Eight
Katia Kudrov stepped out of her bathtub and wrapped a fluffy white towel around her shoulder-length black hair. Scented candles illuminated her luxurious bathroom in the penthouse of an exclusive apartment block in West Hollywood. The candles helped her relax. And tonight she wanted nothing more than to unwind.
Katia had just finished her first American tour as the principal violinist concertmistress with the Los Angeles Philharmonic. Sixty-five concerts in as many cities in seventy days. The tour had been a tremendous success, but the grueling schedule had left her exhausted. She was looking forward to a well-deserved break.
Music found its way into Katia’s life at a very early age, when she was only four. She remembered vividly sitting on her grandfather’s lap while he tried to rock her to sleep to the sound of Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto in D Major. Instead of falling asleep, she fell in love with the sounds she heard. The next day, her grandfather gave Katia her first violin. But Katia wasn’t a natural, far from it. For years her parents endured the agonizing and ear-piercing noises of her long practice sessions. But she was dedicated, determined and hard-working, and eventually she began playing music that could make the angels smile. After a long spell in Europe, she had come back to LA thirteen months ago after being offered the concertmistress seat with the Los Angeles Philharmonic.
Katia stepped out of the bathroom, paused in front of the full-length mirror in her bedroom, and studied her reflection. Her features were nearly perfect – large brown eyes, a small nose, high cheekbones and full lips that framed a faultless smile. At thirty, she still had the body of a high-school cheerleader. She checked her profile, sucking her stomach in for several seconds before deciding that she’d gained a small potbelly. Probably from all the junk food she ate at the many cocktail parties she’d had to attend during the tour. Katia shook her head in disapproval.
‘Back on the diet and in the gym from tomorrow,’ she whispered to herself, reaching for her pink bathrobe.
The cordless phone on her bedside table rang and she looked at it dubiously. Not many people had her home number.
‘Hello,’ she finally answered after the fifth ring, and could swear she heard a second click on the line, as if someone had picked up the extension in her study, living room or kitchen.
‘How’s my favorite superstar?’
Katia smiled. ‘Hi Dad.’
‘Hi there, baby. So how was the tour?’
‘Fantastic, but extremely exhausting.’
‘I bet. I read the reviews. Everyone loves you.’
Katia smiled. ‘I’m so looking forward to two weeks of no rehearsals, no concerts, and certainly no parties.’ She made her way out of her bedroom and onto the mezzanine that overlooked her spacious living room.
‘But you have some time for your old man, right?’
‘I always have time for you when I’m not touring, Dad. You’re the one who’s always so busy, remember?’ she challenged.
He chuckled. ‘OK, OK, don’t rub it in. I’ll tell you what. I can tell you’re tired by your voice, how about you have an early night and we catch up over lunch tomorrow?’
Katia hesitated. ‘What are we talking about here, Dad? One of your quick “I gotta go, let’s grab a sandwich” deals, or a proper sit-down, three-course, no-cells-allowed lunch?’
Leonid Kudrov was one of the most famous film producers in the USA. His lunch engagements usually never lasted more than thirty minutes, which Katia knew well.
There was a small pause and this time Katia was sure she heard a click on the line. ‘Dad, are you still there?’
‘I’m here, baby. And I’ll take option number two, please.’
‘I mean it, Dad. If we’re having a proper lunch, there’ll be no phone calls, and you’re not rushing away after half an hour.’
‘No cells, I promise. I’ll clear my afternoon schedule. And you can pick the restaurant.’
Katia’s smile was more animated this time. ‘OK. How about we meet at Mastro’s Steak House in Beverly Hills at one o’clock?’
‘Great choice,’ her father agreed. ‘I’ll make the reservation.’
‘And you won’t be late, will you, Dad?’
‘Of course not, honey. You’re my superstar, remember? Look, I gotta go. An important call just came in.’
Katia shook her head. ‘What a surprise.’
‘Have a good sleep, darling. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘See you tomorrow, Dad.’ She rang off and placed the receiver in her bathrobe pocket.
Taking the stairs down to the living room, Katia made her way into the kitchen. She felt like having a glass of wine, something to relax her even more. She selected a bottle of Sancerre from the fridge. As she fumbled inside one of the worktop drawers for the corkscrew, the phone in her pocket rang again.
‘Hello?’
‘How’s my favorite superstar?’
Katia frowned.
Nine
‘Oh please, tell me you’re not cancelling on me already, Dad?’ Katia wasn’t impressed.
‘Dad?’
Katia suddenly realized that the voice at the other end of the line wasn’t her father’s. ‘Who is this?’
‘Not your daddy.’
‘Phillip, is that you?’
Phillip Stein was the new conductor for the Los Angeles Philharmonic, and Katia’s latest affair. They’d been seeing each other for four months, but three days before the end of the tour they’d gotten into a heated argument. Phillip had fallen head over heels for Katia, and wanted her to move in with him. Katia liked Phillip and she had enjoyed their affair, but certainly not with the same intensity as he did. She wasn’t ready for that type of commitment, not now. She had hinted at the idea that maybe they should take a few days off from seeing each other – just to see how things panned out. Phillip hadn’t taken the suggestion well, throwing a tantrum and conducting the worst concerto of his career that night. They hadn’t spoken since.
‘Phillip? Who’s Phillip? Is that your boyfriend?’ the voice asked.
Katia shivered.
‘Who is this?’ she asked again, firmer this time.
Silence.
An uncomfortable sensation made the hairs on the back of Katia’s neck stand on end. ‘Look, I think you dialed the wrong number.’
‘I don’t think so.’ The man chuckled. ‘I’ve been dialing this number every day for the past two months.’
Katia breathed out, relieved. ‘See, now I’m sure you’ve got the wrong number. I’ve been away for a little while. I actually just got back.’
There was a pause.
‘It’s no big deal, it happens,’ Katia said kindly. ‘Look, I’m gonna put the phone down so you can redial.’
‘Don’t put the phone down,’ the man said calmly. ‘I haven’t dialed the wrong number. Have you checked your answering machine yet, Katia?’
The only phone in Katia’s apartment with an answering machine was the one at the far end of the worktop in the kitchen. She covered the mouthpiece with her hand and quickly made her way towards it. She hadn’t noticed the blinking red light until then. Sixty messages.
Katia gasped. ‘Who are you? How did you get this number?’
Another chuckle. ‘I’m . . .’ there was a click on the line again, ‘. . . a fan, I guess.’
‘A fan?’
‘A fan with resources. The kind of resources that make information very easy to come by.’
‘Information?’
‘I know you are a fantastic musician. You love your Lorenzo Guadagnini violin more than anything in this world. You live in a penthouse apartment in West Hollywood. You’re allergic to peanuts. Your favorite composer is Tchaikovsky and you love driving that torch red, convertible Mustang of yours.’ He paused. ‘And you’re having lunch with your father tomorrow at one o’clock at Mastro’s Steak House in Beverly Hills. Your favorite color is pink, just like the bathrobe you’re wearing now, and you were just about to open a bottle of white wine.’