Page 69 of The Oligarch's Daughter

“Tomorrow?Wow, that’s . . .”Soon!he almost said.Sudden!

“Fate,” she said. “Right?”

They agreed not to tell anyone what they were doing, particularly not Arkady or Polina. They didn’t want objections or interference. They’d tell them later, after it was done. They needed a witness, so of course he called Rick.

*

Paul wasn’t sure exactly what had happened on Galkin’s private plane, how things were left. Had he succeeded in convincing Galkin that they shouldn’t buy shares of StratforTech? Did Galkin now get the point that he was flirting with insider trading, which was illegal, and that he’d probably get caught? Had he done this before? If so, how was the firm still in business?

So when he got into work the next day and looked at the morning report, which told the senior people what had happened to the fund overnight, he was shocked to see that the firm was now the owner of five hundred thousand shares of StratforTech. Because he sure as hell hadn’t bought them.

The first thing he did was to call his broker at Goldman Sachs, Carla Wachtell.

“So, five hundred thousand shares of StratforTech? What the hell?”

A long pause. Carla said, “What’s the problem, Paul?”

“Who authorized that purchase?”

Carla didn’t hesitate. “Gene Frost. Something wrong?”

“Did he buy call options on StratforTech, too?”

“Uh, ten million bucks’ worth, yeah.”

Don’t fight it, Paul told himself.It’s not worth it. There would be legal consequences, but as long as his name wasn’t attached to the purchase, he would probably be okay.

Probably.

*

He and Tatyana woke up early the next day and made love. They talked about the ceremony at one p.m. and how they’d get there, what they’d wear.

Paul got to work early and spent a few minutes looking at real estate websites, in search of a bigger apartment. Tatyana was willing to consider Brooklyn but preferred Manhattan and definitely didn’t want to live in New Jersey. She wanted to be near other artists.

He was astonished at the price of real estate in the city. Even for someone like him, who worked on Wall Street, nice apartments were prohibitively costly. Even with his salary at Galkin’s firm doubled.

It was funny: left unspoken between him and Tatyana was the plain fact that her father had offered to buy them a place, whatever its cost. But Tatyana didn’t want a place that advertised her wealth, and Paul wanted a place that he could afford on his own. He wanted them to live within their means—not her father’s means.

He called Tatyana. “I found a place I think you’ll like,” he said. “But we have to look at it quickly.”

“Not today!” she said.

“No, not today. Of course not. But soon.”

*

Paul snuck out of the office—“Taking a long lunch,” he said breezily to Margo Whitworth—wearing his best blue Armani suit, a white shirt, and a patterned gold Armani tie that sort of sparkled in the light. He’d stopped at a florist to pick up the bouquet of white peonies he’d ordered, Tatyana’s favorite, adorned with a spray of white lily of the valley. Tatyana wore a white halter-neck jumpsuit with a fitted waist and wide, straight legs, along with stiletto heels and diamond earrings. He’d never seen her so dressed up.

He was nervous, of course, but more than that, he felt like he was observing the world from outside his body. He was aware of everything: the funky smell of the taxi, the sunlight bouncing off the glass of the skyscrapers they passed, Tatyana’s perfume, the brass letters on the side of the building that announcedOFFICEOFTHECITYCLERK,CITYOFNEWYORK.

They waited a little less than half an hour, watching the other brides and grooms, grooms and grooms, and brides and brides. There were Asian and Blacks and Latinos. Some were cuddling, some bickering. You could tell by looking who were the intended and who were the guests. There was a gift shop that sold emergency bow ties. The bathrooms were big and clean and had lots of mirrors. Paul overheard someone saying there were more marriages performed here than in Vegas. Rick arrived and gave Paul a hug, Tatyana a kiss.

When their names were called, they clasped hands and entered the wedding chapel, which was really just a room with lavender walls and a green vinyl bench and fluorescent lighting. Their officiant was a kindly middle-aged judge with a white beard who reminded Paul vaguely of Santa Claus. He wondered if the guy did freelance gigs during the holiday season. They all signed the marriage certificate. Rick congratulated them.

Tatyana glanced at Paul with mock terror, and he did the same, then they kissed, and he put his arm around her waist. He gave Rick a scared look, too, and then smiled to make clear he was kidding. “Thanks for coming,” Paul said. He felt, on some deep level he didn’t understand, that he was saying goodbye to his friend, that he was leaving Rick behind and entering a new world.

*

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