At the Drop of a Hat (14 page)

“Come on,” Viv said with a glance at the clock on the wall. “We're going to be late.”

“You'll stay until Fee gets out of class?” Viv asked. “She should be here in fifteen minutes.”

“No worries,” Andre said. “I bet I sell a ton of hats.”

Viv and I gave him little finger waves as we dashed out the door and down Portobello Road.

The rain had lifted and today the sky was blue with big, rolling puffs of white. I inhaled a deep sweet-smelling lungful of air. A few of the trees looked ready to change color and there was a bite in the air that promised fall was on its way and there would be no going back to summer.

I didn't mind. Maybe because my hair matches the temperamental months of autumn, I have always felt a kinship with the season and therefore it's my favorite. I loved the riot of color, the shorter days, and spending time reading by the fire with a hot cup of tea.

“Which of us should do the talking?” Viv asked. “I mean, I can talk about the hat and modeling, but I'm not sure I can segue into discussing Russo as skillfully as you can.”

“I'll handle that part,” I said. I had been mulling it over and knew much of it would depend on how we were received by Mariska. I'd dealt with a lot of diva types in the hotel industry so I felt like I was in good shape to take on a past-her-prime Russian model.

We caught the train at Notting Hill Gate and took the District Line back to the Kensington area. According to the directions on Viv's smartphone, Mariska lived in a posh apartment in the Kensington Chelsea area. Walking through her neighborhood, I was suddenly grateful that Andre had told me to change from my frumpy outfit.

“Here it is,” Viv said. She stopped in front of a creamy white five-story building that towered over us. “I wonder which one is hers.”

A scream rent the air and we snapped our heads up in the direction of the sound. A third-floor window was thrust open and more shouting commenced, punctuated by a waterfall of clothes that came raining out the window to splat on the ground at our feet.

“Wild guess,” I said. “That one.”

A woman's voice, yelling in what sounded similar to what I had studied in my one semester of college Russian, drowned out the noises of the street around us.

“Come on,” I said. I had a feeling whoever she was yelling at was going to be chasing their clothing out the door, and if we stood nearby, we could slip right in without having to ring the buzzer.

Viv and I hustled up the walkway to the shallow steps. Sure enough, a man wearing just a towel, and looking unshaven in an artistic rather than a homeless way, burst through the front door. I grabbed it before it could swing shut. He glared at me but kept on going, muttering to himself and waving his hand, which clutched the remainder of a cigarette, emphasizing his words like a symphony conductor's baton.

Viv followed me inside and I looked at the mailboxes on the right. Sure enough, 3B had the label
M. Kravchuk
on it. I glanced up at the stairs.

“You don't think she's going to roll any furniture down on us, do you?” I asked.

Viv glanced back out the front door. “No, I think it was just his clothes, which he is trying to put on. I expect he'll be leaving once he's dressed.”

“Excellent. I don't want to be taken out by an armchair.”

I led the way up the stairs, which wound up in a square. I was winded on the second level. Don't judge. Being a shop owner doesn't leave me as much time to exercise as I'd like. I took comfort in the fact that Viv was as winded as I was. They were very steep stairs.

We were halfway to the third floor, leaning against the wall and gasping, when Viv asked me, “What did Harrison say about our visiting Mariska?”

“Huh?” I asked. “I thought you told him.”

“Me? Why would I tell him? You're the one with the special relationship with him.”

“It's not special,” I protested. “We're just friends.”

“Oh, please, I see the way you two look at each other,” Viv said. “There is definitely something there.”

“Well, obviously, I'm aware of him,” I said. “But you know I'm not dating anyone until I've been single for one year. So there is nothing special there. Besides, if anyone should have told him, it's you because you're such old friends. If anyone has a special bond, it's you two.”

I wondered if Viv heard the note of jealousy in my voice. Then I wondered if I was jealous of Viv for having something special with Harrison or jealous of Harrison for being closer to my cousin than I was.

“What a lot of tosh,” she said. “Harrison and I do not have a special bond. We've just known each other for a long time and he was very supportive right after Mim died.”

“Did the two of you ever . . .” I knew the answer was no but sometimes a girl just likes to hear it anyway.

“Surely you are joking,” Viv said. “Do we really seem like we've ever been a thing?”

