Manny pushed himself to his feet. "Don't worry about it, Misha," he said. "I'm only too glad."
They started toward the entrance hall, then Misha suddenly stopped, looking in the direction of the fireplace. "Is that a Delvaux?" he asked with awe in his voice.
"Yes," Manny said. Then he quickly added: "I got it for nothing, old boy! A fire sale!"
"You're kidding," Misha said, walking over for a closer look at the painting. A large canvas painted in tones of putty, grays, blues, and browns, it depicted four female nudes standing in a bedroom. On the bed, was sprawled a fifth.
Misha silently studied it for a moment then turned to Manny. "I can't believe I didn't even notice it before," he said. "It's really beautiful."
"Hmm," Manny said. "Got it cheap from a friend of a friend of Sasha's in Los Angeles. You know. Desperate for money in a hurry. Sasha seems to know a lot of that type." He took off his glasses and began nervously cleaning them with a handkerchief.
"How sad," Misha said. He took a last look, then turned and headed toward the entrance hall again. "I'd better hurry home." At the door, he turned to Manny. "Thanks again, Manny," he said. "You've been a lot of help. I guess I'm just a little scared. Of my feelings and all."
"You have to remember you're an artist, Misha." Manny clapped him on the shoulder. "And you have to follow your heart."
"I guess you're right," Misha said with a bewildered look.
"I know I am," Manny replied, opening the door.
"Well, 'night." Misha turned and left.
Manny closed the door behind him and walked back into the living room. He picked up his balloon of brandy, took a large swallow, then sat down. Poor lovesick Misha! he thought. Follow your heart, indeed! If I play my cards right, he thought, the Delvaux is only the beginning.
Chapter Thirty-two
London's September sky was gray, but the rain, an almost daily event this time of year, had temporarily let up. Misha, umbrella in hand and Burberry thrown across his arm, got into the limousine awaiting him on Kensington Gore and instructed the driver to take him back to his hotel. He glanced back at the huge dark brick pile of the Royal Albert Hall with its enormous glass-and- iron dome. The rehearsal had gone without a hitch, but he was glad to be going back to the hotel. He was ready for a nap before tonight's performance.
As the driver slowly negotiated the big car through the heavy traffic from Knightsbridge to South Kensington, Misha reflected on his upcoming performances. The Royal Albert Hall would certainly never have been his first choice as a venue in London. It was huge, seating at least thirty-five hundred people, and for the annual Proms—a series of serious concerts by top classical musicians—the seats in the pit were taken out and over six thousand people were accommodated. Misha's popularity as a performer, however, had made filling up the vast space two nights in a row an easy matter. Both nights were sold out.
Misha preferred more intimate settings. Unlike most musicians, he wasn't intimidated by enormous spaces like the Royal Albert Hall and Avery Fisher Hall in New York's Lincoln Center, but they did pose problems. The majority of piano music had been composed for performing in intimate spaces. In this case Misha had solved this problem brilliantly by choosing an all-Liszt program. The Liszt pieces had all been composed to be performed in large, public halls and were thus perfectly suited to the Royal Albert. He would begin with the Sonata in B Minor, play a ballade, a consolation, a funerailles, and wind it up with the Mephisto Waltz no. 1. It was an utterly romantic repertoire, which suited his mood perfectly: he had privately dedicated tonight's performance to Serena.
Too bad she couldn't be here for the concert, he thought. At least he was certain that his sound would be as good as possible in the vast hall. At one time the Royal Albert had a double echo caused by the huge glass-and-iron dome. Sir Thomas Beecham had joked that if a musician wanted a second performance of his music, he had only to play it in the Royal Albert. In the 1960s the problem had been solved by putting huge saucer- shaped discs in the dome. While the sound was now beautiful, it certainly didn't equal the supreme acoustics of Carnegie Hall's wood and plaster. So today Misha had worked for hours doing more sound tests than usual, finally satisfying himself with the results.
