Off Balance (Ballet Theatre Chronicles Book 1) (8 page)

She stood outside the dressing room door, waiting while Lana changed. The first dress did not suit Lana’s body; it gaped at the hips and her flat chest and Lana looked uncomfortable. But the second dress was a marvel. The silken fabric seemed to melt into her body, highlighting her angles, her long legs. It made her look both sophisticated and seductively innocent.

“Try it with the shoes,” Alice said. “You brought them in, right?”

Lana nodded and a moment later, walked out of the dressing room. “Hey,” she exclaimed. “These shoes are more comfortable than they look.”

And they looked good. So did Lana. She glided over to the three-way mirror at the far end of the dressing room, studied herself and fell silent. She turned to face Alice, a stunned expression on her face.

Alice couldn’t hide her smile. “I do believe that works.”

Lana looked down at the price tag and paled. “I can’t buy this,” she cried. “It’s five hundred dollars.”

“Marked down from nine hundred. A steal. And you’re not buying it.” Alice’s smile broadened. “Gil is going to.”

“No! That’s impossible.”

Alice grew impatient. “Look, Lana. This is big, tonight. It’s worth potentially a quarter of a million dollars. If Gil wants to stage our show this way, fine. But he’s going to pay for the right costume.” She looked down at her watch. “Come on. We’re out of time.”

Lana scowled at her but Alice scowled right back. A moment later Lana’s shoulders dropped and she gave a little nod.

Dancers
, Alice thought irritably. They were good at taking direction, at least.

The party took place in Hillsborough, tucked into the foothills of the coastal mountain range paralleling Highway 280. Andy Redgrave’s home was impressive, more of a mansion than a house, the white sandstone exterior making it look like an Italian villa. A team of valet parking attendants hurried to open Gil’s car doors and take his keys. At the massive carved-oak front door a sharply attractive woman with a professional demeanor greeted them, checking Gil and Alice’s names off the invitation list before directing them into the two-story entryway. The last of the evening’s light glowed through the windows while strategically placed track lighting illuminated the high ceilings and the rest of the room.

“Showtime,” Gil murmured to Alice, who nodded. Lana nervously chewed her lower lip.

“Maybe this dress was the right call,” she said to Alice.

“It was.”

She’d harbored anxiety that Lana, even with the dress, would stand out as a liability, but that wasn’t proving to be the case. Lana comported herself well, moving through the entryway like the graceful dancer she was, taking in the statues, the marble floors, the staircase’s elaborate carved molding in a sweetly nervous, deferential manner. Gil excused himself to go hunt down Andy, and Lana stayed close to Alice as they entered the living room. When an announcement circulated that the musicians were going to perform shortly, they made their way to a salon where several dozen padded folding chairs had been set up to face a platform in the front of the room.

Alice claimed three seats but as she was searching around for Gil, she turned to see, instead, Andy Redgrave.

“Hello, Alice,” he said in that cool way of his. “Glad you could make it. Gil here, as well?”

“Actually, he’s looking for you.”

“Well. Here I am.”

Tonight Andy was dressed more casually, in a pin-striped button-down oxford shirt and navy trousers, simple elegance that probably had cost a thousand dollars. He was more tanned than when Alice had last seen him; probably a day out on the yacht. The tan highlighted his blond hair and pale blue eyes. He looked handsome and all-powerful, like an Old Testament angel tossed down to earth, thrown into contemporary clothes and told to “act mortal but not too much.”

She introduced Andy to Lana. “Lana’s a soloist with the company,” Alice added as they shook hands.

Andy turned back to regard Alice in amusement. “Do you always bring your product with you on a sales pitch?”

Alice assumed a breezy confidence she didn’t feel. “Only when they’ll agree to climb into my briefcase. But this is pleasure tonight, not business. Lana’s, um, my friend.”

“Well, I hope you ladies enjoy the performance. Alice, I know you will. This is going to be the highlight of your evening, I think you mentioned.”

This time she was prepared. “Oh, no, Andy. The highlight will be when you grace us with more of your presence.”

He smiled. “Gil’s been coaching you.”

He left to greet another guest. Lana and Alice settled into seats, Alice glancing around anxiously until Gil reappeared.

“Where did you go for so long?” Alice hissed as he took the seat next to Lana.

