound, but which were probably just banal, if not downright silly. I couldn't even remember which one of us had made the decision final, but I do recall I cried for days when I realized it was over.

"I wonder what happened to him," I said. It seemed a bit odd to me that I'd so completely lost track of him. He'd been the first real love of my life, a divine dancer, handsome, debonair, and charming when he wanted to be. Sort of like Clive, when it came right down to it. Maybe I had a weakness for suave and handsome but shallow men. Except for Rob, of course. Maybe that was the problem. Rob hadn't been nearly shallow enough for me. It was a depressing idea.

"You really don't know where he is now?" Grace said.

"No," I said. There seemed to have been rather a lot I'd missed both at the time and in the intervening years.

"I'd say you were in for a little surprise," Cybil said. "Isn't she, girls?"

"She is, indeed," Morgan said. "Speaking of which, who is coming to this gallery thing?" The rest of them tittered. "Obviously Lara has to go. I think we all should. I'd hate any of us to miss it now."

"What do you mean obviously I should go, and what's so funny?" I said. "I'd be happy to give my invitation to someone else."

"No, Morgan's right. You have to go," Grace said. "But we're short one invitation. Do you think they'll keep that close track?"

"I'm not dressed properly," Cybil said. "I'm never dressed properly. Anna, you go."

"I don't think I could stand to see…" Anna said.

"I also have an invitation," Diana said. "I work there, part-time. We all go."

"I thought you said this was exclusive," Cybil laughed.

"Waiter, the bill, please," Morgan said, smoothing her skirt, tugging at her jacket, and with a certain air of resolution, pulling the straps of her bag over her shoulder. "My treat, girls. The evening might even be bearable if you all come along."

"You look as if you're girding yourself for battle, Morgan," Cybil said.

Morgan looked at her for a moment before she replied. "Maybe I am," she said.