The Stylist. Александра Маринина

was the difference between Nastya and Solovyov, which, really, should not have existed at all.

      She caught herself thinking about Solovyov with pleasure. And of the fact that she would go sec him again tomorrow.

      “You are wrong, Anastasia,” she said wearily to herself. “You should be working, but you keep thinking about pleasure. Toss that out of your head, you’re not of an age when mistakes are easily forgiven. Especially, the second time around.”

      Nastya finished the salad, washed her bowl, stood under a hot shower for a quarter hour to relax and warm up, and crawled into bed. She was going to call her husband’s parents in Zhukovsky – maybe he had gone to see them. She was reaching for the phone when she stopped herself. Don’t. He might think she was checking up. And what if he weren’t there and his parents didn’t know where he was? Whatever else she may want, “catching” Lyoshka was not one of her goals. Not because she was a hundred percent sure of his fidelity. Alexei was a normal male who could fall for a beautiful, interesting, sexy woman, so unlike Nastya, who was unattractive, cool, and absolutely without sex appeal. From the point of view of probability, it was quite possible, but Nastya never felt that she had to know about it. What for? Of her almost thirty-six years, she had known Chistyakov twenty. More than half her life. They would grow old together, they would always be together, and no matter what happened, they would be best friends. This assertion had been tested by time and was unimpeachable. And then, was she herself without guilt? Certainly not.

      In other words, she did not call Lyoshka’s parents. But just as she was putting out the light, the phone rang.

      “Nastya?” asked an uncertain voice.

      It was Pavel Kamensky, Alexander’s father. And Nastya’s, naturally.

      “Yes, it’s me,” she said, trying to hide her surprise.

      Kamensky senior rarely called. He divorced Nastya’s mother when Nastya was very small, and he communicated with his daughter on major holidays and then by phone. Of course, after Nastya became friends with Alexander, his son by a second marriage, and Alexander’s wife, Dasha, Pavel started calling more frequently. But he was still a total stranger as far as Nastya was concerned – she felt nothing for him, neither warmth nor dislike. Nastya adored her mother’s second husband, her stepfather, and had called him “Papa” all her life. Pavel Kamensky did not really exist for her.

      “Nastya, I’m calling to warn you.” He stopped for a bit. “There’s a problem with little Dasha, and your Alexei went to help Alexander.”

      “What’s the matter with Dasha?” Nastya asked quickly.

      “Well, it’s, uh, well —” Kamensky muttered, but Nastya understood.

      Dasha was pregnant, in her fourth month. She must have miscarried.

      “How did it happen?”

      “I don’t know. Alexander called about two hours ago from the hospital. He said that Alexei had to bring some important doctor. He asked me to call you so that you wouldn’t worry. Don’t be angry, Nastya, that your husband was called out of the house at night, but Alexander is in such a panic, he’s so worried about Dasha. Can Alexei stay with him a bit. Is that all right?”

      “It’s fine. Thanks for calling,” Nastya said.

      “Thanks for calling today instead of tomorrow,” she added mentally. “I’ve been home an hour. If I were a different person, I would have gone nuts in the last hour wondering where my husband had gone without warning, without even a note. And you, daddy dear, instead of calling every five minutes trying to catch me the minute I walk in so that I’m spared worry, call only now. Were you watching a movie on TV? Lucky for you that I’m a calm person and don’t panic at the drop of a hat. ‘A problem with little Dasha…’ You never called me little Nastya. I’m not jealous, God knows. Dasha is a marvelous creature, a living miracle with blue eyes, I love her myself and I can’t imagine a person who wouldn’t love her. But I’m your daughter. Or am I? Am I just the child of a woman you used to be married to, accidentally, stupidly, and for a very short time?”

      It wasn’t interesting thinking about Kamensky, he meant too little in Nastya’s life. She was much more worried about her sister-in-law’s health. Their first child, little Sasha, was under a year old, born in early June. Nastya had not been so sure that it was a good idea for Sasha to have a second baby so soon. But she really wanted a girl. And Alexander was so happy! Poor Dasha, it would be a pity if she lost the baby. However, she was still young. Twenty. She’d be able to have a dozen more if she wanted. The important thing was for nothing serious to happen that would affect her ability to conceive and carry full term.

      So, Lyoshka was somewhere at a hospital with Alexander. Well, that was a good idea, Lyoshka was a rational and calm person, sometimes too much so, but in this case it was just what was needed to restrain panicky Alexander. And he did have superior physicians among his friends. He had once worked halftime at a medical technology institute, developing diagnostic computer programs. Ever since then Lyoshka had a wide circle of medical friends. He must have brought a luminary with him. Nastya imagined Alexander calling and shouting that Dasha was hemorrhaging and he didn’t know what to do. Dasha was dying! Alexander Kamensky had the amazing ability to see the worst-case scenario and think that the situation was beyond repair. Interestingly, this did not extend to his business. It appeared only in regards to Dasha. He was probably madly in love with her, losing his reason when something happened to her. Naturally, Lyoshka rushed off to help his brother-in-law and handle things. No time for notes.

      Suddenly Nastya put on the light and reached for the phone. She had dialed Solovyov’s number before she could answer the question: why was she calling?

      “Did I wake you?” she asked guiltily when she heard his soft voice.

      “No, I go to bed late.”

      “How are things?”

      “Fine, thanks. Is that why you called?”

      “To tell the truth, I don’t know why I called. But apparently, it was something I really wanted to do. Otherwise I wouldn’t have done it.”

      “Makes sense,” he chuckled. “Even in such subtle and emotional issues you seek to operate on logic. How are things with you?”

      “Fine. As usual.”

      “Are you at home?”

      “Of course. Where else would I be at this time of night?” “What about your husband? Aren’t you worried that he might hear you talking to me?”

      “No. If I were afraid, I wouldn’t have called.”

      “More logic. In any case, I’m glad you called.”

      “Really?”

      “Really.”

      She heard the intonation in his voice that used to make her head spin.

      “Man gets used to good things very quickly,” Solovyov went on. “The day before yesterday you called me, yesterday you visited, and today I had the feeling that something was missing. You called just now and I realized what it was. I miss you.”

      “Me too,” she said with a smile. “I’ll come over tomorrow if you don’t have any other plans.”

      “What time?”

      “Around eight. Is that all right?”

      “I’ll be waiting.”

      “Kisses,” she said softly. “Good night.”

      There, Solovyov. You miss me already. And why? Let’s not think about me, I’ve always been a sucker where you were concerned. But you? You didn’t even think me human. I was nothing more than a dangerous daughter of my mother, someone who could cause a lot of trouble if not handled properly. A device. Back then, you were afraid of my mother, and you were afraid that if you rejected me, your advisor would be angry, and if you had an affair with me, she would bring up questions of divorce and marriage to me. You did not love me and did not want to marry me. But it never occurred to you that my mother would never hear of our affair. You were sure that I told her everything.