The only thing to do was to play it down. Tell them I’d recently met him and it wasn’t a big deal, the press was simply making more of it than they should. Spreading rumors. Who knew, in a week they might even claim we’d gotten engaged? You couldn’t believe everything you read in the tabloids. It probably wouldn’t last long. This would all be over in a heartbeat.
That last part, at least, was the whole truth and nothing but the truth. This would all be over in about two weeks. I had to remember that.
§
“One lump or two?” Ash’s grandmother sat straight as an arrow, literally offering me sugar lumps for my tea in her proper British accent. I felt as if I’d been clubbed over the head and awakened on the set of Downton Abbey. Even her mailed invitation had seemed delivered straight out of the past century, with heavily embossed stationary inviting me to tea with Baroness Kavanaugh of Warwick. A servant stood by the wall in starched white and black, unobtrusive yet ever at the ready.
“One?” It came out as more of a question than I’d intended.
Ash put a reassuring hand on my thigh, only succeeding in making me more agitated. His touch didn’t exactly relax me.
“Anika Ivanov. I do like your name.” The Baroness, Ash’s grandmother, was all politeness as she offered me a small, square cut of a cucumber sandwich.
“Thank you,” I squeaked.
“And how long have you lived in Manhattan, Anika?”
“Oh, no, I live in Brooklyn. But I’ve worked here in Manhattan, at a branch down in SoHo, for most of the past year.”
“That’s where you two met, I believe?” She inclined her head, looking at Ash for confirmation.
“Yes,” he agreed happily, completely at ease. “I ducked in trying to avoid some guys with cameras.” I wondered if Ash was struggling with the duplicity like me, and if he also relished the few moments when he could say something completely honest. But he sat there looking relaxed, as if he were truly enjoying introducing his girlfriend to his grandmother. He couldn’t really be, could he?
At the mention of paparazzi, his grandmother tsked in disapproval. She reminded me so much of the British actress Maggie Smith I almost had to pinch myself.
“So you're a baroness?” I asked, slightly timidly. I wanted to be a good guest, making polite conversation, but I wasn’t at all sure where to find common ground for a nice chat.
“Yes,” she confirmed. “Well, technically a dowager baroness.”
“Oh, quite so.” What was I saying? I never said quite so in all my life. She was going to think I was making fun of her!
“But you mustn’t be put off by all that,” she continued, unfazed. Leaning in with a slightly conspiratorial air, she added, “You know, if you go back far enough, we’re actually Irish.” She said the word “Irish” as if revealing a dark secret, a skeleton in the closet. I nodded, wondering if I should act scandalized but not feeling that way in the least. “And really,” she continued, “I’m sure we all have royalty somewhere in our lineage if we dig far enough back.”
I didn’t know about that. I was pretty sure if you went back in my family history you’d find a long line of peasants descending from a long line of peasants, toiling, starving, drinking. That was the Russian way. I’d heard about it enough from my parents, usually accompanied by a lecture on the importance of hard work.
“At any rate,” the Baroness continued, “no one gives a fig about royals these days. Celebrities are all the rage. Like our Asher here.” She turned her gaze on Ash, or Asher as she called him. So formal. Wait, if she were a baroness, did that mean that he was a baron?
“What do think of the way Asher dresses?” she asked me, surveying him with a critical tilt to her head.
“Oh…” Caught between the truth—fucking sexy as hell—and polite agreement, I said nothing.
“A bit scruffy, isn't it?” she filled in for me.
“I guess it’s sort of his look,” I offered. I loved his faded t-shirts that fit him just so, hugging his biceps and shoulders in soft cotton. The couple of thin, braided leather necklaces he wore that I constantly itched to reach over and play with. The way his jeans fit on his slim hips and perfect ass. Could I ask the serving staff for a spare fan?
“He does have a certain rogue’s quality to him, doesn't he? Fresh in from the hunt.”
