Free The Imperial Wife by Irina Reyn Page A

over, pretending what she just said was a disinterested observation, pretending she was not making an allusion to Carl’s mysterious six-week absence. But now her attention is caught by a man crowned by a shock of white hair striding across the gallery with long confident steps. “Is that Steve Martin?”
    And, in fact, it is Steve Martin, and the fact of it is hard for me to believe sometimes. The Manhattan borough president, Liv Tyler, Isabella Rossellini, Naomi Campbell, Jerry Saltz, all at my party. When I started in the industry, I was a mere witness to all this, a mousy drink-fetcher, a coat-gatherer, a flight-booker. Shyly standing by the wall with a carafe of water and a stack of catalogues, sitting at the RSVP table and marking off names, I dreamed of becoming what I am right now. But when did I ever enjoy the process of becoming? When would I finally be satisfied with what I’ve achieved? At each juncture, there was always more to want. More ways to be the most competent person in the room.
    Near the bar, I notice that wine has spilled onto a pristine white coat. A squeal rings out across the room, a call for me to contain the confusion, to treat the stain with seltzer and a stack of napkins. I’m needed everywhere at once—a collapsed installation, another new client wants to register, the last bottle of red gone, Isabella Rossellini wants to introduce me to a potential client—and I forget my parents’ champagne in the frantic mill of the party’s conclusion.
    â€œTanya,” Liv Tyler’s circle greets me when I manage to inject myself among them. “Your dress is gorgeous. So unusual. Did you get it in Moscow?”
    â€œI did, yes.”
    â€œI have to get out there soon.”
    When I glance back at my mother, she and my father are huddled on a trio of folding chairs that belong to catering. They probably wish they were home in New Jersey, among friends, in comfortable clothes, and for some reason the realization carries with it a sting. Once, I imagined my professional successes would bring them the deepest delight, but at some point I realized I’ve gone too far, achieved too much, striven to become too entrenched, American. I needed to take steps to curb all that ambition. Because in overreaching their expectations I’ve turned myself separate from them, foreign.
    *   *   *
    The party over, tables are wheeled out, and the cleaning crew is collecting trays of lipsticked glasses and balled-up napkins. The colleagues who helped take the heavier pieces off the wall are gone.
    â€œYou sure it’s okay if I get out of here?” Regan asks, already shrugged into a canary-yellow vintage coat. “My girlfriend’s doing that open mic thing with Eugene Mirman at Union Hall. It’ll take me at least an hour.”
    â€œGo, of course, go.”
    One by one, the lights on the floor are extinguished. I collapse into one of the chairs being stacked by Special Events. Night shrouds the building.
    Across the street, an office floor is still illuminated, lone workers animated by screens. “Would you just look at those corporate drones.” Carl used to point to them when he picked me up for dinner. “What a waste of a life.”
    â€œMaybe you can afford to think that,” I said, hurt. Wasn’t he implying I was one of those drones?
    I unlock the glass cabinet where the Order is draped. What was it the mystery man said? I don’t suppose you can bring the Order with you? The saint gazes at me with the same unflappable expression, the skies in the background an unperturbed blue: For Love and for the Fatherland. Checking that the gallery is truly empty, I slide the order over my head. It is thick, hefty, not as light on the body as I expected. Just in case, I scan the room for witnesses.
    I’ve not intentionally stolen a thing in twenty-two years.
    Even now, I don’t consider what I once used to do regularly