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  The Signorina, however, did not wilt. After tucking her violin carefully under one arm, she let loose with a string of words that ran together so quickly Nick could only pick out “cacasenno” and the general summing up, “figlio d’una mignotta.” All in all, Nick gathered from these phrases (and the gestures accompanying them) that since she exuded wisdom, Nick could solve her own problems, and, in case there was any doubt, Nick was a son-of-a-bitch. The Signorina exited, but not before Nick threw a hearty “quel coglione di tuo padre” after her, equalizing the parental gender slurs.

  After much pacing, and three false starts, the concertmaster filled in the first violin in the Mozart concerto adequately, but just adequately. Signorina Gabrielle, the violinist from hell, was unmatched for the Mozart. Nick endured the rehearsal but knew she would be eating crow from now until the concert to ensure the guest violinist’s performance.

  Nick slammed back to the hotel, as usual not caring about running into buildings, light poles, benches or people. Anger, she had learned, kept her façade from crumbling. The only alternative she had to anger was a torrent of tears, and there was no place to hide while she had her purge.

  So she stayed angry, swearing at pedestrians in a variety of languages. Dealing with temperamental musicians had given her a wealth of foreign language expletives. Nick didn’t know what she’d done to deserve the Great Violinist Bitch of All Time, but whatever it was must have been a real peach. She comforted herself with a vision of the future wherein she would call Itzhak Perlman, explain her problem, and Itzhak would promise to be on the next plane.

  But it wasn’t the future, it was a dismal present at only the beginning of a too-long concert tour. Nicolas Frost was still up-and-coming in a world that didn’t notice you until you had reached the top. And right now the last thing Nick needed was a violinist with Mystery Illness Number Two. Maybe dressing like a man for five years was beginning to make her think like a man. Somewhere deep down she knew that if a man had complained she’d have consented to a light rehearsal without comment—Gabrielle need only have asked reasonably and Nick would have been reasonable. Instead, Nick’s hackles had been raised by that weak-little-me routine Gabrielle had put on. Her suggestion that Gabrielle try suffering for her art had led to the slanging match, which had surely amused the other performers. Nothing breeds discipline like being called a son-of-a-bitch in front of the entire orchestra. Nick had wanted to retort that she had just as many X chromosomes as the next woman, but it was impossible. Nicola Furst was considered an intriguing new breed of conductor with flashes of genius well-suited to the podium.

  Remembering how lightly her ambition of becoming a conductor had been treated when critics had known she was a woman gave Nick a permanent source of bad temper and inner steel that critics and performers now called temperament. As long as she was unpleasant and imperious, glowering down on most people from her almost six-foot height, no one seemed to suspect that underneath the tie and boxer shorts was the strength and resilience of pure womanhood. Sometimes she forgot, too—until she slid into her pajamas. In the night with herself and her fantasies, she was one hundred percent woman. With concentration she could make herself forget that two hundred percent woman in her bed would be an excellent way to pass the time.

  She threw open her hotel room door and slammed it behind her. Breathing hard, she looked for something to stay angry at. Oscar looked up from the London Times.

  “You have sent orchids,” he said dryly, “with a card saying they are as remarkable as her Mozart. It would be true and I knew you would not vomit.”

  “How did you know the rehearsal—never mind. You’re amazing,” Nick said. All of her tension melted out of her as she thanked her good fortune, once again, that Oscar Smythe had decided that Nick would be the next Bernstein if it killed him—and/or Nicola—in the process. It had been more years ago than Nick liked to remember.

  “I happened to ask after the Signorina’s health in the elevator. I’m glad I don’t speak Italian. She was quite vocal.”

  “Orchids will cost a fortune and she’s not worth it.” Nick threw herself into a chair.

  “But her Mozart is. And think what a feather in your cap if you can handle her temperament.”

  “I thought my cap already had all the feathers you said I’d need,” Nick said testily. “Sometimes I just want to chuck it all in the bin.” She waved a slender hand at the pants she wore.

