"Oh, you know, Misha," Vera replied. "He owns an art gallery here in London. My family knows him. I go to parties with him sometimes when he needs a beard."
"Oh, so he's gay?" Misha asked.
"Yes," she said. "He's had the same boyfriend for years."
They'd had this conversation and so many like it over the years, she thought, that they both seemed to run on automatic pilot when the discussion veered this way.
Most of the time, Vera wasn't particularly concerned about these people they were both photographed with, but sometimes she did worry that one of the beautiful young women to whom he was constantly being introduced would finally steal Misha's heart away. That one of the inevitable one-night stands he had while on tour—and she was certain he must have them—would prove to be her nemesis. She was also certain that there were women he didn't tell her about in his notes, women who didn't appear in the pages of the international gossip reporters, somehow having escaped notice, closely as they followed him.
Secrets.
She smiled now, thinking of her own little secret, un- meaningful though he may be in the long run, certainly as far as Misha was concerned.
Simon Hampton.
Her rebel lover had been back in her life again for some time now, his possessive macho behavior tempered to some extent—chastened, she thought, by her refusal to see him for so long—but his demands as a lover were as rigorous, as energetic and creative, as they had always been.
Very simply put, she thought, Simon is damn good sex, and he's always ready and willing.
It was principally because of Simon that she had finally arrived at a sort of truce with Angus, the ever-present manservant. As they had come to know each other a little better and develop a degree of trust—and after a very long heart-to-heart talk—Angus had decided to look the other way when she disappeared for a few hours or perhaps the night, as long as she let him know that she would be at Simon's. She had offered Angus money for his silence, for she knew that he reported to her father, but Angus, mysterious sphinx that he was, had refused the cash. He would cooperate with her— and cover for her—as long as he knew where she was.
She was well aware that Angus did not like Simon, though they had met only briefly. She thought, in fact, that Angus disapproved of him. Yet he seemed to understand that Vera, whatever her reasons might be, must see the somewhat surly young man from time to time, and Angus saw that she came to no obvious harm as a result.
Had he asked Vera why she saw Simon, she could only have responded that he was sexually exciting. Simon was like the after-dinner mint that her mother often spoke of when she referred to certain men as sex toys, no more, certainly not marriageable. Vera's trysts with him were for her simply a release, a convenient arrangement whereby she could have most of her physical needs fulfilled without any strings attached, without the prying press knowing about it—and without Misha knowing. They always met at his seedy loft, and never went out in public, staying in, away from the glare of photographers' flashbulbs. She enjoyed these trysts, if truth be told, for Simon's intensity and his devotion to his painting—and his sensuality—never failed to remind her of Misha.
My little secret, she thought again, getting to her feet and walking upstairs to her bedroom to get ready. I wish I didn't need him, but I do.
Chapter Seventeen
New York, 1992
Manny sat on the bed, sipping a gin and tonic, the telephone at his ear as Misha finished getting dressed.
"Look, Sol," Manny said with exasperation, putting his drink down on the bedside table, "if I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times. Misha is booked solid for that month. We've got commitments over two years down the road!"
Misha watched Manny's reflection through the mirror, where he stood putting in his shirt studs. Handsome solid gold knots that matched his cuff links. A gift from Vera a couple of years ago, when he'd played a concert in London at the Albert Hall. Finished, he put the gold cuff links on and tucked in his shirt, a white voile Gianfranco Ferre with elaborate but subtle white embroidery on the front. A gift from his parents. Taking one of his many black silk bow ties, he carefully tied it just so, in a perfect bow, the result of many years of practice, then stood back and studied his reflection.
Not bad, he thought. Uh-oh. My cummerbund.
He retrieved it from the mahogany valet where he had carefully draped it, and put it on, stepping up to the mirror again to make certain its black silk was centered perfectly.
There. Done. Or almost.
