The White Russian by Vanora Bennett Read Free Book Online Page B

anything, in fact. She was going to talk.
    ‘Dear Constance,’ she said throatily, and I thought she might weep from pleasure. ‘Of course! My God. An
angel.
My benefactor.’
    She looked mistily down at the empty table. The balalaika player too. Why, oh why, I wondered, once the possible cause of these looks dawned on me, hadn’t I asked the barman to send them drinks before approaching? I hadn’t got at all used to having my father’s allowance – a hundred dollars a month! A fortune! – at my disposal.
    But, before I could risk breaking the mood by looking for a waiter, she sighed and went soulfully on: ‘My sponsorrr.A wonderful, generous woman. An arrrtist at hearrrt.
She
appreciates a voice once admired by the Tsar of all the Rrrussias … our Little Father … the Tsar’s Nightingale, they called me once …’ Her voice died away. She dropped my hand and crossed herself; then she resumed, with much more bite and boastfulness: ‘She is having Magnetophon recording made of my voice. For posterity, you understand.’
    My head was spinning. Still half looking for a waiter while wondering what I might ask about her voice recording, I hardly noticed the tapping at my shoulder.
    ‘Dearrr Constance speaks often of you,’ Plevitskaya went on, superbly.
    ‘She does?’ I said eagerly, feeling a shimmering happiness spread through me. Again I disregarded the tapping on my bare upper arm.
    ‘She has told me
so much
…’
    It was Plevitskaya who became aware of the extra presence in our midst first. Her big dark eyes widened as they shifted to somewhere above my left side; her smile became flirtatious again.
    I followed her gaze. There was Winthrop, in his peacock pinks and shimmering greens, brushing hair out of his eyes, laughing back down at her, enjoying the scene but coming to take me away. ‘They’re all ready to go, Evie,’ he murmured, turning to me. ‘We’ve heard there’s a man at a place up the street right now who can tell Bill and me about Spain. He knows the cheapest way to get to Europe – some ship they practically pay you to take passage on – and everything else, too. We want to catch him.’
    I nodded, feeling disappointed that we’d been interrupted, but also obscurely relieved. Of course, I told myself, I hadn’treally believed, not for a moment, that Plevitskaya would have heard stories about me from Grandmother. She’d just been telling me what I wanted to hear. It was best to go now, and keep this moment magical.
    Plevitskaya was looking at Winthrop with frank admiration. Well, he
was
good looking. ‘Young girrrls. Things just
khappen
to them.
Won
derful,’ she purred, almost licking her lips. He grinned back. He liked being admired. And he had nice manners.
    ‘May we’, he said, with perhaps a quicker understanding than mine, ‘leave you with a glass of champagne? We all loved your singing …’
    While they happily cooed and billed, and I got to my feet, he gestured for a waiter.
    ‘Will you’, I asked Plevitskaya as Winthrop, having ordered their drinks, put his arm through mine, ready to go, ‘be singing here again?’ Even if I didn’t believe her, I couldn’t quite bear to just let her go, all the same. Just in case. I might regret it tomorrow.
    I thought there was regret in her eyes too as she shook her head. But the words she replied with were all grandeur: ‘Tonight is the end of my Amerrrican tourrr. But come to Paris. Come, please! I am performing there verrry often.’
    ‘How would I find you?’ I persisted. ‘Before you leave town?’
    Her eyes flickered. ‘Ritz-Carrrlton Khotel,’ she said splendidly, but I could tell right off that she wasn’t really staying there. It was just a boast.
    ‘Well, please,’ I said, feeling deflated, ‘if we don’t meet, give my best to …’
    But what was the point? Winthrop was applying gentle pressure to my arm to get me to start moving towards the door. The others were waiting.
    She inclined her head and eyed