Rhapsody (33 page)

"Good," she said, "because that's the way it
is."

He leaned over and kissed her forehead.
"Don't worry," he said. "My career's the same way. I really do
understand."

"I hope you do," she said mildly. Then more
playfully: "We'll have the next two nights, Misha. Just think! Just
you and me."

The next two nights were perhaps, Misha
thought, the loneliest and most miserable he'd ever spent. On
Thursday, they were to have met at her loft at nine, after her day
was finished. Serena telephoned him around eight to tell him she
probably wouldn't be through work before midnight. It was a model
emergency, she said. About eleven, she had called to say it would
be more like two or three in the morning before she could get home.
He hadn't questioned her or argued with her, but she heard the
disappointment in his voice.

"I hate this, too," she said. "But there's
nothing I can do about it. Tamara and Justine, two of the models
for the fur shoot, have vanished into thin air. We're finding
replacements."

"Vanished?" he replied.

"Well," Serena said flippantly, "they've
probably run off to St. Bart's with some coked-up rich guys."

Friday was a replay of Thursday. He waited on
pins and needles to see her, then ultimately gave up in the middle
of the night. Their last conversation was at 2:30 A.M. Friday
morning.

"Sal's taking me to Kennedy at seven, so you
go to bed," Serena had said.

"I can take you," he insisted.

"That's ridiculous," Serena said. "You need
your rest."

"You haven't gotten any yourself," he said
testily.

"I can sleep in the car on the way out to the
airport and on the plane," she said.

"I hate this," Misha said.

"I told you there would be times like this,"
Serena said evenly. "I can't help it, Misha. It's part of the
job."

"I know," he said with weary resignation.

"Listen," she said, "we'll be together again
soon. And I can hardly wait."

"Me, either, Serena," he said.

When they finally hung up, he was sorely
dissatisfied. At the same time, he began to fantasize about the
next time he would see her, would hold her in his arms, would
inhale her intoxicating perfume. It wouldn't be too long.

"Manny," Misha said, "I wanted to have a
little talk before I leave for Berlin." They were seated in Misha's
sumptuous living room, drinking freshly brewed coffee that Misha
had brought in from the kitchen.

"What's going on, old chap?" Manny asked. He
was in a particularly expansive mood today. Several new suits had
arrived from his tailors in London this morning, and to top it off,
the Jaguar XJ6 convertible he'd had on order had been delivered
just before he came over to Misha's. British racing green with a
tan rag top. Just the ticket. It would look appropriately sporty,
sitting alongside the more sedate black Mercedes in the garage
beneath the apartment building where he'd bought the penthouse,
complete with wraparound terraces and views of the entire city and
New Jersey and Long Island beyond.

"Well, you know I don't know very much about
Brighton Beach Recordings, Inc.," Misha said. "And I think it's
time for you to give me a brief on it."

"A brief?" Manny said, somewhat startled.
"But you have copies of all your contracts, and I drew them up
myself, so you know they're kosher, Misha. And you're getting very
handsome advances and royalty rates—as stipulated in the
contracts."

Manny paused and took a sip of his coffee,
looking at Misha over his tortoiseshell glasses. Misha was studying
him intently, but Manny couldn't read his expression.

"You've also got copies of your royalty
statements for the last few years," Manny continued, "and if I say
so myself, I don't think anybody could have made more money for you
than Brighton Beach."

He sat with a pleased expression that Misha
recognized as a cover-up for the discomfort that he was actually
feeling.

"It's not the money so much," Misha said, "or
the contracts and royalty statements. My father has had all of
those examined by an independent entertainment attorney." Misha
noticed that a flicker of alarm crossed Manny's features, but it
was quickly replaced by a mask, this one of the indulgent listener.
"Anyway, Elliot Lufkin went through everything, and he assures Dad
that everything is in order there."

Manny nodded. "I'm gratified that so famous
an attorney would think so," he said, "but I still don't understand
why you ... or your father went to the trouble. Don't you trust me,
Misha? Or Sasha?"