“I told you. I was looking for Andy.”

“He was here. Right here.”

“So. You chatted?”

“Of course.”

“And you said Lana was your friend?”

“Yes.”

She was somewhat heartened by the fact that he looked worried. He would be taking tonight seriously, after all, in spite of Lana’s presence. Not until the track lights dimmed and the three musicians strode out to the platform, however, did she begin to relax.

Applause broke out, particularly at the sight of Matthew.

“Hey,” Lana whispered as the musicians arranged their music on their stands. “That looks like the guy from the American Express commercial. The musician they did a documentary on last year.”

“That’s because it’s him,” Alice whispered back.

Lana’s eyes widened. “Oh. Oh!”

Alice kept her own eyes focused on the violinist, her friend Montserrat. She was attired in a long black evening dress that added drama and height to her petite frame. Her dark hair was held back with a gold clip, her honey-brown eyes serious as she studied the open page of music before twisting around to murmur something to the pianist. Matthew rose to greet the audience.

Matthew was a warm, boyishly handsome Japanese-American, a concert hall favorite for years. He shared a few details about the Stradivarius, Andy’s new acquisition, that he was playing tonight, which would thereafter be loaned out to a deserving San Francisco-based cellist. He gave a quick rundown on the pieces the trio would be performing. Once he’d finished and returned to his spot, the lights in the back of the room dimmed further. The pianist and Montserrat watched Matthew, who, once his cello was tuned, met their eyes, gave a quick little lift of his chin, and they began.

The first piece was a favorite of Alice’s—one of Saint Saens’ piano trios, a lively, engaging crowd-pleaser from the Romantic era, the melody continually passed around from instrument to instrument. Most of the listeners, Alice sensed, were focused on Matthew and the Stradivarius. The cello’s allure was undeniable. It roared, it purred, it vibrated with intensity and warmth. Alice’s focus, however, remained on her friend and her instrument, the golden antique perfection of her Vuillaume, which could sound sweet and angelic one moment, husky and imploring the next.

This form of artistry was a mystery to Alice, just as Montserrat herself was, even after knowing her for six years. She didn’t like to talk about her past; Alice knew only that she’d had an unconventional youth, shuttled around Europe by actor parents, and that she’d always had to work very hard for her craft, six to eight hours of daily practice, even now. The violin, she’d told Alice, wasn’t something you learned once, and coasted along after that. It was a lifelong, consuming endeavor.

Alice, habituated to creating art through her body, pondered the implications of being a professional musician. You had to take good care of an instrument, true, but you could store it away and relax. You could break your leg and still the instrument would play sweetly. If the instrument were destroyed, you could get a replacement, although Montserrat had told Alice her violin, an 1862 J.B. Vuillaume worth $120,000, was irreplaceable to her.

Following the Saint Saens, the trio performed a lively, syncopated tango, the violin singing in staccato double-stop bursts, almost like an accordion, the cello sounding jazzy and sexy. For the final piece, Matthew played unaccompanied Bach, the famous “Prelude” from his Cello Suite No. 1 in G Major. The sound was rich, deep and pure, the aural equivalent of a fine old Cognac. Even Alice had to admit it was a showstopper. The other listeners, classical music fans or not, were all riveted. Lana gave a little gasp when he’d finished and they were all clapping.

“I’ve never heard anything like that before,” she exclaimed to Alice.

“No, I’m sure you haven’t. Not this close up, certainly.”

“And you said these musicians are friends of yours?”

“Montserrat is, and I know Matthew through her.”

“And he’s so famous. Wow.”

“It couldn’t have been cheap to engage him.”

“How much do you think he makes?”

“For tonight’s performance, probably around 40K.”

“Forty thousand
dollars
?” Lana’s voice rose to a squeak.

Alice grinned. “Welcome to the major leagues. Imagine what he gets for a big concert.”

Gil leaned over, his eyes glowing. “Alice. Introduce me to him later?”

The double doors leading to the living room were opened. In wafted irresistible smells of roasted meat, garlic in melted butter, baked pastry puffs. The caterers had set up a buffet while the guests had been listening to the music. Alice’s stomach growled, as if on command. Time to indulge, courtesy of Andy Redgrave.