  “Of course you would, darling,” Oscar said. “But you do hate Light Opera so. You’d have to go back to the violin and when the paparazzi were through with you you’d be performing with a monkey and tin cup as well. And I’d be out of a job,” he added. “What would a has-been like me do without a prize protegé like you for financial support?”

  “You’d find some other sucker with delusions of grandeur to listen to your crazy schemes,” Nick said, but her lips curled upward slightly.

  “Well, if you are going to start blaming everything on me again, I shall ignore you and read my paper. The review of last night is satisfactory considering this cretin has a tin ear.”

  “Anyone who doesn’t say it the way you would is a cretin to you.”

  “I have standards,” Oscar said, his tone and expression indicating that he was not joking.

  Somehow Oscar’s drier than dry wit always cheered Nick up. “You know what I’m going to do?” Nick looked up at Oscar with a grin. “I’m going to find someone in this town to make me a real lemon squash.”

  Oscar exhaled with bored emphasis. “I’ll alert the media,” he said in precise tones.

  “John Gielgud, right? Very good.”

  “Quite,” Oscar said. “And before you go out, comb your hair down again. It’s curling. I shall make an appointment for you with the hotel barber.”

  Nick did as she was told and gelled her hair back. The severity hardened the angles of her face. The style was the signature of what the press labeled a new breed. Of course the media did not even begin to guess just how new a breed Nick really was.

  ***

  Alison looked down at the air mail envelope in disbelief. What had possessed Carolyn to go back to Paris? With all the world to choose from, why Paris, for God’s sake? Why not just roll around in some broken glass and salt if she wanted to suffer?

  Still, it was a letter, and Alison had to smile when she heard Bonnie Raitt’s “Love Letter” start up on the radio. The moment of fantasy was exquisite, but a love letter from Carolyn—not likely.

  Dear Alison:

  The postmark will tell you where I am. So far everything is as I expected and you can just wonder what I mean by that.

  You’ll be vexed to know I spent my second night in Paris at the Symphony. To hear real, live music again! It was sublime. The Mozart was magnifique with a marvelous woman violinist and a young conductor—I’m sure he’ll be famous one day and I’ll get to say I saw him when. Sedate little me jumped to her feet and shouted “Encore!” I know you hate music written before this century, but I do love it. What do I have to do to get you to go with me? I should never have stopped going by myself.

  There were very few activities Alison could imagine more boring than watching identically dressed people sawing on pieces of wood, with, no doubt, interplay so subtle as to render one moment indistinguishable from the next until it was impossible to keep one’s eyes open. Of course it meant she could spend an evening with Carolyn—no, it wasn’t worth it.

  The coincidence here is that the conductor, Nicolas Frost, shared an elevator ride with me and is he ever a rude boor. Very, very superior and nasty to work with I’ll bet. (Isn’t the missing “H” a little pretentious? Probably a stage name. I get to sneer because I didn’t choose my pen name—you did. Carly indeed. Thank God you never call me that.) But he does get results. The reviews this morning were raving. Supposedly he’s a young gun just as Bernstein was thought of in his youth. I almost cried over the Mozart.

  Alison remembered when Carolyn had cried over The Wizard of Oz t
he last time they’d watched movies together. She’d finally gone to hug her because Carolyn wouldn’t stop crying. Eventually, she’d fallen asleep in Alison’s arms. Not trusting herself, Alison had covered her and left. And Carolyn hadn’t invited her over or referred to the incident since.

  Anyway, he is a very good conductor, and he’s really cultivated the tortured artist look, which goes along with the missing H.

  Alison glanced at the photo on the program Carolyn had enclosed. To her surprise, she found Nicolas Frost slightly attractive around the edges. Perhaps it was because he had an androgynous look—long, dark eyelashes, punkish slicked back hair, a long nose. His face could probably be extremely expressive—although Carolyn was right, the thin-lipped pose in the photo was Tortured Artist to the hilt. The biographical notes said he had “burst on the musical scene” during a competition sponsored by many important-sounding organizations and had since set a new standard of daring and intensity, blah, blah, blah. Ain’t that grand, she thought. Carolyn had the model for her next hero, and Carly would fall in love with him while she writes the damn book and she’d have to listen to Carly sing his praises until it was finished.

