22. Ofelia
Ofelia
“I can’t believe it took you this long.” I glare at my brother’s back. He’s on his hands and knees, feeding wires through a wall to some kind of panel.
“Sorry.” Mickey doesn’t sound it. “I got tied up with business in London.”
“London, London, London.” I roll my eyes.
I’m perched on the edge of my Moroccan lounge, watching him put together a padded cubicle several meters square.
It’s big enough to fit my Steinway, which will be the cover story if anyone comes to visit—a soundproofed room where I can practice at any hour.
More importantly, it’s big enough to house my incredibly comfy snuggle chair, an oversized plush thing that’s perfect for curling into for long phone calls.
I can always roll the piano into the secure room if anyone unexpected comes to visit and explain it away as a soundproofing necessity.
“How is it that I was living in London for four years,” I go on, “and you hardly ever came to visit me, but now that I’ve left, you’re there all the time?
You’re as bad as Lourdes. She always used to fly back to Granada to see her family, but now that I’ve finally moved here, she seems to be performing in London every other weekend. ”
“Didn’t you tell me her uncle has a flamenco bar there?” Mickey lifts one of the back panels and screws it into place. “She’s probably just helping out her family.”
“I know.” I realize how petulant I probably sound. “I just miss her, I guess. And Benny, who seems to be spending most of his time on Lars’s yacht lately.”
“Actually, they’re in Paris this weekend. Lars is setting up some new office for a project he’s working on with your friend, so he brought Benny over on the Eurostar to join him.”
Loneliness stabs me like a knife. I wonder what the project is and feel a stab of jealousy that Lars has been talking to Alexei, while I couldn’t.
When my silence draws out, Mickey turns to give me a dry look. “Don’t worry, crazy sibling. I’ll have this up and running by the end of the day, and I’m sure your pirate will be on the phone the minute the line is secure.”
“Pirate?” I give him a quizzical look. “Sounds like you’ve been spending time with Benny and Lourdes.”
“That’s just what Lars calls him.” He turns back to his tools. “If it were up to me,” he says grimly, “I’d Harry Potter the bastard and call him He Who Shall Not Be Named.”
A rather uncomfortable silence ensues.
“And you should call Darya, by the way.” His tone hasn’t lost its taut edge. “She’s starting to hint that she thinks there’s something wrong, and you know what she’s like—any more silence, and she’ll be finding an excuse to drive up here.”
Damn.
I’ve been dodging Darya’s calls ever since my reading with Seline, not least because she has an unerring ability to sniff out when I’m not okay—and I absolutely have not been okay this past week.
I sent a text with a story about being away with Lourdes, which she seemed to buy, since Teresa and Julia had already given her the same one, but that doesn’t make me feel any more confident in lying to her face.
But I can’t get Seline’s comment about being betrayed out of my head. And I know that if Darya got even the faintest suspicion about me and Alexei, she’d be telling Papa by sundown. I can’t risk that. I can’t risk us.
I’ve ignored the other missed calls on my phone, unwilling to leave the euphoric haze of my time with Alexei.
I’ve tried to practice, but every time I lower my fingers to the keys, all I see is his lean figure lying on the sofa in the practice room on the yacht.
When I close my eyes, I feel his hands sliding over mine, his lips touching my neck as he murmurs my name, “Ah-FAY-lee-yah . . .”
The phone rings, and I snatch it up before the first tone has faded, ignoring my brother’s eye roll. “Hello?” I say breathlessly.
“Miss Borovsky.”
“Director Dittorio.” One set of nerves is instantly replaced by another. “How unexpected.”
“It vould not be unexpected,” the conductor says dryly, “if you answer telephone. My assistant leave many messages.”
“I’m sorry. I was—”
“I do not care.” Dittorio cuts me off with characteristic disdain.
“I haf call from my friend Pietro at the Orquesta Ciudad de Granada. His pianist has injured hand, like a fool, and cannot play International Music Festival this veekend. Pietro need a soloist; I say perhaps I haf one that is not so terrible. But you do not answer, and so I tell him to find someone else, but now it is a veek later, still he has no one, and now, finally, you answer. So, you vill play this event for my friend Pietro on Saturday.”
Three days from now.
I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly very dry.
“Yes?” he barks into the phone.
“Yes,” I repeat faintly.
“I do not hear you.”
“Yes,” I say, more strongly. “What piece—”
“Albéniz’s ‘La Vega.’ It is a solo. You vill be playing at the Patio de los Arrayanes in the Alhambra. So, you vill learn today and perform it in practice for Pietro tomorrow at eleven so he can meet you.”
Albéniz’s “La Vega.” So, just one of the most intricate piano solos ever composed by a Spaniard, then.