Misha was silent for a moment, then answered
Manny with a question. "What about distribution, Manny?" he asked.
"I'm in the dark there. And what about your phenomenal booking
abilities? Brighton Beach seems to be able to book me anywhere,
anytime. I'm in the dark there, too. I'd like a rundown—"

Misha's private telephone line bleeped, and
he reached over and picked it up.

"Hello?" he said, not really listening.

"It's me," Serena said at the other end.

Misha's face broke out into a wide smile.
"Hi, you," he said. "Where are you?" As usual his heart gave a leap
at the sound of her voice, and his body was aroused, anxious to
touch her, hold her, fulfill her every need.

"Helsinki," she said. "I only have a second,
but I wanted to call and tell you that I miss you."

"I miss you, too," he said.

"I thought that since you're coming to Berlin
that maybe we could meet for a night in Copenhagen or
Stockholm."

"Oh, my God, that would be great, Serena!" he
said excitedly. "When could you manage it?"

"This coming weekend," she said.

"Sunday?" Misha asked. "I could be in
Copenhagen for a few hours on Sunday."

"Yes ...Sunday's fine," she replied.

"I'll call you back when I know what time I
can be there," he said, "and I'll make hotel reservations.
Okay?"

"Fabulous!" Serena said.

"Where can I reach you?" he asked.

Serena read off a telephone number.

"I'll call you back pronto," Misha said.

"Gotta run," Serena said. "See you in
Copenhagen." She hung up.

Misha replaced the telephone in its cradle
and sat smiling into space, Manny observing him.

"Serena?" he finally ventured.

"Yes," Misha replied, looking over at
him.

"Mind if I'm a tad personal?" Manny
asked.

"What is it?" Misha said.

"Are you in love?" Manny asked in a serious
voice.

"Yes ... no ... I don't really know," Misha
answered honestly. "I know that I've never been as attracted to
anyone, ever, as I am to Serena. I've never had such sex in my
life. It's wild! It's like there's some chemical pull between us.
You know what I mean?"

"I think so, old boy," Manny said. "Although
I must admit, I myself have never experienced anything quite like
that."

Misha looked at him curiously for a moment.
Weren't he and Sasha an item? It was odd, he thought, that they'd
never broached the subject. "Anyway, it's as if fate or destiny had
thrown us together," Misha went on, "and we must have each other.
It's like it's meant to be."

Misha paused, looking into the distance, lost
in thought. "We come from different worlds and have such different
interests," he said. "But at the same time, we're both involved in
the arts. Our lifestyles are totally different, but very much
alike. We're both career-driven and travel almost constantly."

"Maybe somebody like her's just what you
need, old boy," Manny said. "Someone more like you, creative and
all."

"You mean as opposed to Vera, who isn't?"
Misha said.

"Well ... I mean, Vera's fabulous in her own
way, but ...you know ...she's very much the marrying and
settling-down type. She'll probably give up her job at Christie's,
raise a family. Not terribly creative."

"She certainly is around the house," Misha
said in her defense. "She creates fantastic environments with
furniture and pictures. She makes a place elegant and comfortable
and her food is always the best."

Manny quickly backpedaled. "Oh, yes, I know.
I didn't mean to belittle her obvious talents, old boy. She's a
whiz at all those things."

"I'm going to see her tonight," Misha said,
suddenly distracted. "Listen, Manny, why don't you run along? We
can talk later. I have a lot to do. Getting ready for Berlin.
Scheduling Copenhagen. And going over to Vera's new apartment
tonight."

Manny was already on his feet and headed
toward the door, grateful that this conversation was at an end. The
less he and Misha discussed Brighton Beach Recordings, the better,
as far as he was concerned. He was also glad for the opportunity to
steer Misha clear of Vera. She was, he thought, far too
overprotective of Misha and smart as hell. He didn't need her
nosing into the business. He would be glad to see the back side of
her one day soon.

Manny left the apartment, resolving that he
would certainly do everything in his power to promote Serena
Gibbons' star in Misha's galaxy. Yes, he thought, she was just
exactly the sort of girlfriend Misha needed. She would never give a
thought to Misha's career.