  Sometimes Alison hated Carly Vincent. She had thought Carly Vincent would draw Carolyn Vincense and Alison McNamara closer—it gaveher the perfect cover for being a continuing part of Carolyn’s life, year after year, without Carolyn suspecting how important she was to Alison. Of course if Carolyn would just be a little suspicious, then Alison might have found a little courage. Unrequited love was the pits, and she had tried several cures—Maureen and Betsy came to mind. But just when she thought she was cured, Carolyn would do something to lure her back, like dressing up for dinner with her and hugging her. Alison’s body felt the imprint.

  To top off the evening I had not one but two eclairs from an all-night bakery—second night in a row, too. Yes, I know white sugar is a slow poison but I don’t really care. Not in Paris. At least they weren’t Twinkies. Something about Paris goes to my head, and since I know that, you may rest assured that my only indulgences will be eclairs. And Champagne.

  I’ll say au revoir now so I can drop this in the box. I’m writing in the hotel drawing room that has Louis XIV desks and dainty chairs for letter writing—how continental I feel. I’m not sure why I’m writing at all, except that I wanted to pick up the phone and tell you all about everything. Au revoir—

  Carolyn

  Alison tucked the letter into the breast pocket of her suit. When she got home she hid it under her socks.

  ***

  Carolyn woke up in a sweat. The clock on the bedside table read three-fifteen a.m. She was feverish but didn’t know what had woken her until a searing pain in her stomach sent her groping for the bathroom. She made it just in time. She tried to pull herself together by brushing her teeth and pretending that throwing up was an accident, and she wasn’t going to do it again. She was wrong.

  Several hours later she had nothing left in her stomach. No matter how often she rinsed out her mouth the taste of eclair cream came back, which didn’t help the nausea. Aliment empoisonnement, she thought. Food poisoning. I’d have been better off with Twinkies, she told herself. They never spoil.

  Still, she couldn’t keep down the clear broth or tea she ordered from room service when they opened in the morning. She woke up a few hours later and managed to ingest the hard bread that had come with the soup. She went to sleep again and woke at noon.

  Determined not to waste a day of her vacation, she showered but found she didn’t have the energy to dress. Her nightshirt was a mess, so she put on a T-shirt and sweatpants, hung the do-not-disturb sign on the door, and crawled back into bed. Okay, a lazy day dozing wasn’t too bad a prospect.

  She was almost asleep when the argument started in the next room. In Italian. She could make out a husky voice with an atrocious accent carrying on about breach of contract. Then a piercing feminine voice let loose with words Carolyn could barely translate—she understood the part about bad parentage and excrement for brains. A third voice, in German, interjected a burning desire to get the whole unintelligible-but-heartfelt-adjective prüfing—trial, ordeal—over with as quickly as possible.

  She groaned and buried her head under the pillow, but she could still hear them. She debated calling the manager but blissful silence fell. She propped herself back up on her pillow and relaxed.

  Then a rhythmic banging began and, then, with a nerve-wrenching skirl of strings, persons unknown launched into a furious onslaught of noise. It was so angry and discordant that Carolyn couldn’t even call it music. It sounded exactly like Carolyn’s stomach felt. She sat upright in rage. Didn’t they have any consideration?

  Wobbling on her feet, Carolyn went over to the adjoining door and opened her side. She listened, and suddenly the music stopped. Then it started at the beginning again. Her head was pounding so she pounded her fist on the door to match the rhythm, then caught herself on the frame as a wave of dizziness washed over her.

  ***

  Nick wrenched open the suite’s adjoining door. First, she was paying for that room so as to have a measure of privacy. Second, whoever was in the room had no business banging on the door. She was not prepared for the T-shirted, sweatpanted, barefooted woman who stumbled into the room.

  “Good lord,” the woman said in English.

  An American. Nick favored the invader with the gaze she reserved for uppity violinists. “What is all that bloody racket?”

  “Racket? Racket?” The woman glared up at Nick with blue eyes that reminded Nick of robin’s eggs. “What the hell do you call what’s going on in here?”