He turned around, looking at Manny, who was practically shouting into the telephone receiver at this point. His face was flushed beet red, and any pretense at sounding like an aristocratic Englishman was completely gone from his voice now. Misha never failed to find amusement in his voice's inevitable return to the streets of Brooklyn when he became excited.
He looked over at Sasha and grinned. Sasha returned it and shook his head, as if to indicate that nothing Manny said or did surprised him.
"How many times do I have to tell you, Sol! The answer is no. N-o," he spelled out. "I told you a long time ago that you'd have to commit by last spring. Last spring! Well, my friend, summer's here. It's too fucking late. Capische!'
He listened for a moment then slammed down the receiver without another word. He looked up at Misha. "What a schmuck," he cried. "He just won't listen!" He picked up his drink and took a long sip.
"Don't worry so much, Manny," Misha said. "You've got me booked for practically the rest of my life. I don't know how you do it, but whatever it is, it works."
Manny looked at him with a pleased expression on his face.
"Mama said she was in Tower Records the other day," Misha continued, "and they had my new CD displayed—guess where?"
"Where?" Manny asked, although he already knew the answer to the question.
"Between Madonna's new CD and the new one by the three tenors. At the counter and in special bins. Can you believe it?" Misha laughed. "I may have helped create a kind of mystique and a lady-killer image in the press. But the distribution deal you worked out with those people—whoever they are—is really fantastic. How the hell did you do it?"
Manny dismissed the question with an eloquent shrug. "Just leave all that to me," Manny said, exchanging a look with Sasha. "You don't have to worry about it."
"I'm just curious," Misha said. "It's amazing how little of the business end of things I know about. If something happened to you, I'd be lost. I wouldn't know anything."
"Well, nothing's going to happen to me," Manny said with an easy smile. "So forget about it. Even if it did, Sasha here could handle anything. Right, Sasha?"
Sasha nodded his head. "I know what's going on. I can deal with it. Don't forget, Misha, we're both failed classical pianists. So we do know a little bit about the business, even if we weren't good enough to play professionally."
"If you say so," Misha said.
"I say so," Manny retorted. "And Sasha's right. We may not have made it as concert pianists, but we know the business inside out."
Misha supposed he should listen to Manny. After all, money had been pouring in for the last four years, reaching a point now that he had never expected to achieve. Manny had set up his own record label, Brighton Beach, named for that section of Brooklyn that had become so heavily populated by Russian emigres. Misha knew that Manny and Sasha had worked out some sort of a distribution deal with longtime Brighton Beach acquaintances who were like them: young men of Russian descent on their way up. Idly, Misha wondered about them. He knew that there was an active Russian mob of some sort based in Brighton Beach, but he'd never really questioned Manny or Sasha about their business methods or their connections. He just took satisfaction in knowing that his recordings were in stores everywhere and were getting prime retail space.
Misha went to the closet and retrieved the black tuxedo jacket that matched his trousers. It was one of the double-breasted summer-weight ones made especially for him by Versace in Mil
an. He slipped it on and looked in the mirror.
"That looks capital," Manny enthused, recovered from his telephone battle, his British aplomb fully restored. "Even if it didn't come from Savile Row. I must say, Versace did a bang-up job, old chap."
"It does look good, doesn't it," Misha replied. He turned around. "What do you think, Sasha?"
"You look perfect," Sasha said.
"Well, you two about ready to go?" he asked.
"Yes," Manny said. "Whenever you are."
"Let's go downstairs," Misha said. "I think I'll have a drink, too, before we go."
"You?" Manny said, arching a brow. "Have a drink before the party?"
"Yes," Misha replied. "I think I'll need it tonight."
