The Stylist. Александра Маринина

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      “I want to see if I’ve stopped reacting to you. You’ve bothered me all these years, Solovyov. I kept remembering how much I used to love you. And I want to know for certain that it’s over. Or not. One way or the other. It’s better to know the truth, even if I don’t like it, than to suffer through guesses and suppositions.”

      “And what do you need this truth for?” He bent his head over so that his cheek rested on her hand. “How will it help?”

      “It will help me understand whether I’ve grown out of that love or whether I’m still running around in training pants. I’m going to be thirty-six this year. A watershed year. I want to approach it with my life in order.”

      Nastya did not know how much truth there was in what she was saying and how much was a lie. She had prepared the explanation ahead of time, because it fit her style and character and would not have surprised anyone who knew her well. But now as she spoke the words she had rehearsed in her mind, she began to believe them and she began to think that she really had come to her old lover for that. And not in order to solve the mystery of the disappearance of the olive-skinned, dark-haired boys. She liked the touch of his cheek on her hand, she liked the smell of his hair, she succumbed with pleasure to the warmth of his gaze. She liked being with this man, just as she had many years ago.

      She heard quiet footsteps behind her and realized that Andrei had come downstairs. Without turning around, she leaned over Solovyov and gently kissed his lips.

      “Excuse me,” Andrei said. “Should I set the table?”

      Nastya slowly straightened and stretched deliciously.

      “That’s a good idea, Solovyov. You have to feed guests. Even uninvited ones. Please forgive me, Andrei, but I won’t help you in the kitchen. I’m no cook. I’d better stay here with Volodya and enjoy his company, which I missed for so many years. You don’t mind, Solovyov?”

      She sat back down on the couch and brought the cup of cold coffee to her lips.

      “How’s your mother?” he asked.

      “Flourishing. She was working in Sweden for a few years and now she’s back. Confess, Solovyov, you were secretly in love with her, weren’t you?”

      He laughed, and his laughter was easy and joyful. He always enjoyed reminiscing about his graduate school days and his advisor, Nadezhda Kamenskaya, a woman as gifted in scholarship as she was beautiful and elegant.

      “Right. All men from boy to geezer fell in love with her. But I adored her. And feared her terribly. By the way, Nastya, I’ve come across books where a certain Kamenskaya was listed as translator. Is that you?”

      “Yes. Mother put so much effort into teaching me languages as a young child. I couldn’t let it go to waste. Fun for me, money for my wallet.”

      Gradually they relaxed, the tension vanished, and during the meal they chatted as if there had been no long separation. Andrei’s face was inscrutable, as if their conversation had nothing to do with him. Nastya made a few clumsy attempts to draw him into the conversation, but the assistant politely responded briefly or not at all, going off to the stove or the refrigerator or the sink. When the door bell rang around 6.30 he seemed to sigh in relief.

      Nastya regarded the new guests – the bosses of Sherkhan Books, with whom Solovyov worked so closely. They were typical “New Russians”, who had driven up in sparkling expensive foreign cars, who never put down their cellular phones, and who casually discussed loans in the millions, credit rates, and “corporate kickbacks”. She kept catching them watching her warily, even though all three tried very hard to pay no attention to her, speaking only with the birthday boy or his assistant and talking only about production and other topics that left her out. She quickly wearied of this demonstration of superiority. Under other circumstances she would have left long ago, but she was on duty. Therefore, emotions were set aside, no hurts or slights allowed, and ego hidden away. She needed this cottage estate, she needed this house. That meant she needed Solovyov, and she had to put up with however she was treated.

      Trying not to make noise, she left the room and went out into the spacious and well-appointed hallway, got her jacket out of the closet, slipped it over her shoulders and went out on the porch which had steps on one side and a ramp for the wheelchair on the other. All the windows on the first floor were brightly lit, she could hear animated voices and laughter, and she suddenly felt terribly alone, unneeded, and superfluous.

      Leaning on the railing, she took out her cigarettes and lit up. Who did they think they were, those publishers? What was she – a gold digger hoping to land a rich husband, taking advantage of the fact that he was handicapped and could hardly hope to find a young beauty? That must be how they saw her. That’s why they gave her dirty looks, that’s why they were demonstratively scornful. As to say, don’t count on it, girlie, this isn’t your speed. Rich Solovyov is as out of reach for you as the moon. She wondered how they would look at her if she bothered with makeup and put on the fancy clothes that her mother kept bringing her from Sweden. If she wanted to, she could look like a movie star. But the point was that she never wanted to do that. If the job called for it, well, then, of course. But on her own initiative, Nastya Kamenskaya never bothered. She simply wasn’t interested.

      “Taking a break from the festivities?” a voice spoke near her.

      Nastya turned and saw an amusing man pushing forty, balding, with a thick long mustache like Cossacks wore in old paintings. The man was wearing a good suit and a tie and had a small package under his arm. He had come on foot and Nastya figured him for a neighbor.

      “It’s more like I’m giving the other guests a break from me,” she replied amiably. “I’m very serious and that seems to put a damper on things.”

      “Are there a lot of people?” the “Cossack” asked in fear.

      “No, no, only three. Come on in, please, the door is open.”

      “I’m not sure,” he said. “I thought no one would be here yet, I just wanted to give Mr. Solovyov a present. But if there are people there, I don’t think I’ll go in.”

      “Why not?”

      “Well.” He grew even more embarrassed and suddenly Nastya found him very nice. “It’s just uncomfortable. I don’t know anyone there. No, I’ll come back tomorrow.”

      “Nonsense,” Nastya said. “A gift and congratulations are good on the birthday. They lose their special charm by the next day. I don’t know anyone there, either. Let’s get to know each other and we’ll go together as a solid front against the strangers.”

      She winked merrily and extended her hand to the owner of the luxurious mustache.

      “My name is Anastasia. I am an old friend of Solovyov’s. He spent many years in graduate school studying with my mother.”

      “I’m a neighbor.” He gave her a hearty handshake. “My name is Zhenya.”

      Nastya tucked her hand under his arm, tossed out her cigarette, and literally dragged the poor man into the house.

      “I’ve brought a new guest,” she announced in a loud voice from the doorway, enjoying the fleeting displeasure in the faces of the publishers. “This is Zhenya, he is a neighbor of Volodya’s. Welcome him, please. Zhenya, it’s your toast.”

      Andrei inscrutably poured champagne into a handsome glass and brought it over to the neighbor on a small tray. The Sherkhan СКАЧАТЬ