The limousine pulled to a stop at 33 Roland Gardens, rousing Misha from his reverie. He looked out at Blakes, his home away from home in London. Set in a somber mansion block in South Kensington, Blakes was a small hotel with only sixty rooms, but it was very chic, an oasis of quiet favored by a well-heeled clientele. The rich and famous could come and go without fear of reporters and their flashbulbs invading their privacy.
The endlessly talented Anouska Hempel, an erstwhile actress turned designer, known more formally as Lady Weinberg, had created in Blakes a folie de grandeur par excellence. While its decoration might be considered eccentric by some, Misha found its theatrical elegance and opulent luxury to his taste.
The driver opened his door, and Misha slid out of the big car. He dismissed the driver for the time being and headed for his room. It had faux tortoiseshell walls hung with prints of Asian costumes and faux marble mirrors. The room was dominated by a huge four-poster bed complete with a canopy draped in dark red silk damask lined with black velvet. Its headboard was appliqued in gold, and the draping was held by tasseled ropes as thick as hawsers. The bed's posts were wrapped in red and black in the Venetian manner.
He couldn't wait to pull back its opulent silk damask spread and slide between the antique linen sheets. There he could clear his mind of all extraneous concerns but the music, and then nap before tonight's performance.
It was not to be, however.
In the lobby, perched on an Asian-inspired settee next to a lovebird's cage, sat Coral Randolph. She looked for all the world like a raptor, he thought, a peregrine falcon perhaps, poised to descend on its prey. Her jet black hair, magnolia skin, and glittering emerald eyes seemed somehow appropriate to this setting, as did her black cashmere suit with its Russian sable-lined cape. Coral Randolph was opulence personified.
As he approached her, passing the piazza-style market umbrella, she stood on very high Gucci heels. She held a black leather Hermes handbag and elbow-length black leather gloves in one hand. He couldn't help but notice the extraordinary cabochon emeralds at her ears and throat, as well as those set into a gold cuff at her wrist and the one huge perfect one set in a gold ring on one of her fingers. Her nails and mouth were painted a cognac.
"Why, Ms. Randolph," Misha intoned with as much charm as he could muster. "What a surprise seeing you here."
"Coral, please," she said, extending her free hand.
Misha took her hand in his and bowed over it in the Continental fashion, bringing it to his lips but not touching it. He straightened up and looked at her. "And it's Misha," he said. He could smell her perfume. Its aroma was powerful and expensive.
"Very well, Misha," Coral said. "I realize that this isn't the best time, but I must have a few words with you. Immediately."
She was the picture of politeness, Misha thought, but there was a command in her voice that dared one to defy her.
"I could spare a few minutes," he said. "You know I
have a performance tonight, and I have to rest beforehand."
"Yes," Coral said, with a barely perceptible nod. "Perhaps in your room, then. Right away."
"Not in the restaurant?" Misha asked.
"No," Coral said firmly, with a slight shake of her head. "Privacy is essential."
"Very well," Misha said. "It's this way."
Once in the dark grandeur of his room, he turned to Coral. "Please have a seat," he said. "Make yourself comfortable."
"Thank you," Coral said, and seated herself on an Asian chair of inlaid black lacquer.
"I'm going to call down for a drink," Misha said. "What would you like?"
"Champagne with a bit of Campari in it," Coral said without hesitation.
Misha called down their order, then turned to Coral. "Would you like
to hang up your cape?" he asked.
"No, thank you," Coral said. "I freeze in London at this time of year."
Misha hung his Burberry in the closet, then sat down on a chair. He started to take off his Gucci loafers, then stopped. "Do you mind?" he asked, looking over at Coral. "I've been at it for hours."
"No," Coral said, "of course not."
Misha finished, then wiggled his toes and got to his feet. He sat on the bed, then leaned back against the sea of pillows, and spread out his long legs. "Are you staying here?" he asked.
"No," Coral replied, "I'm at the Ritz."
"How did you know I was here?" he asked.
Coral looked at him. "Serena, of course," she said.
"I guess I know what you've come to discuss with me," he said.
There was a tap at the door, and Misha got off the bed and answered it. A waiter brought their drinks in on a silver tray and set it down on a table, then turned and left.
