Rhapsody (44 page)

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?

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 crew—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

gone from hot to cold. But then, she
supposed, it was such a long way from the kitchen to the dining
room that there was little choice.

She couldn't believe that people paid through
the nose for the privilege of staying in this old pile, perhaps on
the off-chance that they would get to have a drink and rub noses
with the present lord and lady—who were, thank God, traveling on
the Continent at present.

What the hell would Misha think? she asked
herself. She'd thought it would be so romantic, so idyllic.

Ah, well, she told herself, the rain has let
up, the shoot will soon be over, and Misha is on his way. Somehow
or other they would grin and bear it.

With a finger she deftly dabbed a bit more of
the purplish currant blusher to her cheekbones, then began
carefully spreading it out with her fingertips, thinning it toward
the edges just so, not too much. She sat back, then leaned forward,
her eyes concentrating on her reflection once again.

That'll do it, she thought. Now, just a bit
more of that new port-colored lipstick. She found the golden tube
among a pile of cosmetics on the dresser, and carefully brushed it
across her generous lips, then blotted, and studied them in the
mirror.

"Purr ...feet," she told her reflection.

"So you're so desperate you're talking to
yourself now?" said a voice from behind her.

Serena jerked around. "Jason!" she cried.
"You're an angel from heaven. Just in time to help me pick out
something to wear tonight."

"So Magic Fingers is descending upon us, I
take it," Jason said. He flipped his nearly waist-length dark brown
hair with its bold blond skunk stripes out of his eyes.

"Yes," Serena said. "He's supposed to be here
in time for dinner."

"I got the Times and the Daily Telegraph,"
Jason said. "They both have fabu reviews of his concerts. You'd
think he was the second coming." He flapped the newspapers against
the black leather jeans he seemed to live in.

"Oh, Jason, you're a sweetheart," Serena
said. "I'd forgotten all about the papers. You'll have to tell me
what they say." She giggled. "Misha'll think I'm really keeping
up."

"Should I read them to you?" Jason asked.

"Skim," Serena said. "The highlights. You
know." She fumbled through the multitude of bottles on the dressing
table until she found the one that contained her magic potion—a
perfume made especially for her with lots of vetiver, various
citrus notes, a hint of floral. It was an exotic scent that she
knew Misha was crazy about. She began dabbing it generously around
her ears, down her throat, at her wrists, between her breasts and
thighs.

Jason sat down on the worn Turkish carpet,
crossing his big logger boots in the lotus position, and riffled
through the Times until he found the review there. He cleared his
throat.

" 'The Liszt Sonata in B Minor,'" he began, "
'has never been played more diabolically or erotically than in
Mikhail Levin's brilliant interpretation of it the last two
evenings in the Royal Albert Hall.'"

"Diabolical! Erotic!" Serena cried with
delight. She slapped a hand against the dresser and laughed. "Oh,
Misha will love that, won't he?"

"I guess so," Jason said. He grinned. "If he
plays like he looks, then it's got to be hot."

"Read, you naughty boy," Serena said as she
began brushing her hair.

Jason continued. " 'Levin has exposed
everything imaginable in this virtual autobiography of Liszt—'
"

"What the hell does that mean?" Serena
asked.

"I don't have a clue," Jason said, laughing.
He squinted in the dim light as he continued skimming the article.
"Whoa! Get this shit! 'Levin is the embodiment of the Romantic, a
Byronic superman.' "

Serena squealed. "I don't believe it! My
little Misha!"

"I bet he's not so little," Jason
quipped.

"Skim!" Serena said.

Jason went on. " 'He cuts a proud,
irresistible figure and represents the epitome in behavior, looks,
and achievement of the true Romantic hero.' "

Jason stopped and looked up at Serena. "This
is too much." Jason laughed. "I think I'm falling in love with
him." He pushed the sleeves of his sweater up above his elbows, and
the tattoos that covered his arms undulated as he moved the
newspaper about.

"He's off-limits," Serena teased, brushing
her hair in long, even strokes. "Keep skimming."

" 'The Faustian theme—' " Jason began.

"Oh, God, Jason," Serena cried. "Spare me.
That's enough. That's already more than I want to know. I don't
need to know any of the boring details."

"What about the Daily Telegraph?" Jason
asked.

"Forget it," Serena said. "Where's Bennett,
by the way?" she asked.

"The last I saw him," Jason replied, "he was
sneaking out to the stables with one of the models."

"You're kidding?" Serena said "Going for a
ride, maybe?"

"Ride one of the stable boys is more like
it," Jason said.

"Naughty, naughty," Serena said. "I thought
all these boys and girls would be pretty straight arrows. Coming
from such stuffy, rich old families and all."

"No way," Jason said. "The boys have all gone
to those fancy schools where they diddle each other till they're in
college. A couple of them hit on me. I don't know about the girls,
but nearly all of them—boys and girls—do a lot of drugs."

Serena got up from the dressing table and
walked over to the huge armoire where she had hung most of her
clothes. She swung its doors open wide. "Look," she said. "Go
through there and see what you think."

Jason began pushing hangers, glancing through
the large selection of beautiful dresses and gowns. Suddenly he
stopped. "This is fabu!" he said excitedly. "This is it!"

He jerked the gown out of the armoire and
held it up in front of Serena with a flourish.

"Oh, one of the Galliano's from Dior," Serena
said. "Do you think so, Jason?"

"Definitely," he said with a nod. "It's just
the thing. Magic Fingers will love it."

Serena looked at the dress. She took it from
Jason and held it up against her body, eyeing herself in the big
cheval mirror in the corner. What a fabulous concoction, she
thought. It had a silk brocade jacket that was made almost like a
doublet, cinched in very tight at the waist and flared out around
the hips. It was a creamy white with pinkish flowers and gold-green
foliage. A hood attached to the jacket was lined with nutria dyed a
royal blue and decorated with silk flowers in various shades of
blue. Worn under the jacket was a ribbed rayon turtleneck that
glimmered gold. The skirt was a gold lam£ bias mermaid cut that was
embossed with flowers.