They left Misha's spacious balcony bedroom and walked downstairs to the living room, where Misha spread out on a sumptuous couch and Manny and Sasha sat opposite him in antique chairs. Over the years his apartment in the Hotel des Artistes had become a repository of the many purchases he'd made during his travels around the world. The double-height living room, much like the one in his parents' apartment a few blocks away, was dominated by the back-to-back ebony Steinway concert grand pianos, placed to take advantage of the light from the floor-to-ceiling windows. Suspended from the heights of the ceiling was a magnificent crystal chandelier he had bought in Venice, and on the floor was an antique Heriz rug, its once intense colors muted by years of wear and exposure to the light. Just the way he liked it. At one end of the room was a huge fireplace of carved stone, over which hung a heavily carved antique gilt mirror, also found in Venice. The chairs and couches were nearly all big and comfortable, covered in suedes, leathers, and tapestries, and antique occasional tables laden with bibelots and pictures were scattered about the room.
He had decorated the room himself, with Vera's advice from time to time about placement and her fine editorial eye, and he was immensely proud of it. It was chock full of antique furniture, objets d'art, and luxurious textiles, yet it was still a room that you could relax in, that you weren't afraid to put your feet up in. It also had an unmistakably masculine air about it, despite its treasures. Exquisite two-hundred-year-old neoclassical Italian chairs were covered in the softest leather as opposed to a silk brocade or damask, and the colors were dark and rich rather than soft pastels.
He got up and went to an Italian Empire console of fruitwood and gilt, and poured himself a scotch. He put in a few ice cubes from the silver bucket and poured in a dash of water, stirring it with a finger.
He turned to Manny and Sasha. "Do you two want more gin and tonic?" he asked.
"I'll get it," Manny said, heading for the table.
Misha sank onto a down-filled couch covered with soft chocolate-colored suede, kicked off his black-bowed, patent-leather slip-on shoes, and put his feet up on the heavy Giacometti glass-and-bronze coffee table.
The telephone bleated, and Misha sighed. "Jesus, not again," he complained.
"I'll get it," Manny said. He picked up the nearest receiver. "Hello?"
Misha looked over at Manny, who put his hand over the receiver. "It's Rachel," he said. "I'll just be a minute." Rachel was Manny and Sasha's very aggressive and very efficient secretary, one of the few people who had this number.
"Take your time," Misha said, waving a hand.
Sasha got up and went over to the drinks table, where he made gin and tonics for both himself and Manny. He set Manny's down beside him, then returned to his chair and sat sipping his drink silently.
Misha's eyes swept the room, relishing its opulent comfort and its quiet, only Manny's soft chatter in the background. It was good to be back in New York for the summer, after touring for months at a time. He'd hardly taken a break in the last four years, and he'd had Manny make certain that he would have the next three months almost completely free. He looked forward to a summer of solitary practice and simple relaxation, away from the hot stage lights, the grueling hours in recording studios, the adoring fans, the critics, and the incessant travel.
Manny was yelling into the telephone now. Wonder what's the matter? Misha mused. Rachel and Sasha, he knew, put up with it all the time. Manny seemed to be yelling more and more lately.
Trying to tune Manny out, he wished he didn't have to go out tonight but knew that he must. Tonight's engagement was far too important to beg off.
Vera had finished her studies in London and had just arrived back in New York, where she was now beginning a career as an employee of Christie's, the venerable auction house. She would be working in the Furniture and Decorative Arts Department of their New York branch. Tonight, her parents were giving a party in her honor at their lavish Fifth Avenue apartment. He certainly wouldn't go if not for Vera.
Vera.
He grimaced, then took a sip of his scotch.
What am I going to do about Vera?
He'd asked himself that question a million times at least and still had his doubts about the best tactic to use. But he'd finally made up his mind that they must talk about their future.
Tonight, he thought. D-Day.
Tonight's party might be in her honor, but he knew that they could easily disappear at some point and sneak away to her private terrace for a talk. He had thought about waiting, but after her last letter—and how wonderful those letters had been while he was on the road!— he'd decided that he would talk to her as soon as possible. So tonight it would be.
"Hey," Manny called, hanging up the telephone and walking over to the couch.
Misha looked over at him. "Hey, yourself," he said. "What is it? Office emergency?"
