“A techie, as I learned even before the barista finished making my Frappuccino.”
“Which he gallantly paid for.”
“And which made me feel obligated to talk to him. The rest is history.”
“You’re skipping the best part. The part where you gave him my phone number without asking my permission, even though he could have been a serial killer.”
“Which he wasn’t.”
“But I could have been,” Dennis said.
Olivia smiled. “I liked him. Unfortunately, I couldn’t keep him for myself because I was still under Adam’s spell.” The table sobered, and Rachel’s look of concern returned. Olivia assumed an overly bright smile. “Bottom line. I loved being maid of honor at your wedding last year.”
Rachel nodded. “And you sang the most beautiful ‘Voi che sapete’ anyone has ever heard.”
Their food arrived. Rachel was in town auditioning for a role next winter at the LA Opera and they began trading opera gossip—a tenor with too much head voice and a conductor who refused to give Rossini the room to breathe. They talked about the amazing acoustics at Hamburg’s Elbphilarmonie and a new biography of Callas.
Olivia envied the pride Dennis took in his wife’s accomplishments. Rachel’s career always came first, and he arranged his own work around her schedule. Unlike her life with Adam. Only now did Olivia see that Adam had been suffering from depression. He’d had trouble memorizing a new libretto, and his periods of insomnia alternated with nights he’d sleep for twelve or thirteen hours. But instead of getting him to a doctor, she’d broken up with him. And now he was having his revenge.
This is your fault. Choke on it.
Rachel grimaced. “Did you hear that Ricci is singing Carmen in Prague? I hate her.”
Olivia refocused. “‘Hate’ is a strong word.”
“You’ve always been nicer than me.”
Sophia Ricci was, in fact, a lovely person, although Olivia had gone through a brief period of resenting her because she’d once been Adam’s girlfriend. That wasn’t, however, the reason for Rachel’s complaint. Sophia was a lyric soprano, and whenever a lyric took over one of the few leading roles written for a mezzo, it always stirred up resentment. “Maybe she’ll get laryngitis,” Olivia said, and then retreated. “I’m being awful. Sophia’s an amazing talent, and I wish her well.”
“But not super well.” Rachel extracted a cashew from her salad. “Just enough so the critics write something like, ‘Sophia Ricci’s “Habanera,” while competent, can’t compete with the commanding sensuality of Olivia Shore’s exquisite Carmen.’”
Olivia smiled fondly at her generous friend. More than anyone, Olivia understood how much Rachel would love to perform Carmen in a top-tier house like the Muni, but those invitations never came her way.
“I’ve taken over Rachel’s social media,” Dennis said. “Exposure is everything. Look at all the mezzos in pop music—Beyoncé, Adele, Gaga. Those women understand how to use social media.”
A too-familiar face appeared across the patio. Thad spotted Olivia and headed toward their table. As Olivia performed the introductions, she noticed that Rachel had that half-dazed look so many women seemed to adopt whenever Thad Owens came into their view.
“Please.” Rachel gestured toward the empty seat at the table. “We’re almost done eating, but feel free to order something.”
“I just finished lunch.” He looked at Olivia. “A couple of sports reporters.”
Olivia felt a stab of guilt knowing he was working harder than she was.
Dennis and Thad exchanged some surface football talk before the conversation turned back to opera. “Lena Hodiak told me she’s covering for you in Aida,” Rachel said. “You’ll like her. She sang Gertrude in Hansel and Gretel last year in San Diego, and she’s lovely.”
Thad regarded her questioningly.
“That means Lena is her understudy,” Rachel explained. “Covering for Olivia is a thankless job, as Lena’ll discover. Olivia never gets sick.”
Dennis jumped in. “Tell me about this gig you have with Marchand. How did the two of you snag it?”
“I was at least their third choice,” Thad said without a trace of rancor.
“I got a call from my agent last September,” Olivia said. “I had an open spot in my schedule, and the money was great. Also, I thought I’d be traveling with Cooper Graham, the Stars’ former quarterback.”
“Instead, she got lucky,” Thad said.
Olivia smiled and glanced at her watch. “I wish we could talk longer, but we have a photo op coming up, and Thad needs time to make sure his hair is perfect.”
Thad pushed back his chair. “She’s jealous because I photograph better than she does.”
Rachel frowned at him, ready to leap to her friend’s defense, but Olivia shrugged. “Sad, but true.”
Thad laughed. Dennis jumped to his feet and pulled out his cell. “Let me get a couple of photos first for Rachel’s social media. I’ll tag you both.”
Olivia suspected Thad wasn’t any more interested in being tagged than she was, but she adored Dennis’s enthusiasm. How could she not be envious?
*
They opened the door of their suite to the sight of Henri engaged in a heated conversation with an elegant woman who appeared to be around his age, perhaps early forties. She had a sleek European look: an all-black pencil dress with multiple strands of pearls at her neck. Her blunt-cut hair fell from a middle part to just below her jaw. Next to her, a cowed Paisley rapidly blinked her eyes, as if she were trying not to cry, making Olivia suspect this woman wasn’t as inclined to ignore Paisley’s incompetence as Henri. In fairness, while Paisley was spoiled, disorganized, and grossly immature, Olivia had seen the photos on her iPhone, and she had to admit Paisley had a good eye for Thad Owens’s ass.
Henri broke off the conversation as soon as he spotted them. “Mariel, look who has joined us. Olivia, Thad, this is my cousin Mariel.”
Mariel gave them a very French smile—cordial but restrained—and a businesslike handshake. “Mariel Marchand. It’s a pleasure.”
She was more handsome than pretty, with a high forehead, aquiline nose, and small eyes enlarged with bold eye makeup.
“Mariel is our chief financial officer,” he said. “She’s come to check up on us.”
Olivia had done enough research to know that Lucien Marchand, the head of the company, was in his seventies and childless. Mariel and Henri, his niece and nephew, were his only blood relatives, and one of them would take over the family firm. It wasn’t hard to see that Mariel had the advantage over genial Henri.
“I trust my cousin is not making you work too hard,” Mariel replied in an accent less marked than Henri’s.
“Only Thad,” Olivia said honestly. “I have it easier.”
“I heard you at the Opéra Bastille two years ago as Klytaemnestra in Elektra. Incroyable.” She turned her attention to Thad without waiting for Olivia to acknowledge the compliment. “You must explain this game you play to me,” she said.