‘Yes,’ I say, suddenly feeling very dizzy again. The stomach cramps return with a new intensity. I slowly take a seat on a white leather chair, suppressing the pain.
‘As you might be aware from our earlier emails, today is the end of the collective consultation period,’ she says, smiling.
‘What consultation?’ I ask alertly, crossing my arms and legs, and almost bending over trying to ease the cramps.
‘It means that you have been advised that your employment is at risk, and as a natural development, is terminated.’ Her words cut through my stomach-ache, stabbing me right in the heart.
‘You are no longer required to come to the office,’ the short blonde continues. ‘Your emails, data access, cell phone, and building entry pass will be discontinued with immediate effect.’
I instantly look at Alex’s face obscured by the dark stubble beard; I still have the red marks all over my chest and chin, screaming an unspoken question: ‘What the hell is she talking about?’
My eyes are getting wet against my will. My body temperature rises and my arteries are pulsating … Cold sweat covers my whole body. The warm water from the glass in front of me only makes me sicker.
‘We are offering you a very competitive package as a part of the firm’s policy to thank you for your services,’ the short one says. ‘The compensation package is your three monthly salaries from the notice period. We will support your visa status for the entire duration of the consultation period.’ Her acidic voice keeps dripping on my sores.
I stare at Alex in disbelief. Why is he not sorting it out? Standing up for me … as he always does … he is the only one who ever did.
It feels surreal, like a bad dream. It can’t be happening.
‘Babe, I am sorry,’ Alex finally says with a croaky voice, shocking both blondes by failing to comply with the rules on “use of language” stipulated in the office code of conduct. ‘I really tried to protect you, but they decided that the business you do is too risky for the bank.’
‘What risk?’ I ask emotionally, suddenly feeling my nipples aching from his pinches.
‘The counter party risk,’ he lisps with a Greek accent, avoiding looking me straight in the eye. ‘Your clients’ source of wealth and the way they manage it is not sustainable.’
‘What are you talking about?’ I ask.
‘Listen, it’s not because you did something wrong,’ he says in a much tougher tone, as if he was telling me off for something. His lips become thin and the corners of his mouth drop. ‘The market has already reached its peak and is on its way down. We are entering some serious mess and the worst is yet to come. Maybe we all will lose our jobs.’ He spreads his arms apart, looking all in a hurry, the way he always does when he needs to end a conversation. If we were talking on the phone, he’d say his battery was about to die, even if he was calling from a landline.
Suddenly, before I realize, shameless tears are uncontrollably filling my eyes, scalding my cheeks. The tears I could never show on the trading floor. I am still trying to resist them, trying to distract myself. Where are the damn tissues?
‘Ms. Kuznetsova, you will find all the necessary information in this packet,’ Louise continues with a two-faced smile. ‘You are not required to return to your desk. Your belongings will be sent to your home address by courier. Someone is waiting for you at the front with your handbag and your jacket.’ She stands up, making it clear the conversation is over. ‘We would like to take this opportunity to say how sorry we are and thank you for all your hard work. We wish you the best of luck in your future endeavors.’ She reaches forward to give me a formal handshake.
Stunned, I stare at Alex with a million questions in my head but the gag reflex forces me out. ‘Good bye,’ I say disconcertedly and, holding my stomach, rush to the loo.
So it was a farewell kiss …
CHAPTER TWO
THE LOSS
There is a comedy show on the television but I am not watching it. It’s been on for hours, days … The phony laughs set my teeth on edge, and yet I can’t switch it off. I can only hide from it.
My shiny ultramarine bathroom, with minimalist décor and large mirrors like in a good hotel, has always been a treat to me, since I never have enough time to indulge in the lavish tub.
I have more than enough time now … but the few inches to the bathtub feel like miles. All I deserve is to lie on the heated ceramic floor, apathetically scrapping the scraggly cuticles off my nails whilst my heart leaps like a wild beast in a cage, unable to change anything.
Anxiously, I scroll through the stupid messages and Facebook posts, trying to find at least one I’m sorry from Alex …
There is a message from an unknown number. Of course, he used his private phone …
‘Hey, it’s Gabi. This is my new number. I was so wasted last night I lost my phone … A custy from Goldman is throwing a party at Kensington palace tonight. You should bring your hot ass;-).’
I feebly turn to the other side. My scalp is not itching but I keep scratching it with my heavy hand … pluck some greasy hairs … tangle them around my fingers … examine and scratch my nails again.
No one should see me like this. Who could ever like me? I’m completely worthless … Even if they don’t say it I know they will point fingers behind my back, ‘loser’.
They will look at me with disgust, and so they should. I am a failure. The shower won’t wash it off.
My stomach growls again. There is nothing left even to throw up. It could almost be stuck to my spine.
The can of caviar I brought for Richard from Moscow is the only food in the fridge … and I am allergic to it.
I cover my ice-cold feet with a used towel from the basket, bow my head further and curve my back deeper into the fetal position … like I am in my mom’s womb … warm … protected … cared for … soothed …
She tears apart my painting. The remains of the happy family are spread out on the floor.