Performed in front of Pietro Santiago, no less, renowned director of the Orquesta Ciudad de Granada.
“Play vell.” It isn’t a request. “Pietro is old friend.”
No fucking pressure, Ofelia.
He hangs up before I have a chance to respond.
“Well, that sounded like fun,” Mickey says, grinning.
“I’m performing,” I say blankly. “At the Alhambra. This weekend. A solo.”
He whistles. “Holy shit. For the International Music Festival?”
I look at him in surprise. “You know about that?” Mickey’s never paid more than the most cursory attention to my musical calendar.
He shrugs, turning back to the cubicle. “Sure. I mean, it’s hard to miss. There are posters everywhere.”
“Oh my God.” As the full import of Dittorio’s request sinks in, I begin to shake with nerves. “This is massive, Mickey. And I’ve literally got three days to learn it.”
“You’ll be fine, ’Felia. You always are.” He pauses. “I guess I could come, if you want some moral support?”
“Really?” I’m touched, and a little taken aback, at his offer. “I’d truly appreciate that. To be honest, I could kind of do with a friendly face.”
“Of course.” Mickey gives me a quick over-the-shoulder smile. “There.” He stands up, stepping back to admire his handiwork. “It might not be pretty,” he says, “but it’s functional. Just remember to slide the panel across if Roman and Darya come to visit, to hide all the electronics.”
“Thank you.” I hug him. “I mean it, Mickey. You’ve been a real friend. Doing this, coming to my performance—I owe you one.”
He grins. “I’m going to hold you to that, sibling. You know that thing about dating your friends—”
“Anything except my friends,” I say, shaking a finger at him. “You leave them alone, Mickey Stevanovsky.”
I wait for a rejoinder, but Mickey, for once, doesn’t snap back, just busies himself with his tools.
I send a message to Alexei via the secure line as soon as I’m properly alone.
It rings before I’ve tucked my legs beneath me in my chair.
Heart thudding, I hit the button to answer, and suddenly he’s there.
“Angel.” Impossibly tanned, white shirt open to reveal just enough hard chest to make me bite my lip, and grinning his pirate smile, Alexei leans into the screen. “At last. I was starting to think I’d have to put a gun to your brother’s head.”
It would be funny if I didn’t know that he’s entirely capable of doing it.
“Where are you?”
“Oh, you know.” He tilts his head wryly. “Around.”
“Of course.” I grimace. “Sorry. I’m not very good at this.”
“You’re perfect.” His certainty is disconcerting. “I hacked your security cameras, by the way.”
“You did what?” I stare at him, aghast, trying to recall every embarrassing thing I’ve done since I returned.
The pink vibrator.
The black and orange ones, for that matter.
And the shower floor . . .
I bury my face in my hands. “Oh my God.”
“Before you go mentally questioning your every move over the last week,” he says, grinning, “I didn’t hack them so I can spy on you. It’s strictly in case of emergencies. I only mention it because I thought you should know.”
“Oh, well, that’s very good of you.” I don’t attempt to hide my sarcasm. “Not even my father used to install cameras inside my house.”
“Or that’s what he told you, anyway.” Alexei’s grin is super annoying. “Of course he had cameras. He just made sure you couldn’t see them.”
“No.” Color floods my face. “Oh, please tell me that isn’t true.”
“Your father wasn’t watching your cameras, Ofelia, nor were your security guards. That’s not how it works. It’s a monitoring system. No need to bring up the internal cameras unless there’s a security breach.”
“Even if that’s true, which I am not at all convinced it is”—I glare at him—“it’s not fair. I can’t see you anytime I want.”
“I told you, I only check the outside cameras, in case of emergencies.”
I give him a skeptical look. “Are you trying to tell me you haven’t taken even a peek? Ha!” I point at the screen. “You blinked, I saw it. You’ve peeked.” I lean forward in my snuggle chair, well aware of his eyes dropping to my cleavage as I do.
“Fine.” His grin is almost as disturbing as the fact that I’m turned on just by the thought of him watching me.
“Maybe once or twice. Especially in the afternoons, when you sunbake naked on the terrace. What,” he says, laughing as I bury my face in my hands again.
“It’s an outside camera. I’m just checking for security. ”
“You’re terrible.”
“This isn’t news,” he says cheerfully. “You, on the other hand, are absolutely perfect. Especially naked.”
“I’m anything but.” I go on before he can make me more uncomfortable. “I’m performing in three days’ time. At the Alhambra. It’s a solo. They had a gap in the program, and the conductor asked Dittorio if he could recommend someone. He suggested me.”
“That’s amazing.” Alexei’s unadulterated enthusiasm makes me smile. “You’ll crush it.”
I look at him curiously. “You seem . . . happy.”