Viv was as scatterbrained an artist as I'd ever met and Harrison was a buttoned-down businessman so, no, I couldn't really see it between them.

“No, but you do have a closeness,” I said.

Viv gave me a look of understanding. “You have a lock on Harrison's affections. You don't need to worry about him and certainly not with me.”

“Maybe not, but he knows you better than I do,” I said. “I get the feeling that you tell Harrison things that you don't tell me.”

So it was that I was jealous that Harrison was closer to Viv than I was, I realized with a blast of ill-timed self-awareness.

“No, I don't,” she said. She was blustering. Whenever Viv blustered, she was fibbing.

“He does know more about you than I do,” I accused. “It's so obvious in the way you two communicate without saying anything.”

“Now you're just being absurd.” Viv panted. We were on the last set of stairs and still climbing.

“Then tell me what is going on with you,” I demanded. “Are you secretly seeing someone? Is that why you seem to have no interest in dating? I mean, Alistair practically drooled on your shoes and you didn't even bat an eyelash.”

“Bloody Nora!” Viv cried. She stopped as we reached the third-floor landing and glared at me. “Do we have to do this now?”

I crossed my arms over my chest. “It's as good a time as any since we're both going to be in hot water when Harrison finds out about this, much like he knows everything else apparently.”

“Oh, no you don't. Do not try to manipulate me with guilt,” she said.

“Oh, my God,” I cried as a horrible thought smacked me right upside the head. “You're involved with a married man, aren't you? That's why you don't talk about him.”

Viv threw up her hands, which made the hatbox dangle precariously over the railing. “You have lost your mind!”

“She is not only one,” a thickly accented voice spoke from the door to our right. The woman standing there glanced at the hats on our heads. “You are Vivian and Scarlett, the hatmakers.”

Interrupted in mid-tiff by one of the most stunning women I had ever seen, I was rendered speechless, a rare event, to say the least. Given that the woman was wearing nothing but a see-through chemise and high heels, not only was I vocally impaired but I didn't really know where to look either.

Viv runs a pretty tight emotional ship so it wasn't surprising that she didn't react at all to the half-naked woman before us, but I noted that her gaze was on the door frame over the woman's head and she seemed incapable of conversing as well.

Finally, I nodded and Mariska gave us a small amused smile.

“Won't you come in?” she asked, and without waiting for our answer, she turned and strode into her apartment.

“Well, this looks promising,” I said to Viv.

She glowered and strode past me into the lavishly decorated apartment.

A mishmash of animal print upholstery on ornately carved, gilded furniture was the first thing that registered, followed closely by the realization that the walls and plush carpet were purple. It was sort of like walking into Barbie's house of horrors. My eyes started to water and I recommitted to getting my pink bedroom back at our flat painted posthaste. I did not want anyone to react to my room like I was reacting to this, as in I felt a bit queasy, which could have been the climb up the stairs, and cross-eyed, which was definitely because of the décor.

A man's shout sounded from outside. Mariska dashed over to the open window. A shouting match ensued between her and the man below, presumably the one who'd gone out in just a towel. Viv and I stood awkwardly in the sitting area.

I was about to offer to come back another time, when Mariska turned away from the window and stormed into another room. She came back carrying a lone boot. It looked to be very expensive, a black suede ankle boot with a patent leather toe. Yeah, and she tossed it right out the window.

There was a yelp from outside so her aim had been true. She gave a vicious laugh that was definitely not the laughing with you so much as the laughing at you sort and then she slammed the window shut while the man was still shouting.

“How you say in English?” she asked us. Then she said, “He is asshat!”

“That works,” I said.

She strode out of the room again. This time she returned with a purple robe over her sheer gown. She tied the belt and gestured for us to sit down on the zebra-striped love seat. She took the leopard armchair across the glass table from us.

“Jean!” she cried.

A woman in a black housekeeper's uniform came through a door at the far end of the room. Before the door swung shut behind her, I could see that it was a kitchen.

“Yes, Miss?” she asked.

“Tea, please, for me and my guests,” Mariska said.

“Yes, Miss,” Jean said and disappeared.

“Please excuse.” Mariska paused as if searching for the right words. “My lover and I had strong difference of opinion.”

