figure
8
on the door as Natascha prowled the rooms, sated now by the haul – her heritage – before her, idly flicking through the stacked paintings
like someone at a retro vinyl store.
Her face upon first entering the apartment had been a picture itself – for a girl born into a life of mirrored hallways and twenty-foot ceilings, it had been a shock for her to see the
reality of her grandparents’ early lifestyle: dark wood panelling, stripped pine floors, low ceilings. They had been by no means poor but it was a far cry from the rarefied echelons the
family inhabited now. If Natascha felt dismay, however, she didn’t show it, instead laughing at everything – the ragged silk curtains, the fusty coats in the cupboard, the pickle jars
in the larder.
Only when she nonchalantly went to light a cigarette in the hall was Flora forced to abandon her post and act, snatching it away from her and sending up prayers of relief that the Renoir and
Faucheux were already in safekeeping, far away from this spoilt girl’s pithy curiosity.
‘You can’t smoke in here,’ she cried, scarcely able to believe anyone could be so stupid, her eyes falling to a stack of canvases – now flicked to the floor – in
the dining room over Natascha’s shoulder. ‘And don’t touch anything,’ she said testily as Natascha walked off again with a careless shrug. Didn’t the girl have any
clue about the value of these pieces? Their fragility after over seventy years in seclusion?
Flora was replacing the canvases against the wall when she heard Natascha’s throaty screech of delight come from the drawing room and knew that she had found Gertie.
‘Flora!’ Natascha called, her tone almost friendly, as though she’d completely forgotten that she’d driven Flora across the city against her will, made her complicit in
(possibly illegally) gaining access to the property, held a hand up to her face to silence her. ‘Look at this!’
Flora walked in and almost fainted on the spot. Natascha was sitting astride the ostrich, her long, bare legs wrapped around the bird’s neck as though she were Miley Cyrus on a wrecking
ball. ‘Now this I’ve got to have!’ she shrieked, wiggling her shoulders and throwing her head back. ‘My mother will detest it!’
‘Get off it, Natascha,’ she said firmly. Though she herself was only six years older than Natascha, she felt as though she had to be mother. This girl was like a toddler, with no
sense of boundaries.
‘Why?’
Why? Flora wanted to scream. Had there ever been a more stupid question? ‘Because your parents have entrusted the care and safekeeping of everything in this apartment to the agency, and
until we have signed it all off, the ostrich is strictly off limits. So I’ll say it again – get off the ostrich.’
‘
Non,
’ Natascha said defiantly, a bead of light dancing in her eyes. She lived to defy, it seemed.
Flora sighed, marched across the room and stood in front of her, hands planted firmly – and warningly – on her hips. ‘Natascha, get off Gertie. I mean it.’
‘Gertie? Who is Gertie?’ Natascha asked, baffled.
Flora coloured up. ‘I meant the ostrich.’
‘You have given it a name?’
‘Of course not. Don’t be so ridiculous. Gertie is an English slang word for ostrich.’
A moment pulsed in silence as the two women stared at each other.
‘No, it isn’t!’ Natascha cried, bursting out laughing.
Flora felt the red thread of her temper snap. ‘I said, get off her!’ she cried back, grabbing Natascha’s nearest arm and pulling it away hard, so that the girl lost her balance
and fell sideways. Unfortunately, her legs remained tightly gripped round the bird’s neck and Gertie toppled with her, onto her.
Natascha began shouting and swearing furiously in French but she wouldn’t let go of the bird, even now, her legs gripping it even tighter.
‘I said, let go!’ Flora shouted, pulling at her arms. ‘You’ll break her!’
‘Get off
8
on the door as Natascha prowled the rooms, sated now by the haul – her heritage – before her, idly flicking through the stacked paintings
like someone at a retro vinyl store.
Her face upon first entering the apartment had been a picture itself – for a girl born into a life of mirrored hallways and twenty-foot ceilings, it had been a shock for her to see the
reality of her grandparents’ early lifestyle: dark wood panelling, stripped pine floors, low ceilings. They had been by no means poor but it was a far cry from the rarefied echelons the
family inhabited now. If Natascha felt dismay, however, she didn’t show it, instead laughing at everything – the ragged silk curtains, the fusty coats in the cupboard, the pickle jars
in the larder.
Only when she nonchalantly went to light a cigarette in the hall was Flora forced to abandon her post and act, snatching it away from her and sending up prayers of relief that the Renoir and
Faucheux were already in safekeeping, far away from this spoilt girl’s pithy curiosity.
‘You can’t smoke in here,’ she cried, scarcely able to believe anyone could be so stupid, her eyes falling to a stack of canvases – now flicked to the floor – in
the dining room over Natascha’s shoulder. ‘And don’t touch anything,’ she said testily as Natascha walked off again with a careless shrug. Didn’t the girl have any
clue about the value of these pieces? Their fragility after over seventy years in seclusion?
Flora was replacing the canvases against the wall when she heard Natascha’s throaty screech of delight come from the drawing room and knew that she had found Gertie.
‘Flora!’ Natascha called, her tone almost friendly, as though she’d completely forgotten that she’d driven Flora across the city against her will, made her complicit in
(possibly illegally) gaining access to the property, held a hand up to her face to silence her. ‘Look at this!’
Flora walked in and almost fainted on the spot. Natascha was sitting astride the ostrich, her long, bare legs wrapped around the bird’s neck as though she were Miley Cyrus on a wrecking
ball. ‘Now this I’ve got to have!’ she shrieked, wiggling her shoulders and throwing her head back. ‘My mother will detest it!’
‘Get off it, Natascha,’ she said firmly. Though she herself was only six years older than Natascha, she felt as though she had to be mother. This girl was like a toddler, with no
sense of boundaries.
‘Why?’
Why? Flora wanted to scream. Had there ever been a more stupid question? ‘Because your parents have entrusted the care and safekeeping of everything in this apartment to the agency, and
until we have signed it all off, the ostrich is strictly off limits. So I’ll say it again – get off the ostrich.’
‘
Non,
’ Natascha said defiantly, a bead of light dancing in her eyes. She lived to defy, it seemed.
Flora sighed, marched across the room and stood in front of her, hands planted firmly – and warningly – on her hips. ‘Natascha, get off Gertie. I mean it.’
‘Gertie? Who is Gertie?’ Natascha asked, baffled.
Flora coloured up. ‘I meant the ostrich.’
‘You have given it a name?’
‘Of course not. Don’t be so ridiculous. Gertie is an English slang word for ostrich.’
A moment pulsed in silence as the two women stared at each other.
‘No, it isn’t!’ Natascha cried, bursting out laughing.
Flora felt the red thread of her temper snap. ‘I said, get off her!’ she cried back, grabbing Natascha’s nearest arm and pulling it away hard, so that the girl lost her balance
and fell sideways. Unfortunately, her legs remained tightly gripped round the bird’s neck and Gertie toppled with her, onto her.
Natascha began shouting and swearing furiously in French but she wouldn’t let go of the bird, even now, her legs gripping it even tighter.
‘I said, let go!’ Flora shouted, pulling at her arms. ‘You’ll break her!’
‘Get off
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