Александра Маринина - The Stylist

“Three.”

“Wow! You have your work cut out for you.”

“I manage.” He smiled shyly. “My wife isn’t complaining.” She managed to get him to talk about the residents. Unlike Solovyov, who lived a reclusive life and saw almost no one, Zhenya Yakimov knew practically everyone because he was here all day. People often asked him to baby-sit if they had to go away and they always called him if something broke.

Nastya worked, asking her prepared questions with a sweet smile, making brief, meaningless remarks that prompted Zhenya to tell her what she wanted to know. She could not write anything down and it was better not to ask him to repeat or expand on anything. The conversation had to seem unforced and she could not reveal her interest in Yakimov’s every word. She soaked up everything he said, every word, every interjection, all the time seeming to be eating the varied foods and only half-listening. She felt Solovyov’s unbelieving stare. After all, she had come to see him, personally, and not to join a party or talk to his guests. Why was she accepting his indifference to her, that he was totally monopolized by the three respectable businessmen, while she had to make do with the society of a neighbor she had just met and whom Solovyov barely knew? He could expect that from the old Nastya Kamenskaya, whom he had known many years ago, a girl madly in love with him, who had given up her pride and self-respect. But this Anastasia, who discussed her former feelings without a tremble and was ready to examine her present feelings under a microscope without any embarrassment, would hardly accept what she did not like. So, did this suit her then?

Solovyov kept looking over at her, losing the thread of the conversation with his publishers. After him the large tall man with the friendly face started looking at Nastya too. It was Sherkhan’s managing editor, Semyon Voronets. Stage one completed successfully, Nastya thought. They were realizing at last that I have the right to a private talk with the host. Get to work, Anastasia!

She slowly rose from the cushy caf6-au-lait leather couch and ambled over unhurriedly to Solovyov.

“Well, great genius of Oriental literature?” she asked mockingly. “Isn’t it time to give the lady a moment? Especially since she will be leaving soon.”

“Oh, forgive me,” the short, bearded Esipov blathered. “We’ve been exhausting poor Volodya with business. I’m so sorry you have to leave so early.”

“Really?” she asked innocently. “Why arc you sorry? Were you planning to make a pass at me?” She looked down at Esipov meaningfully – he was almost a full head shorter.

“No, no, I wouldn’t dare,” Kirill replied quickly. “But Semyon, I think, is primed to take an interest. Have you noticed that he can’t keep his eyes off you?”

Got it. They were going to transfer her to the smiling editor. He was going to give her the rush now, trying to get her drunk and show her in a bad light to Solovyov, after which he would take her away in total certainty that the host would have lost all interest in her. It was a primitive plan, intended for idiots, but nevertheless it always worked. No man can stand having his woman kiss someone else. No matter what explanations are offered.

Look at how they watch over Solovyov! Three duennas in trousers. Why this hostility toward outsider women? Are they that close to Solovyov that they bear collective responsibility for him? No, that couldn’t be. “New Russians” weren’t capable of such noble feelings. It must have to do with some specific woman who was having an affair with Solovyov and whom the trio were defending. Maybe she was a close friend or relative of one of them. Maybe she and Solovyov were having a tiff, since she didn’t come here on his birthday, but the publishing boys were on the case, keeping strange women away from their translator. Or maybe there was no tiff and she was simply out of town on business or a vacation.

Nastya took the handles on the back of the wheelchair and violating the rules of etiquette, simply took Solovyov into the study. Shutting the door firmly, she wheeled the chair to the window and sat down on the low, wide sill facing Vladimir. “Let’s talk for ten minutes and then I’m off.”

“So soon?”

“It’s time for me. Listen, Solovyov, what do you say? Did I come here in vain today or not?”

“That’s up to you.”

He shrugged and tried to look indifferent, as if the answer did not interest him in the least.

“I’ll decide about me for myself. But what do you say?”

“I don’t understand what you want,” Solovyov said in irritation. “What do you want me to say? Ask your questions clearly, do me the favor.”

“All right.” She sighed. “Twelve years ago you did not love me, you did not need me, I was a burden. You were not interested in me in the least. But nevertheless you saw me and even made love to me. It took a long time for me to realize that you were doing it not because you liked me but because you were afraid of my mother. You were afraid to get me angry because you thought I might complain to her, make up stories about you, slander you, and then you would never get your degree. As soon as I figured out that unpleasant truth, I left you alone. I can’t say that it didn’t hurt. I suffered a lot, Solovyov. I loved you. Today I was trying to understand if my feelings had changed toward you and to my great pleasure I saw that I respond to you quite calmly. I no longer tremble from your gaze and I don’t go crazy when we touch. You’ve become someone else and so have I. To my surprise, I found that could fall in love with you again. I, a different woman, could love you, a different man. A new meeting of two other people.

“Nowadays, Solovyov, I can control my feelings. I repeat, I could love you again, but the question is whether or not I should. If I decide that I shouldn’t, I won’t do it. No problem. On the other hand, I may decide that I should but I won’t be able to. And now I want to hear your answer. You can reply without preamble and without long explanations of what happened many years ago. Just tell me, do you want me to come visit you. Or if you want me to leave now and never see me again.”

There, she had done everything she could to make him invite her to visit. She needed this house and its owner, and if she had to lie to be able to come here, she would lie. Pretend. Act as if she were in love. Once upon a time she had been hurt, so hurt that she thought she would not survive it. But that was over ten years ago, and in her heart there was no need for revenge, in her heart there was nothing for this man. Empty. As if nothing had ever happened. But if for her work she had to cause him pain, she would do it without a second’s thought. It could not possibly hurt any more than the pain she had experienced. And even that, as she learned from bitter experience, can be survived. And so Solovyov would survive if he had to suffer a few unpleasant minutes when his eyes opened to the real feelings and motives of the woman to whom he was attracted.

Solovyov took her by the hand and pulled her toward him. Nastya jumped down from the low window sill and sat on his lap. He gave her a long, tender and very expert kiss, every now and then pulling away from her lips and moving his lips along her long neck. One hand was behind her back, the other caressed her breast under the loose sweater. Nastya paid attention to her reactions. She didn’t feel a thing. God, twelve years ago she would have died from caresses and kisses like this. But now – nothing. It was not unpleasant, she did not want to tear away in a grimace of disgust, as she would have if it had been a stranger. But there was no delight as in days of old, either.

She pulled away carefully from his arms and went back to the window sill.