Then - who is the tall man again?’
‘Guy Parker.’
‘Ah, the CIA,’ said Petrov, with a smile.
Colonel Zhuk spoke hesitantly. ‘We don’t know that, Comrade. We only know he is the one assisting Mrs Bradford, in writing her book.’
‘CIA,’ muttered Petrov, chewing the cold cigar in his mouth.
Vera’s total attention was directed to the television screen. She watched Nora Judson and Guy Parker come down the portable steps before which a red carpet was being unrolled.
She had seen numerous photographs of them many times. Now, fleshed out, three-dimensional in person, they seemed more formidable.
‘And there she is!’ Petrov exclaimed, sitting up straight. ‘See her? Billie Bradford. The First Lady.’
Vera’s eyes almost bore through the screen, following the First Lady’s graceful descent down the stairs. She was tall, statuesque, yet fluid. There was a sheen to her flaxen hair, captured in a neat chignon. The contours of her lovely face were perfect. White earrings matched the white rims of her oversized sunglasses. A patterned chiffon dress was moulded to her sinuous body by a slight breeze.
Vera’s smooth brow contracted as she stared at the woman she had come to know better than herself. Momentarily, Vera’s poise cracked. Billie Bradford was breathtaking. She was world famous. She was real. She was unique, one of a kind. There could never be another like her. No one on earth would believe there could be another. Vera felt the constriction in her throat. For the first time in almost three years, she suffered qualms and stage fright.
‘She’s too beautiful,’ Vera gasped.
Petrov had transferred his gaze from Billie Bradford on the screen to Vera Vavilova beside him. He studied her.
‘Too beautiful?’ he repeated, covering Vera’s delicate hand with his own hairy hand. ‘No more than you are, my dear.’
Vera’s eyes were on the screen. ‘Do I actually look like that?’ she said with wonder.
Petrov pointed past her. ‘There is the mirror.’
Vera’s eyes followed his finger toward the wall mirror. She surveyed her reflection in the glass. To herself, in these moments, she was still she. Not Billie Bradford. Simply the actress she had always known, Vera Vavilova from Kiev. She swung her head back to the screen. Billie Bradford was accepting a bouquet of red gladioli from a child.
The American ambassador to the Soviet Union, Otis Youngdahl, the wealthy well-dressed towering man, was advancing on the red carpet to greet the President’s wife with a kiss on the cheek. He had Billie by the arm now and
brought her forward to the Soviet group. He was introducing her to the Premier’s wife, Ludmila Kirechenko. The two famous women were shaking hands, as Alex Razin materialized between them. Ludmila was speaking at length to Billie, and Alex was interpreting the Russian into English for the American President’s wife.
Presently, Alex guided Billie Bradford to the circle of Russian dignitaries. He was translating the greetings and remarks of the Russians into English for the President’s wife, and her responses from English into Russian. Alex Razin’s hand was on Billie Bradford’s forearm as he moved her around the circle, bending his head toward her ear as he continued to interpret.
Following them on the screen, Vera Vavilova felt a pang of jealousy. Her loved one was with the most beautiful and exciting woman in the world. He was close to her now, and would be even closer to her in the weeks ahead. He might confuse Billie with Vera herself - or worse, prefer Billie to Vera herself.
Vera turned back toward the mirror for one more glimpse of her own face, and realized that all she had been fancying was ridiculous. If Billie was the most beautiful and exciting woman in the world, then so was she. Alex was seeing only a reproduction of his Vera. She turned from the mirror, reassured.
More relaxed, Vera devoted herself to the television screen. Billie had been led by Alex to a
‘Guy Parker.’
‘Ah, the CIA,’ said Petrov, with a smile.
Colonel Zhuk spoke hesitantly. ‘We don’t know that, Comrade. We only know he is the one assisting Mrs Bradford, in writing her book.’
‘CIA,’ muttered Petrov, chewing the cold cigar in his mouth.
Vera’s total attention was directed to the television screen. She watched Nora Judson and Guy Parker come down the portable steps before which a red carpet was being unrolled.
She had seen numerous photographs of them many times. Now, fleshed out, three-dimensional in person, they seemed more formidable.
‘And there she is!’ Petrov exclaimed, sitting up straight. ‘See her? Billie Bradford. The First Lady.’
Vera’s eyes almost bore through the screen, following the First Lady’s graceful descent down the stairs. She was tall, statuesque, yet fluid. There was a sheen to her flaxen hair, captured in a neat chignon. The contours of her lovely face were perfect. White earrings matched the white rims of her oversized sunglasses. A patterned chiffon dress was moulded to her sinuous body by a slight breeze.
Vera’s smooth brow contracted as she stared at the woman she had come to know better than herself. Momentarily, Vera’s poise cracked. Billie Bradford was breathtaking. She was world famous. She was real. She was unique, one of a kind. There could never be another like her. No one on earth would believe there could be another. Vera felt the constriction in her throat. For the first time in almost three years, she suffered qualms and stage fright.
‘She’s too beautiful,’ Vera gasped.
Petrov had transferred his gaze from Billie Bradford on the screen to Vera Vavilova beside him. He studied her.
‘Too beautiful?’ he repeated, covering Vera’s delicate hand with his own hairy hand. ‘No more than you are, my dear.’
Vera’s eyes were on the screen. ‘Do I actually look like that?’ she said with wonder.
Petrov pointed past her. ‘There is the mirror.’
Vera’s eyes followed his finger toward the wall mirror. She surveyed her reflection in the glass. To herself, in these moments, she was still she. Not Billie Bradford. Simply the actress she had always known, Vera Vavilova from Kiev. She swung her head back to the screen. Billie Bradford was accepting a bouquet of red gladioli from a child.
The American ambassador to the Soviet Union, Otis Youngdahl, the wealthy well-dressed towering man, was advancing on the red carpet to greet the President’s wife with a kiss on the cheek. He had Billie by the arm now and
brought her forward to the Soviet group. He was introducing her to the Premier’s wife, Ludmila Kirechenko. The two famous women were shaking hands, as Alex Razin materialized between them. Ludmila was speaking at length to Billie, and Alex was interpreting the Russian into English for the American President’s wife.
Presently, Alex guided Billie Bradford to the circle of Russian dignitaries. He was translating the greetings and remarks of the Russians into English for the President’s wife, and her responses from English into Russian. Alex Razin’s hand was on Billie Bradford’s forearm as he moved her around the circle, bending his head toward her ear as he continued to interpret.
Following them on the screen, Vera Vavilova felt a pang of jealousy. Her loved one was with the most beautiful and exciting woman in the world. He was close to her now, and would be even closer to her in the weeks ahead. He might confuse Billie with Vera herself - or worse, prefer Billie to Vera herself.
Vera turned back toward the mirror for one more glimpse of her own face, and realized that all she had been fancying was ridiculous. If Billie was the most beautiful and exciting woman in the world, then so was she. Alex was seeing only a reproduction of his Vera. She turned from the mirror, reassured.
More relaxed, Vera devoted herself to the television screen. Billie had been led by Alex to a
Similar Books