Misha handed Coral her champagne and Campari.
"Thank you," she said.
He took his scotch and water back to the bed with him, where he spread out against the pillows again. He raised his glass. "Cheers," he said.
Coral raised hers. "Cheers," she repeated with a slight smile, and took a sip of her drink. Then she set the crystal flute down and turned to Misha.
"I might as well get to the point," she said.
"Yes," Misha said, smiling. "Might as well."
Coral cleared her throat. "Serena doesn't know I've come to see you, and I'd rather she didn't."
"I can keep a secret," Misha said.
"I know about your involvement with Serena, of course," Coral said, "and I don't like it, to be perfectly honest. She thinks the two of you are in love."
"We are," Misha said.
"I don't know whether I believe that or not," Coral said. "But it's beside the point really. What I have to say is this. Serena is a very fragile young woman. She's been terribly abused in the past and was deeply hurt the last time the two of you were involved."
"Yes, but—"
"Please, Misha," Coral said, "let me finish what I have to say so that I can leave and you can have your nap."
"Okay." Misha shrugged.
"The situation is infinitely more complicated this time because you have a wife and child," Coral continued. "But all the complications aside, Serena is determined that the two of you will be together. That you will eventually marry." She looked at Misha to see what his reaction, if any, would be to that statement.
She was not disappointed.
"I want more than anything in the world to marry her," Misha said ardently, sitting up in the bed. "I really love Serena, Coral. With all my heart."
"I see," Coral said. "Well, this affair has been going on now for nearly a year. Since Vienna. And Serena is becoming increasing anxious and impatient. So much so that I'm afraid it will affect her work."
She took a sip of her drink before continuing. "I find
it regrettable that your wife and child may be harmed by whatever happens, but my primary interest here is Serena, of course. She's been practically like a daughter to me, and there is no one else to watch out for her interests."
She looked over at Misha, her emerald eyes sparkling. "My point is, I want you to either marry Serena," she said evenly and calmly, "or I want you to break it off with her immediately."
Misha was taken aback. He had been fully prepared for Coral to tell him to stay away from Serena, but not to suggest marriage as an alternative.
"So you're saying it's all or nothing, in other words," Misha said.
"Exactly," Coral said, nodding.
"Well, it's quite obvious that I can't marry her yet," Misha said, "and I'm certainly not going to stop seeing her until I can."
"Then I suggest that if you want to continue seeing her," Coral said, "you should start plans to marry her right away."
"But that means—"
"Misha," Coral interjected, "we both know precisely what it means. You're going to have to get a divorce from Vera." She used a cognac-colored nail to brush an imaginary wisp of hair from her eyes, then turned the full power of her gaze on him, looking directly into his eyes. "If you don't start divorce proceedings immediately," she said, "then I'll go to Vera myself."
"You'll what!" Misha said, his deep baritone resonating powerfully in the room.
"You heard me," Coral said succinctly. "You either leave Serena now—and I mean now, tonight—or you start divorce proceedings. If you don't do one or the other, then I'll personally visit Vera and tell her everything. And I mean everything."
"You're a monster," Misha said, his voice low and menacing.
"Perhaps," Coral conceded calmly. "But no more so than a man who virtually abandons his devoted wife and son to satisfy his basest desires with another woman. A highly inappropriate woman, I might add."
"What do you mean?" Misha spat angrily.
"Don't be a fool," Coral said harshly. "Serena may be beautiful and talented, but she's no match for you. Do you think she understands your music or even gives it so much as a thought? No. Of course not. Nor will she be at your concert tonight."
"No," Misha said defensively. "She's got her own work to do."
"Yes," Coral said sweetly. "She'll be nightclubbing with her assistants, Jason and Bennett. Probably a brief dinner at Annabel's to mix with the upper crust, from there to gay and lesbian dance clubs, then on to those dreary sex clubs in the far-off hinterlands of the East End."
Misha digested this news in silence for a moment. "Well, she has to live her own life," he finally said. "I don't expect her to be at my beck and call. To be at my concerts all the time."