An hour later, Alice, pleasantly sated and buzzed, left her conversation with Montserrat and a now restless Lana to seek out a bathroom. The two on the first floor appeared to be occupied, so she trudged up the carpeted staircase to the second level. Before she got to the bathroom, however, she spied Gil at the other end of the hallway, preparing to shut the door of the room he was in. He looked surprised to see her there.

“I know someone who wants to see you,” she called out in a singsong fashion, but his eyes sent out a warning. “Matthew Nakamura,” she improvised. “Remember I was going to introduce the two of you?’

The relief on his face was palpable. A moment later Andy appeared behind him. “Is she cool with this?” he murmured to Gil.

Gil hesitated. “Of course.”

“Then come join us, Alice.”

She tried to read Gil’s expression, but Andy was studying her at the same time. It reminded her of the trapped way she’d felt when they’d talked at the liquor store. But Andy was smiling at her now, and Gil was here.

She flashed Andy a smile. “I’d love to.”

The master bedroom was spacious, opulent, the bed off in its own section and a living room setup closer to the door. Gil locked the door as Andy returned to his spot on the sofa, beckoning Alice to sit in the armchair across from him. Between them was a glass table, on which sat a delicately filigreed mirror holding a small mound of cocaine.

Gil joined them, sitting next to Andy, who cut the powder with a razor and arranged three neat lines before offering Gil a rolled-up bill. A real $100 bill from the looks of it, she noted in amusement. Her partying friends, back in her less responsible years, could never manage more than a twenty-dollar bill. The three of them each took a turn and sat back, sniffling, basking in the conspiratorial air, the camaraderie such an act always seemed to bring.

The euphoria set in. The teeth-grinding and chattering.

“I loved the recital,” Alice gushed. “Just loved it. That’s a beautiful Strad you’ve acquired, Andy. And that unaccompanied Bach Matthew played at the end? It really showed off the cello’s sound.”

“It did. It really did,” he exclaimed.

Andy on cocaine, it appeared, was a lot more friendly. He asked her how she’d liked the program, the order, how the acoustics were from her spot, which piece she’d enjoyed the most.

“Oh, I’d have to say the Saint Saens.”

“Very good, you remembered the composer.”

“Of course.” She gave him a coyly flirtatious look. “I told you I was a classical music person. I love that piano trio. Actually, I like all of Saint Saens’s work.”

“So do I. The cello concerto?”

“Definitely. And his third violin concerto. The second movement is like a slice of heaven.”

“It’s sublime,” he agreed. “Then there’s his organ symphony.”

“Yes. And the
Rondo Capriccioso. Danse Macabre. Carnival of the Animals
.” She wrinkled her nose. “Well, in truth, I only like the cello solo.”

“‘The Swan.’”

“That’s it.”

“I’m just now exploring his chamber music,” he said. “It intrigues me. It’s like Fauré’s, only not.”

“I know just what you mean. You know Fauré was one of Saint Saens’s students.”

“No, I didn’t know that.” He looked pleased. “But it makes sense.”

“And later, Fauré taught Ravel. All those French composers—Ravel, Debussy, Poulenc—they all have a similar yet distinct sound.”

Gil, catching Alice’s eye, gave her a little
good job
nod. He himself knew nothing about classical music and Alice could almost see his thoughts whirring.
Become classical music aficionado so as to impress prospective billionaire donors.

“Speaking of French sound,” Andy said to Alice, “how do you like your friend’s Vuillaume?”

It was a curious question. Granted, he’d just bought a million-dollar antique stringed instrument, but few people knew anything about violins beyond the famous makers, Stradivarius, Gagliano, Amati, Guarneri and a handful of other Italian luthiers.

“You know the maker of Montserrat’s violin.” She raised one eyebrow at Andy. “I’m impressed.”

He acknowledged this with a bob of his head.

She was glad she knew enough about J.B. Vuillaume’s instruments to respond with eloquence. “It’s got a powerful sound, like most Vuillaumes, but at the same time, it produces a warm, rich tone. Of course, that’s Montserrat’s skill coming into play. It never fails to amaze me when I hear her play, how many different voices she can draw out of that instrument. She told me she’s been offered the loan of a Stradivarius a few different times in the past, but that the tone never appealed to her as much as what she could produce on the Vuillaume.”