Александра Маринина - The Stylist

“What I’m like now?” Solovyov asked angrily. “I’m a widower and a helpless invalid. Satisfied?”

“I’m very sorry,” she said softly, looking into his eyes. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No. It’s useless to talk about it, talking changes nothing.” “Well, then, don’t talk about it.”

His eyes grew warmer and for an instant Nastya fell under the spell of his incredible gray eyes.

“You haven’t changed a bit,” he said, almost cheerfully. “Same sneak. Catch me up and turn things around to your benefit. What are you doing? Raking in the bucks in some business?”

“Of course. All us lawyers are working in business now.”

“Especially with your knowledge of foreign languages. How many do you speak? Three, I seem to recall.”

“Five,” Nastya corrected him with a smile. “English, French, Spanish, Italian, and Portuguese. But actually, you’re right. The romance languages are so close you could consider them as one.”

“With your brains and languages, you’re really too good for the police. Remember how worried you were after graduation that you wouldn’t get a job with the police, that they would send you off to be a lawyer? You wanted to get into a uniform so badly then, I remember. Now you must laugh about it, right? Lawyers with experience are worth their weight in gold today, especially in domestic law and real estate. The richest people in Russia.”

Nastya had gotten used to this sort of conversation over the years. At first she would get very angry, but then she got used to the fact that a lot of people considered her love of police work unnatural somehow.

“And are you making a lot at your firm?”

“Not a lot. You know my passion for order. I wouldn’t work in a company that made a lot of money illegally. But working legally and paying taxes, you can’t make a lot of money nowadays.”

“Well, you’ve made enough to buy a car,” he noted.

“That’s my husband’s car.”

“So you’re married, too?”

He couldn’t conceal his surprise, and it took all she had to keep from laughing. Solovyov was always conceited. Did he really think that she would carry a torch for him to her dying day?

“And who’s the lucky man? Some ‘New Russian’ businessman, I’ll bet.”

“No. A Ph.D., a professor, prize winning academician, and so on. The whole thing. Plus a car.”

“A good deal,” he snorted. “Aren’t you worried about being a young widow, with such an elderly husband?”

“Not at all.”

She had followed his thinking. He was probably imagining that since her husband was so honored and so old, she, Nastya Kamenskaya, had decided to have an affair and wanted her old flame for the job. It was better than looking for a new lover. The old ones are tested, known, dependable. And so she had looked him up, having heard that he was widowed. But she hadn’t known that he was an invalid. And now he would definitely say something about it.

“You must be disappointed to find me like this.”

Right. There it was. He hadn’t changed at all in twelve years. She could still read his mind.

“I still don’t know what you’re like,” she replied softly. “We’ve only been chatting for a half hour. Shall I make some more coffee?”

“Don’t bother. Andrei will do it.”

Solovyov pushed a button on a small square box and footsteps came right away: the assistant was coming down from the second floor.

“You’ve become an aristocrat,” she joked. “You call on the help even to make coffee.”

He did not respond but stared at her. Once again she felt uncomfortable, as she had in those days, twelve years ago, when his eyes melted her. Could she really still have feelings for him? No, impossible. Couldn’t be. He had too much power over her then, when she was a twenty-three-year-old law school graduate. He could twist her into ropes then and use her as a floor mat. She put up with everything and forgave him everything because she was head over heels in love with him. Now she was different. She didn’t fall in love head over heels and she didn’t let anyone use her. Even those who were much stronger.

“Are you expecting guests?” she asked when Andrei brought coffee with fresh strudel and went back upstairs.

“A few people.” Solovyov nodded vaguely.

“At what time?”

“After five. Why do you ask?”

“If you don’t want your friends to see me here, tell me. I’ll leave early.”

“Nonsense. Why should I hide you?”

“I don’t know. Who knows what your situation is. Maybe your lady will be coming.”

“Relax, I’m expecting only men.”

“Well then, that makes me happy. That means my trip wasn’t in vain.”

She set her cup on the table, stood and came up behind him, putting her arm around his neck and pressing her cheek to his thick, wavy hair.

“Solovyov, you’re so stupid,” Nastya sighed. “Why haven’t you grown up in twelve years?”

She felt his muscles tense. Was he trying to hide the fact that her touch was unpleasant to him or was he fighting the desire to embrace her?

“Have you grown up?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out. That’s why I came here today.”

“I’m missing something.”

His voice was tense, but his muscles had relaxed somewhat.

“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.