The Stylist. Александра Маринина

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.

      “I didn’t hear an answer, Solovyov. I still don’t know whether you want me to come back.”

      “You don’t want to.”

      He looked at her closely and tenderly with his incredibly warm eyes.

      “Don’t kid yourself, Nastya. You don’t need me. I’m a cripple and you’re a young healthy woman with normal needs that I can’t satisfy. You don’t feel a thing when I embrace you. So what is this all about?”

      “I told you that you haven’t grown up. Sex is still the most important thing for you. You were a stud and you still are.” She smiled and patted his hand. “And you haven’t understood. I’m going back to my honored husband, and you take some time to think about what I said. I’ll come back tomorrow, and we’ll talk. I hope your business associates won’t be in the way tomorrow. That’s all, Solovyov, I’m off. Don’t sec me out, I’ll leave quietly, so that I don’t have to say good-bye to your sharks of capitalism. Is there only one door out of here – to the living room?”

      “No, that door leads to the hallway.”

      “Until tomorrow, dear,” she said mockingly, at the door.

      He nodded without taking his wary eyes from her.

      Nastya slipped quietly into the hallway. The door to the living room was open, and the voices carried clearly. Nastya took a few steps in the other direction and peeked into the kitchen. Andrei was having a peaceful talk there with the long-mustached Zhenya Yakimov. That meant that only the publishers were in the living room.

      She got her jacket carefully from the closet, trying not to make any noise, and listened to their conversation.

      “The Gazelle is what you need for that business,” Avtayev the commercial director was saying. “We won’t be able to manage otherwise.”

      “That’s too complicated,” Voronets replied uncertainly. “So much effort, and what if it’s in vain?”

      “There’s nothing to discuss,” Esipov cut him off. “There it is, and it has to be done. At whatever cost.”

      Easy to tell who’s the boss, thought Nastya, deftly unlocking the front door.

* * *

      Alexei Chistyakov lay on the couch watching a mystery on TV. On the floor next to the couch was a tray with empty dishes and a cup with dregs of tea. Nastya could tell that her husband had been in front of the TV for a long time, since lunch.

      “What’s the matter, Lyoshka?” she asked in concern “Are you sick?”

      “Uh-uh.” He shook his head of red hair. “I’m on strike.”

      “Why?”

      “Those bastards at the college aren’t paying for my course. They said they would pay after exams. In other words, they want to see how I taught the course and what the students learned.”

      “When are the exams?”

      “May.”

      “Great!” Nastya whistled. “We’ll be short again? That puts a damper on our anniversary trip.”

      “Nice euphemism for coffin lid,” her husband commented.

      They had gotten