"No, just the usual," Manny said. "Diva breakdowns, conductor power trips, you know the story."
"Who is it now?" Sasha asked.
"Let's talk about it later," Manny said, giving him a meaningful look.
Manny looked at Misha with a grin on his face. "Rachel tells me that some girl, a Paola Something or Other, Italian, has been calling for you, old chap."
Misha grinned back at him but said nothing.
"As a matter of fact," Manny continued, "the aforementioned young damsel seems terribly distressed. She's been calling every hour, on the hour, every single day for the last two weeks. Says she lost your telephone number, and only has the office number."
Misha took a sip of his drink, then set it down on the coffee table. He looked up at Manny. "Rachel didn't give her this number, of course."
"Of course not, old boy," Manny said, "but Rachel is getting a mite perturbed, what with the constant interruptions, and the young lady's ...shall we say ...aggressive attitude and language?"
Misha shrugged. "Tell Rachel to tell her that I'm getting married," he said. "That'll get rid of her."
"No doubt," Manny said, "after she's nearly deafened poor Rachel with a string of highly inventive obscenities."
"I'll send Rachel some flowers," Misha said. "She'll forgive me."
Manny sat down and looked over at Misha. "Who is this Paola, old boy? Don't remember meeting her."
"Just a girl," Misha said. "You know. One of those girls who comes to a concert, hangs around backstage, follows you everywhere, won't leave you alone, won't give you a minute's peace, until you make her happy."
Manny took off his glasses and began furiously cleaning them with a pristine white linen handkerchief. "How young?" he asked.
"I don't know," Misha said, "but don't worry, Manny. She wasn't a kid, if that's what you mean. I don't go in for that, and you know it. She was at least eighteen. Probably more like twenty. A model, she said."
Manny momentarily paused with his handkerchief and looked at Misha. "Good," he said. "We certainly don't need a scandal, do we? And the way the press follows you around, well . . ."
"Manny," Misha said, "there is going to be no scandal. I hardly know the girl."
"That's exactly what I mean," Manny said. "You don't know her, but you can bet she knows nearly everything about you there is to know. You can also bet that there are thousands of them like her ou
t there who would just love to slap a big paternity suit on you and part you from some of your hard-earned cash."
"Manny! Jesus!' Misha cried. "Would you quit worrying so much. I've been very careful. Nobody could win a paternity suit!"
"All the same," Manny countered, putting his glasses back on, "you don't need the hassle, the notoriety. The press is already calling you the rock and roll star of classical music."
"What do you want me to do, Manny?" Misha snarled. "Cut my goddamn hair?"
Sasha laughed. "I don't think that would be wise," he said.
"No, I don't either," Manny said equably. "Nothing so drastic as that, old chap. Just try to keep that thing in your pants." A huge smile spread his lips wide.
Misha laughed despite his anger. "Ah, Manny," he said "you're too much, you know that. Too much."
"Seriously, though," Manny said, "you can't be too careful in your position."
"I know," Misha said. "I live in a glass house now. I can't do anything without the whole world knowing about it." He sighed.
"Oh, well," Manny said, "things will change once Paola spreads the word that you're getting married."
Misha laughed again. "Are you about ready to head across town?"
"Anytime, old boy," Manny said. "I can't wait to see what the czarina, Tatiana Bunim, has had the serfs prepare for dinner."
Misha drank down the rest of his Scotch and set the empty glass on the table. "Then let's get a move on."
"My sentiments exactly, old boy," Manny said, getting to his feet. "My sentiments exactly."
Chapter Eighteen
Vaslav greeted Misha, Manny, and Sasha with the same cool demeanor with which he greeted everyone, regardless of their familiarity with the Bunims. Ushered into the drawing room, Misha's arrival caused an immediate stir in the room. After greeting Ivan and Tatiana Bunim, Misha, Manny, Sasha, and Vera all exchanged air kisses and pleasantries in front of her parents.
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