It took every bit of self-control for me to keep my eyebrows from rising up on my forehead. Seriously? If that was a difference of opinion, what did an actual argument look like and were weapons involved?

“We understand,” I said. Viv's face remained serene and I suspected she was working to play it as cool as I was.

Now that we were all seated, and the drama appeared to be over, and Mariska was dressed, somewhat, I took a moment to study her. She had a thick mane of chestnut-brown hair that stopped at the middle of her back, her figure was amazing with long legs and lush curves, and her face was beautifully sculpted with a square jaw, full lips, a tiny nose and large eyes framed by thick lashes and arching brows. If ever there was a woman to give a girl low self-esteem, Mariska was it.

When I looked more closely, however, I could see that the corners of the eyes had the beginnings of crow's-feet and that her jawline had the tiniest bit of droop to it. Her looks were beginning to fade. Modeling was not going to be an option for her much longer even if she got the mandatory nips and tucks. There were too many young, beautiful women out there who didn't need to be enhanced, and they were going to take over her runways and magazine covers.

What an awful moment that must be for someone who'd spent her life getting by on her looks, to realize that in the end, she was just like everyone else. I imagined the only reason Mariska was willing to meet with us was because Viv's reputation as a milliner was up there with the big names, and because the tide was turning and she was desperate for work.

I noted that the enormous pictures on the walls were all of Mariska and her fashion magazine covers. This was a good indicator that the best way to get to her was through her own vanity. No, I was not above it.

“We are so very honored to meet you,” I said. I put both of my hands over my heart and bent forward a little in obeisance.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Viv move. Thankfully she was facing me and not Mariska because her appalled look was hard to misinterpret even to the most self-deluded.

“My cousin has brought you a little something as a token of our appreciation,” I said. “We know you are very busy being a worldwide celebrity and we so appreciate your time.”

“Give it here,” Mariska said.

She held out her hands like a child in anticipation of a present. Vivian handed over the hatbox and Mariska plopped it onto her lap and ripped off the lid. She plowed through the tissue paper and lifted out the black hat.

“It is not purple,” she said. She twisted her lips as if considering whether this was okay or not.

I saw Viv press a fingertip to her right eyelid and I suspected she was trying to push back an eye twitch. I ignored her.

Mariska rose and strode over to one of the many mirrors in her apartment. I hopped up and followed her. She put the hat on her head and turned her face from side to side to study the effect.

“I don't know,” she said.

“If you'll allow me,” I said.

Used to people dressing her and doing her hair and makeup, Mariska waved her hand for me to go ahead. I knew Viv's designs almost as well as she knew them herself, so I was confident I could place the hat on Mariska to its best advantage.

I moved the hat off the center of her head and lowered the blusher so that it draped becomingly across Mariska's face, ending just under her cheekbones, thus the reason it is called a blusher. The long black feathers curved around the back of her head in a wicked arc, and when Mariska turned her head, I saw her smile in approval.

“I like it,” she announced.

She kept it on her head and strode back to where Viv was still seated, but thankfully, no longer holding her finger to her eye.

Jean reappeared with a tray. She set it down on the glass table and I glanced at it in confusion.

“Would you like me to pour, Miss?” Jean asked.

Mariska waved her off. “I will do it.”

Mariska leaned forward over the tray. I exchanged an alarmed look with Viv. This was not tea, at least not any tea that I had ever partaken before.

Mariska took the stopper out of a pear-shaped crystal decanter of clear liquid. She poured a healthy amount into a very thin, heavy-bottomed shot glass.

“What sort of tea is this?” Viv asked.

Mariska gave us a wicked grin. “Russian.”

“Is that . . . um . . . vodka?” I asked.

“Of course,” Mariska said. “I call it tea to be polite.” She made a
bleck
face. “I loathe that weedy-tasting stuff. This is good potato tea.”

She laughed and then handed us each a shot. She raised her glass to us and said, “
Za milyh dam
.”

“
Za milyh dam
,” Viv and I repeated.

To be clear that I wasn't drinking to my own demise, I asked, “What does that mean?”

“To lovely ladies,” Mariska said. Then she downed her shot and laughed.

Viv sipped hers and I did the same. It was icy cold but it still burned my throat and my eyes watered as I tried not to choke.