  “Mozart,” Nick said, frowning fiercely. Robin’s eggs? Where in the world had such a sappy, sickening comparison come from? She was losing her sanity. She’d never even seen robin’s eggs.

  “Good lord,” the woman said again. She looked beyond Nick and seemed to realize she had interrupted something. She at least had the grace to go pale and look apologetic. Her eyes were very blue.

  Actually, Nick thought, taking into account the T-shirt that was just a little too tight in the right places—NO, nein, uh-uh, no way, nunca, non, nyet, nada. Stop that right now, she ordered herself. No fantasies, no wondering if you could sneak out into a woman’s arms for a night—oh no, you promised.

  Gathering her usual ill-humor, Nick went on, “That racket is the overture from Mozart’s Magic Racket.” She did not smile. “We’re rehearsing in here.”

  “Well, I’m throwing up in there,” the woman said. “I’d like to do it in peace.”

  Priceless! She should go on the stage. “What do you know, Gabrielle,” Nick said in her halting Italian. “Your Mozart has made someone sick.”

  “Not my Mozart—his,” Gabrielle said, gesturing at the other violinist whom she had insisted needed the extra rehearsal.

  “I’m not going to stand for this,” Kruger snarled, while Oscar threw his hands up. The two performers shot nasty phrases at each other again. Nick forgot the woman in the doorway as she shouted for silence.

  The woman followed her all the way into the room and said a distinctly nasty phrase in German.

  Nick stopped short—more aspersions on her parentage. Her parents, looking down on their daughter from parts unknown—or in her father’s case, looking up—were probably having fits. Kruger and Gabrielle gaped and were then blessedly silent. Oscar stifled a laugh, but Nick saw nothing funny.

  “Fraulein,” Nick said, with feigned patience. She used every inch of her height to tower over the intruder. The top of the woman’s head came precisely to Nick’s shoulder. Now the woman looked familiar—oh, the little-miss-show-off-polished-schoolbook-accent creature from the lift. “Mademoiselle?”

  “Ms. Vincense, if you please,” the woman snapped. Bloody hell, some American virago. The woman took a deep breath, then paled—guilt at interrupting a rehearsal, no doubt. Her next words proved Nick’s theory. “The concert last night was wonderful.”

  Nick
continued to stare at her skeptically. She was beyond idle flattery, and—with more effort than she liked to admit—completely resistant to female charms. “Perhaps then you’ll understand why rehearsing is so important. Tonight is the finale. And perhaps you’ll explain what you’re doing in the hotel room I’m paying for?” Out of the corner of her eye she saw Oscar suddenly start forward, but he stopped. Gabrielle wanted to rehearse, so rehearse they would.

  “Au contraire, I am paying for that room,” the woman said. “And I don’t see why you have to practice next to where I’m trying to sleep.”

  Nick looked pointedly at her watch, then said, by way of the only apology she’d give, “The hotel was not supposed to rent out that room to avoid this problem.”

  The woman started to reply, but Nick saw her gaze focus on the room service cart with the eclairs she’d ordered for Gabrielle, who had then of course refused them. If Nick hadn’t ordered them Gabrielle would have been slighted.

  Nick realized right about then that the woman wasn’t naturally pale. She went from white to green and then ran from the room, slamming her own adjoining door shut. Shortly thereafter Nick could hear the dim sound of retching.

  “Rehearsal is over. Over,” she repeated imperiously. She gritted her teeth. “Gabrielle, you really have no reason for concern. Your performance will be as stunning as your reputation.” Let her take that any way she likes.

  Oscar closed the door, then turned to Nick. “Shall I let the manager know how unhappy we are with their little cock up?”

  “Certainly. I don’t intend to pay one franc for that room for the entire time we’ve been here. Thank goodness we’re leaving in a few days!”

  Nick went into the bathroom and gulped down some headache tablets. She heard Oscar explaining, in his dry fashion, how critical the rehearsal had been, what the interruption had done to the Maestro’s nerves and what the hotel could do to ease the strain. She leaned out of the bathroom and said, “I don’t think the woman in the next room should have to pay for it either. She’s been just as inconvenienced.”