"That's wise of you," Coral said, "because Serena could give a fuck about your concerts."
Misha nearly leapt off the bed, so enraged was he by Coral's remarks. "Why don't you leave now?" he said angrily. "I've got your message."
Coral rose to her feet with dignity. "Good. I was hoping you would. Just remember," she said, "either you talk to Vera or I will."
That said, she went to the door. She opened it, then turned back to Misha: "I'll give you until Thanksgiving to leave Vera. I don't want to see Serena spending it alone."
She closed the door and was gone, her perfume, like a malodorous cloud of evil, lingering in her wake.
Misha wanted to run after her and throttle her skinny neck between his hands, but he slumped back down onto the bed, his head in his hands. What am I going to do? he agonized. He knew that there was a lot of truth in what Coral had to say, but he needed time. He wanted to tell Vera in his own good time. In his own way. Two months. The bitch had given him about two months.
He picked up the telephone and dialed Manny's number at Claridges, but there was no answer. He didn't bother leaving a message.
God, help me, he thought. What am I going to do?
Chapter Thirty-three
Serena, wearing only a white terry cloth bathrobe, sat studying her reflection in the ancient, mottled mirror that rested atop the fancily skirted and swagged dressing table. Its Baroque sterling silver frame was heavily carved, with the family's coat of arms emblazoned at the top like an ornate crown. But for all its grandeur, she mused, it was one of the lousiest excuses for a makeup mirror she'd ever tried to use. She could hardly make out her reflection for all the spots.
Thank God the makeup crew has trunkloads of its own equipment, she thought. If they'd relied on the facilities in this old dump, they'd be up a creek.
She sighed with frustration. It's like everything else around this place, she told herself. Big and old and grand and virtually useless. When she'd gotten the assignment—shooting spring couture clothes on young English aristocrats—she'd been excited. What could be more appropriate than photographing some of the world's most expensive clothes on rich, titled, young people as if they were having a house party at Mummy's and Daddy's place in the country? In this case, one of the largest homes in all of England, where the whole cre
w—the young men and women serving as models, herself, her assistants, the stylists, hairdressers, and makeup staff— would all be staying as guests for the duration of the shoot. Anywhere from three to five days. It would be a voyeuristic look at what a house party of the jeunesse doree was like.
Sounds great, she'd said. Only it hadn't worked out exactly like that.
There'd been no end of problems. Some of them had been easily solved, if time-consuming. Like the electrical problems. She'd decided the place had been wired when they started building it, sometime in the 1300s. Then there'd been the weather. Rain, rain, and more rain. Shooting outdoors had been virtually impossible. Also easily solved—shoot indoors only—but annoying nevertheless, as she'd planned to use the formal gardens with their ancient statuary and pools to advantage.
Then there'd been the problems with the so-called models. Professionals they weren't. Spoiled, overly confident, often arrogant, horny young aristocrats they most decidedly were. With more interest in playing hide the salami, drinking, and poking powder up their noses than posing for hours on end in change after change of clothing. The poor dears seemed to have had no idea it would actually involve a bit of work.
Then, there'd been the squabbles over the clothes they were told to wear. India thought that the Christian Lacroix gown Lucretia was wearing would look ever so much more suitable on her than the tacky Versace she'd been assigned in one scene. Rupert sniffed that one of his outfits looked like something for a "poofter," so give it to Desmond, if you please. Desmond, in turn, proceeded to put out Rupert's lights, grabbing one of the countless precious objets lying at hand. In this case a priceless piece of Chinese Export porcelain. Malvise had even accused Septimus of pocketing her "everyday" pearls, a gift from her grandmummy, the duchess of So and So.
To top it off, Serena found the stately home too big, too cold, too damp, too tattered, and a bit moldy. With a staff that could be described in the same terms. Plus, said staff watched them constantly to make certain that none of the house's much faded glory was further helped along the road to disintegration by their being there. Besides which, the food was absolutely unendurable. Serena had never before seen veggies cooked beyond the point of recognition or been served food that had long
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