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“Shouldn’t you work?” I ask after half an hour.
“You’re trying to get rid of me, huh?” he says with a glimmer in his eye.
A shy smile spreads across my lips. “Not really. I like having you here.” This small reprieve at the piano, working on something unrelated to the audition, seems to do us both good.
“Maybe I should have brought my baton,” he suggests, his eyes darkening with latent sadism.
My cheeks heat as I look into the keys. “Maybe you should.”
Grigory retrieves his baton from his bag, and half an hour later, red welts decorate my right arm.
***
When we finally leave the opera house in the late afternoon, Grigory asks his driver to take us to his place.
A fluttery sort of excitement takes residence in my stomach as we drive through Tiergarten, toward the fancy neighborhood, Charlottenburg, where Grigory lives. I’ve been wanting to see his place for quite a while, wondering why he never brings me there. It seems strange to spend our days at Markus’s place, sleeping together on the couch, when Grigory lives just on the other side of the city.
But disappointment slams into me when we drive down a side street to Kufürstendamm—one of Berlin’s most famous and upscale streets—and stop in front of a well-kept, white, old building with six stories and beautiful ornamentation.
“Wait here,” Grigory says, opening the car door. “I just need to grab some fresh clothes.”
I stare wistfully after him as he disappears into the building. Then I lean closer to the window and let my gaze roam up, up, up to the balcony with wrought iron rail on the top floor. That’s probably Grigory’s apartment up there, high above the street, towering above the common people.
A heavy feeling weighs down on my heart. I want to be up there with him. I want to mean enough for him to want me there.
But I don’t. For some reason, I get to wait down here in the street like I mean nothing to him.
It doesn’t make sense. He keeps acting like he wants me, telling me he likes having me in his office, and almost kissing me. Holding me close like he can’t bear to be without me.
So why won’t he ever complete the kiss? Why won’t he bring me up there with him?
I need to know. So when he returns to the car, I blurt the words, “Why don’t we ever stay at your place?”
He halts as he’s about to pull me into him, grabbing my shoulders to look directly at me instead.
“Clara, I’m not ready.”
Stricken by his honesty, I stare at him, wanting, but not daring, to ask the paramount question.Will you ever be?
— CHAPTER 32 —
CLARA
On the day of the audition, I’m a nervous wreck. Since I don’t need to be at the conservatory until early afternoon, I have several hours to kill.
Grigory has made his conductor’s assistant handle today’s rehearsal so he can be here with me. I told him it wasn’t necessary, of course, but I think it actually is. It seems he’s the only reason I don’t crumble under the pressure and back out.
I’m pacing the apartment, unable to concentrate on anything but the trepidation rattling in my body. I badly want to go sit at the piano and let the music pull me in, but Grigory has told me not to play today, saying it tends to do more harm than good to practice before a big performance.
He’s probably right. Because as much as I want to play, the thought of touching the keys has my nerves ramping up to the point where I’m shuddering.
“Come here,” Grigory says, placing a hand on my waist, urging me into his arms.
I sink into him, soaking up his warmth and letting his strength dull the nervous jitter pulsing in my body. But the relief is brief. Within minutes, the restlessness creeps back in, making me draw back to recommence the pacing.
As the minutes tick by and the audition closes in, the unease builds to a stormy sea of crashing waves in my stomach. At one point, it gets so bad I have to rush to the bathroom and hunch over the toilet.
Quick steps follow close behind, and then warm fingers brush my skin as they gather my hair behind my head.
