“Exactly!” Astrid sighed.
“Oh dear, here comes that odious art dealer who keeps trying to sell me a Gursky. I keep telling him that if I had to look at a huge photo of Amsterdam’s Schiphol Airport all day, I’d hang myself. Let’s go upstairs.”
Despite their best efforts, the dealer caught up to them in the Grand Ballroom on the second floor. “Contessa—how good to see you,” he said in an extremely affected accent, attempting to give her a double-cheek kiss. She only allowed one cheek. “How are your parents these days?”
“Still alive,” Domiella said wistfully.
The man paused for a split second, before letting out a guffaw. “Oh, har har!”
“This is my friend Astrid Leong Teo.”
“Howdoyoudo,” he said, pushing up his obnoxiously thick hornrimmed spectacles. He had memorized dossiers on every high-net-worth Asian collector who might attend the Biennale this year, but as he did not recognize Astrid, he continued to zero in on the contessa. “Contessa, I do hope you will give me a chance to walk you through the German Pavilion sometime.”
“Excuse me, I have to make a brief phone call,” Astrid said, as she moved toward the outdoor balcony.
Domiella looked at the art dealer and shook her head pitifully. “You just missed the chance of a lifetime. Do you know who my friend was? Her family are the Medicis of Asia, and she’s on a buying binge for a museum in Singapore.”
“I assumed she was just some model,” the dealer sputtered.
“Oh look—Larry’s talking to her. He’s obviously done his homework. Too late for you now,” Domiella tut-tutted.
• • •
After assuring the art dealer who cornered her on the terrace that she truly had no interest in seeing his big shiny Koons, Astrid placed a call to her husband.
Michael picked up his cell phone after four rings, sounding sleepy. “Hey. Is everything okay?”
“Yes.”
“You know it’s one thirty in the morning here, right?”
“I do. But I think you’re the only one in the house who’s able to sleep. Ludivine just texted me that Cassian is still up. He’s terrified of the dark now. Locking him in the closet…really?”
Michael let out a sigh of frustration. “You don’t understand. He’s been a little pest all week. Whenever I come home, he goes berserk.”
“He’s acting out to get your attention. He wants to play.”
“The great hall is not a playroom. My cars are not toys. He has to learn to control himself—at his age, I was not jumpi
ng around like an orangutan all day.”
“He is an active, high-spirited kid. Like his father was.”
“Hnnh!” Michael snorted. “If I had acted the way he does, I would have been whipped by my pa. Ten strokes on my ass with his rotan.”*
“Well, thank God you’re not your father then.”
“Cassian is a wild child, and this is the time for him to learn some discipline.”
“He is disciplined. Do you see how much calmer he is when I am there? I think you would get much farther if you would give him more of your attention. And I don’t mean sitting by the pool with your laptop while he plays. Take him to the zoo, take him to Gardens by the Bay. He just wants to be with his father.”
“So now you’re trying to make me feel guilty.”
“Darling, I’m not trying to make you feel anything. But don’t you see? My being away is a special opportunity for you to spend more quality time with him. He’ll be in Primary One next year, and then the whole academic race begins. He’s growing up so fast—this is a time in his life you’ll never get back.”
“Okay, lah, okay lah, you win. I’m a bad father.”
Astrid balled up some of the fabric of her skirt in frustration. “This is not about winning, and you’re not a bad father. It’s just—” Astrid began, before Michael interrupted her.