Jenny Lennox was a consummate hostess. Because she’d chosen
to live

farther out of town, she had more land. In Wellesley, where
Popsy lived,

real estate was at its priciest. To have a pool at the end
of the garden,
which

of course she had, was considered an achievement. But living
just fifteen

miles west meant tennis courts and swimming pools were the
norm. The

paddocks and the helipad were the new “must haves,” and now
Jenny had a

Renoir to top it all off.

Popsy couldn’t help but be a little envious as she glided up
the perfectly

landscaped, one-mile driveway. She watched a chopper take
off just as they

arrived at the front of the house.

Sandra, it seemed, felt likewise. “Who would be so tacky as
to arrive in a

chopper?”

“We would, if we could,” Popsy said, thinking about the
Ferrari she’d

test-driven only a few hours earlier.

The Victorian-style house looked exquisite in its country
setting, and at

this time of year, it was festooned in a blaze of deep
crimson Virginia

creeper. Enormous oaks flanked the house, magnificent in
their autumn

color. It was impossible to look at it and not long to live
in the country.
As

the thud-thud-thud of the chopper faded into the distance, a
flock of
crows

cawed overhead, reclaiming their territory in the large and
ancient trees

along the front driveway. The house had perfect symmetry
with three

windows on the right and three on the left of the grandiose
front door.
Steps

swept up to the door, which for today’s event was left open.
Popsy took a

moment to admire the huge urns on either side.

Pyracanthas had been clipped to look like a giant ball and
were in full

bloom; they were covered in bright orange berries. These were
underplanted

with variegated ivy, which spilled out of the urns and down
to the

ground. It gave a feeling of understated opulence with a
Halloween twist.

Popsy made a mental note to do something similar in twelve
months’ time.

Once inside, they were greeted by beaming caterers offering
a choice of

sparkling water or even more sparkling champagne. Both women
went for

the champagne.

Jenny Lennox descended upon them in a flurry of air kisses and

exclamations of how good everybody looked. Popsy gave her
the flower

arrangement she’d brought, and Sandra presented her with a
jar of
limitededition

caviar. As usual, Jenny insisted that they “shouldn’t have”
but took

the gifts with grace.

Checks were deposited into an aquamarine objet d’art that
was stationed

just inside the front door. It was, doubtless, a
terrifyingly expensive
piece of

glasswork, but Jenny was blasé.

“Just toss the donations into the vase there and come in to
where all the

fun is.”

Stripped of their checks and armed with a champagne flute
each, they

were ushered into the drawing room. Popsy got the distinct
impression that

they were being herded like cows.

“Cheers, to your health and future decisions.” She winked
and clinked

glasses with Sandra, and they headed into the fray.

Popsy and Sandra had a way of working a party. They would arrive

together, then drift apart to mingle, but then they would
drift back
together

again at regular intervals when either one of them needed
moral support.

This way they got to meet interesting new people but had
each other as

backup if they were a little lost. This method had worked
well for them

over the last thirteen years.

It didn’t take long before Popsy was standing in front of
the muchdiscussed

Renoir. It was larger than she expected, almost two feet by two

feet, and the frame made it look even bigger. It was hardly
surprising then

that it took pride of place over the mantelpiece in Jenny
Lennox’s
enormous

drawing room.

“Exquisite, isn’t it?” the lady beside Popsy inquired.

“It is beautiful. Isn’t she lucky? A genuine Renoir.”

“It better be genuine. Eddie paid a cool $100 million for it.”

It was enough to make Popsy snap around to face the lady she
was talking

to as opposed to admiring the painting. “I’m sure it can’t
have been that

much. $100 million? That’s too expensive, isn’t it?”

“Cheap at the price.” The lady sniffed.

Popsy wondered if perhaps her companion had drunk a little
too much

champagne. “How do you work that out?”

“That’s what Jenny told him it would cost to stay in the
marriage.” The

redhead moved closer to whisper. “I understand that poor
Eddie was caught

being a naughty boy, and when Jenny discovered it, she threw
him out. He

begged her to take him back, which of course she did, but
for a price. This

little token of affection.”

Popsy was incredulous. “That’s a lot of affection,” she said
and looked

back at the painting.

“Yes, I hear it is a really good painting—La Petite Fille.
Jenny tells me

it’s a charming and irreverent portrayal of the hedonistic
life and subtlety
of

lust in the late 1800s.”

“Ah.” Popsy felt the need for more champagne. “Good to
know.” As far

as she was concerned, it was just a really pretty painting
done by a very

famous artist. But wasn’t art full of hyperbole like that?

Before she had to expand on her views, mercifully her art critic

companion took her leave, which gave Popsy a few moments to
admire the

painting by herself. It was a true gem, beautiful, but how
in tarnation did

anything get to a value of $100 million? She understood how
it could

happen with diamonds and precious stones, but art? Wasn’t
that subjective?

“So what do you think?” Sandra asked as she came up beside her.

“I think it’s gorgeous, and did you know that it was a
‘charming and

irreverent portrayal of the hedonistic life and subtlety of
lust in the late

1800s’?”

Sandra looked at Popsy, arching her eyebrows. “I never would
have

guessed.”

Popsy nodded. “I also heard that Eddie Lennox paid $100
million for it.”

“In fact, I had heard a rumor, but I wasn’t sure that it was
true. Nice

round figure. You know, in all likelihood it’ll be worth
double that in
twelve

months. Do you get taxed on fine art appreciation?”

Popsy pulled her friend closer and glanced around to ensure
that nobody

was within earshot. “Yes, but did you hear why he bought it?
I heard Jenny

discovered he was having an affair. This is the peace
offering, his ‘get out

of jail free card,’ if you will. A frigging Renoir.”

Sandra said nothing and studied the painting.

“Did you hear me, Sandy? Did you know about this? Was Eddie
Lennox

offside? Evidently he had a mistress. Well, I assume it’s
had and not has if

he’s bought the painting and the Lennoxs are all happy
family again.

At last, Sandra tore herself away from the painting and
looked at her

friend. “Who told you this?”

“That woman over there. The tall, striking
strawberry-blonde.” Popsy

gestured discreetly.

“Figures.” Sandra sighed.

“Why?”

“Because she’s the mistress.”