After toiling in her overheated, closet-size
kitchen, Vera rushed into her tiny bathroom to repair her makeup.
Misha would soon be here, and she wanted to look her best for him.
She quickly brushed her pale blond hair, then pulled it back and
tied it with a ribbon at the base of her neck. Nothing could be
simpler, she thought, but she knew it showed off her fine-boned
features to perfection. She put on a dab of palest pink lipstick,
blotted it, then brushed on the merest hint of blusher.

She stood back and eyed her reflection
critically. She really didn't particularly like wearing makeup and
resented taking the time to apply it, but with her natural coloring
being so pale, she thought that she looked ghostly without a bit of
added color. Giving her face a final inspection in the mottled
mirror, she decided that she looked fine. Considering that she'd
been up since six o'clock, gone to the gym, put in a hectic day at
the auction house, grocery shopped, and cooked.

Cooking in her minute kitchen was a trial,
and she hoped that Misha would appreciate her efforts. She had
poached a salmon and made a fresh dill sauce to go with it. She
would serve it with tiny new potatoes roasted with fresh rosemary,
fresh green beans with mushrooms, and a mesclun salad with a garlic
vinaigrette. For dessert she had bought homemade ginger ice cream
and fresh strawberries.

It was, she realized, a simple,
straightforward meal, uncomplicated and not too rich. She knew that
Misha grew tired of the calorie-laden, fancy foods served at so
many of the hotels and at the dinner parties he was required to
attend. She quickly strode about her apartment to make certain that
everything looked neat and clean, stopping to rearrange the fresh
flowers she'd placed in the living room and on the dining room
table, then stood, surveying her realm with pride. She had moved
out of her parents' palatial thirty-six rooms on Fifth Avenue and
taken this apartment on East Seventy- fifth Street. Her father had
bought the apartment for her, but Vera had insisted on signing a
note, promising to pay him back in full, plus the going interest
rate, as she rose in the ranks and her professional career became
more rewarding financially. She was determined to stand on her own
two feet as much as possible.

The apartment had once been the parlor floor
of a beautiful limestone town house, now split up into five
floor-through apartments. Hers was not enormous, but she loved the
proportions of its large living and dining rooms with their high
ceilings, elaborately carved moldings, and fireplaces. The single
bedroom was small but cozy, and the kitchen and bath were tiny but
serviceable.

She had lavished attention on the apartment's
decoration, and it now resembled the pied-a-terre of an eccentric
but wealthy collector with its mixture of furniture, art, and
bibelots of various styles and periods. With the exception of her
most prized books, she had brought almost nothing here from her
parents' apartment. She had purchased nearly everything herself,
some of it from the auction house, where she was always on the
lookout for treasures that others bypassed, and some of it from
auctions and antique stores out in the country.

Much of the furniture was worn, with chips
and nicks, and ancient fabric, and some of the paintings
desperately needed restoration. Vera, however, liked the lived-in
look of faded grandeur. She wanted to avoid the museum look, in
which everything was glowing perfection, like the apartment she had
grown up in. Here, you weren't afraid to put your feet up, and
spilling a glass of wine wasn't a tragedy. Comfort ruled.

Satisfied that everything looked warm and
inviting, she went to her bedroom to change clothes. She
discarded

her jeans and sweatshirt, and put on a pale
fawn cashmere sweater and matching cashmere trousers, then slipped
into pale pink ballerina slippers. They were so comfortable after
heels all days. She still wore the single strand of pearls around
her neck and pearl studs in her ears, and decided they looked
perfect with her casual outfit.

The buzzer sounded, and she quickly dabbed
perfume at her ears, throat, and wrists. A concoction Caron in
Paris had made especially for her, it had distinctive but subtle
notes of tuberose. She hurried to the kitchen and pressed the talk
button on the intercom.

"Who is it?" she asked.

"Misha."

She took a deep breath and pushed the button
to release the outside door lock. She rushed to her door and opened
it. He stood there, his dark eyes dancing, his raven hair shining,
his sensuous lips set in that irresistible smile.