“Yes, I guess you could say that.” I could see her commissioning a portrait of her grandson, Ash all in rock-and-roll black yet up on a steed and surrounded by hounds and foxes.
“Well, do try to clean it up a bit for this one,” she admonished Ash. “She’s not your usual strumpet.” I nearly spat out my tea at the word. I didn’t know if I’d ever heard anyone use the word ‘strumpet’ in casual conversation. I might love this woman. “Anika is certainly worth your putting forth some effort.” Yes, I did love this woman.
“I'll do my best, Gram.” Ash took the advice like a champ, smiling at his Gram with affection. A whole other side to Ash, doting grandson. He kept getting better and better the more I got to know him. That wasn’t good.
“I'm sure you will, my boy.” She smiled back at him warmly.
Conversation flowed forth, much more easily than I ever would have imagined. Witty, polite, refined, we enjoyed our time in her bright, sunlit morning room, a servant ensuring all provisions remained fully stocked. I’d been in a lot of wealthy Upper East Side homes teaching piano, but a morning room? How many rooms could an apartment in Manhattan have? With a breathtaking view of the city skyline, too.
If Ash felt at home with all of this, what would he think of my family? I didn’t really need to worry about it, of course. He would never meet them. But I couldn’t help compare the Dowager Baroness Kavanaugh in her pearls and coiffed hair up in a bun, with my mother, always fussing, muttering and superstitious, throwing salt over her shoulder and usually forgetting to take off her apron. My Aunt Irina lived with us, too. She’d never married, just come over from Russia to join us, and all day long the two of them bickered and chatted and laughed and bickered nonstop. With a giant bosom and a penchant for tea cakes, Aunt Irina hadn’t seen her waist since about 1986.
The Baroness looked trim and sparkling in a cream silk blouse and wool scarlet pants, suede shoes the exact same color. But she wasn’t cold or mean, she was welcoming and kind.
“I must say, Asher,” she declared, setting down her tea cup on a saucer. “I’m absolutely thrilled to see you with a musician.” I enjoyed the praise, but I had to admit, it made me think about the fact that he’d dated music
ians before. Maybe his grandmother didn’t know that he’d dated Mandy Monroe?
“A legitimate musician,” she added, as if responding to my unspoken thoughts. “With classical training. It’s about time you paired up with someone who can push you a bit. Keep you on your toes, instead of simply adulating at your feet.”
She invited me to attend an upcoming concert with her, a private benefit featuring one of the most famous and renowned pianists in the world. No big deal, a typical Thursday night for her. I wanted to leap at the chance, but realized late January was outside of our time frame. Ash and I would already be off on our separate ways, back into our real lives.
In two short weeks, I’d be ripping out her grandson’s heart in some sort of widely-publicized venue. Hopefully her aversion to all the social media hype would mean she’d never see it. I didn’t like the thought of losing her good opinion. She seemed so genuinely pleased with me, with us.
Professional distance, I reminded myself. I kept a polite smile on my face. And I tried not to show how much it meant to me when the baroness declared, “Asher, this one’s a keeper.”
But I’m not sure I was able to keep all of my reaction under wraps when Ash looked at me, serious and satisfied, and said, “I agree.”
§
On Christmas Eve, I slept at my parents’ house. My room hadn’t changed at all. Posters of movies I’d liked when I was 15 still hung on the wall. My bookshelves still displayed the collected series of the books I’d loved, from Anne of Green Gables to Twilight to the Hunger Games. I even had a small poster of Ash Black. It was from their very first album seven years ago, back when I’d still bought CDs. Inside, when you unfolded the label you got a photo of Ash. Technically, it was the whole band, The Blacklist, but Ash was out in front, those sultry eyes, that famous pout, arrogant as hell, daring you not to find him sexy. I found him sexy. I think he’d taken my 17-year-old-world and revved it up into hyper-speed, giving me a whole new kind of man to fantasize about. The kind you didn’t want to take home to meet mom and dad.