I glanced at the tray to see if there was anything to help put out the fire. A shallow round bowl sat in another bowl filled with ice. Black globules filled the bowl and I felt a sigh well up inside me. Caviar, naturally.

Mariska took a small plate and scooped the caviar onto it and then added several toast points. She added a delicate mother-of-pearl caviar spoon to each plate. She handed one to Viv and another to me.

I put my shot down on the table and mimicked Mariska as she put a tiny amount of the caviar on a toast point and nibbled at it. The expression on her face was pure bliss.

I'd have eaten a deep-fried cockroach if it would have helped assuage the fire in my throat. I put a dollop of caviar on my toast and bit into it. It was like taking a bite out of the sea. The delicate beads burst in my mouth with just a hint of salt and fish. Delicious. I took another sip of my vodka and felt it warm me from the inside out so I downed the whole shot. Mariska immediately refilled it.

I glanced over at Viv and noted that she was enjoying her “tea” as much as I was and Mariska refilled her glass as well. Maybe it was the vodka, but I was beginning to like the Russian model. She had style.

“Your lover,” I said. “What did he do?”

Mariska licked a fish egg off her thumb. She lifted the blusher of the hat off her face but didn't take the hat off. She made an impatient face.

“He is a man,” she said as if that was explanation enough. Truthfully, it was.

“Toilet seat up?” I guessed.

Mariska looked at me in surprise and then she laughed. “More his zipper down.”

Viv got it before I did and cried, “Cheating bastard!”

“Yes!” Mariska said and then downed another shot of vodka. She smacked the glass on the table and looked at us expectantly. Viv and I downed our shots.

I shivered as the alcohol hit like a punch to the gut. Then I loaded up a toast square with caviar and stuffed it in my mouth. If this was how Russian women dealt with heartbreak, count me in.

“Men are pigs!” Viv declared.

Mariska liked that and she filled Viv's glass again as well as her own. I kept mine in my hand, sensing that this could go very badly if the warm fuzzies I had going on were about to cut loose. I had been known to sing very loudly when I imbibed too much, and I didn't think that would be very professional, now would it?

Viv and Mariska toasted each other again. Viv was weaving on her seat with a silly smile plastered on her face. I had the feeling our window to gather information was rapidly closing.

“Speaking of pigs, how about that Anthony Russo?” I asked.

Mariska lowered her glass as if in slow motion. Her eyes snapped with temper and I felt the first stirrings of uh-oh.

“Why do you say that name to me?” Mariska asked.

I gave a careless shrug, paying more attention to my caviar than her.

“He's been on the news, and a client of ours is in jail for his murder,” I said. “From what I've heard, he was a very bad man.”

Mariska looked directly at me as if trying to take my measure. I gave her what I hoped was a tipsy smile but it felt more like one made out of fear, you know, when you're trying to humor the crazy person so they don't use their mother-of-pearl spoon to scoop out your innards.

“He was a wicked man,” she said. “This I know.”

“How?” I asked.

“He was my lover,” she said. “Before . . .” She gestured to the window so I assumed she meant before the towel guy.

“Oh,” I said as if this were news.

I glanced at Viv. She was being a glutton with the caviar. Etiquette dictates a person should have no more than two full teaspoons. Viv looked like she was about to start licking the bowl. I nudged her with a well-placed elbow to the ribs.

“What happened?” I asked Mariska.

She munched some caviar and then waved her spoon in the air. “Drugs, alcohol, gambling, he owed Bruno O'Malley a small fortune.”

I pretended to know who Bruno O'Malley was when really I had no clue. Instead I filed the name away for later.

“Did he cheat on you, too?” I asked.

“Worse!” she yelled and slammed her glass down on the table. I jumped but she ignored me.

“He was in love with someone else,” she said.

My foggy brain tried to slap itself sober. This could be important. Must get more details.

“Who?” I breathed. I tried to make it sound as if we were girlfriends sharing confidences, but Mariska was a wily one.

“No, no, no,” she said. “That information is valuable.”

“You would sell the person's name to the tabloids?” I asked. “How do you know they'll pay?”

Mariska poured herself another shot. She offered the decanter to both Viv and myself but Viv was reclined on the seat with her head back, looking like she was going to slip down the zebra-striped upholstery into a puddle on the floor and I shook my head, not wanting to end up on the floor beside her.