Dad leaves through the blooming garden. Mom cries and curses him … I take a new sheet and do a new painting of my dad … in browns and blues … with yellow hair and a red stroke for the smile … big and strong.
Mom comes and spills out the jars of paint on my painting. The red, brown and blue are globbing over dad’s face … dripping like blood from the sheet. ‘I told you to stop reminding me about that bastard!’ She slaps me. I hate her … everything about her. Her looks, the language she speaks, the food she cooks …
I run away … across the rails and through the cemetery, off to the forest until I’m out of breath.
I slow down, realizing my feet have gotten wet from the damp moss.
Pines, firs, cedars and cypress surround me. I hear the air moving through the branches and leaves. Everything is fresh and smells of the recent rain, with a cuckoo chiming in up the top of the trees.
There is a big, hulkinghill in front of me. I’m tempted to climb it, feeling sure I’ll see a colorful land with happy people at the bottom of it.
I walk towards the hill, but suddenly it moves. I freeze for a moment, not believing my eyes. I’ve probably just gotten spooked. A few more steps towards the hill - but it actually rises up and turns towards me, showing its enormous brown squamous neck and an evil, blazing snout.
The monster attacks with flames, but I manage to escape. The flames haunt me as I run back towards the village, trying to cry for help. There must be someone who can hear me.
I open my mouth, squeeze my larynx but can’t make a single sound. I try again and again … choking and coughing.
With ragged breathing I keep going as fast as I can, up until … I get snared on some brambles tripping my foot. The two hundred dollars I took from my mom’s wallet fall out of my pocket. I want to pick them up but the heat of the dragon’s flame burns my fingers. I quickly get up and realize my legs are bleeding …
I wake up with my heart pounding out of my chest. There is no dragon running after me … no bleeding … By force of habit,
I have an impulse to get up, get dressed and go to work. My heart beats faster, but the next second it stops … there is nowhere to go. No one wants me.
You should not go out murdering people with a hatchet.
There is no bleeding. My breasts are duly swollen and the dull pain in my ovaries is now more intense. Could it be self-inflicted? It’s been a while since I had my period … Alex never wanted me with all that blood: the sticky, smelly hindrance.
My mom never wanted me: ‘What am I supposed to do now with these panties and this skirt you messed up? They cost money, do you understand? Someone has to earn it. Money doesn’t grow on trees.’
‘I am going to die.’ The thought was as clear as the spring morning dew when the first ever drop of blood dripped out of me.
I swiftly stick two fingers inside and pull them out to see a whitish sweet-smelling gruel, but not a hint of blood.
The tasty scent of an aged cheese … good with wine …
Alex! The team drinks at Corney & Barrow’s. He’d spilled red wine on me.
‘Katya, you should watch out.’
‘Sorry, Alex.’
‘That deserves a spank … Want some charlie? Let’s do some in the loo.’
Did he cum inside me that night? He said he had brewer’s droop because … I did not squeeze hard enough.
Alarmed, I wipe my fingers on my legs, fighting the sudden dizziness, and crawl into the corridor. A long beige raincoat hangs invitingly on the hook. I grab a T-shirt and leggings from the gym bag underneath it, quickly put everything on, tie my hair in a tight chignon, spray on some Tom Ford to mask my stench, and rush to the Boots up the Kings Road.
The heavily clouded skies foreshadow rain, and I have to fight my way to the shop against a strong headwind. I discreetly buy a pregnancy test and a meal deal with a pack of sliced apples, which I voraciously devour.
The metallic taste in my mouth bothers me as much as the nasty gray cloud above, which eventually bursts into a hail shower, punishing my face, but I don’t even try to cover it.
Hastily, I go into a surprisingly empty bar, passing through a loud group of people at the entrance having to shout over Rihanna’s ‘Umbrella’.
I grab a napkin from the dark bar with yellow shadow lights behind it to wipe off my face, hiding from the bartender, who seems to have recognized me from the numerous dates I have had in here.
I unassumingly look away, my glance landing on a couple of suited and booted decent-looking men, who are clearly checking me out … I could smile at them … No! They will resent me …
Stealthily, I creep down to the bathroom down the two dark flights of stairs. The cold draft from the outside makes me tremble in my wet raincoat as I open the familiar white wooden door with a butterfly on it.
The narrow dim cabin with the chessboard-style flooring hypnotizes me with its decoration … whilst the Clearblue becomes a clear blue cross.
‘Blyat!’
No one hires a pregnant woman.
I will run out of money … my visa will lapse and they’ll kick me out of the country … I can’t let that happen!
A quick Google search for ‘Chelsea abortion’ shows the nearest venue to be the Kings Road Medical Centre. I dial it straight away and book an urgent appointment in two hours’ time.
Rushing through the puddles, with the cold water slurping into my flats, freezing in the rain, bending my body under its heaviness, I finally find myself home and under the hot shower.
My tummy is already way too big. So fat! There is no way this baby would be healthy … with all the blow I’ve consumed recently … What baby?
I quickly dry my hair and slide into loose skinny jeans … cashmere jumper, lambskin leather jacket, boots.
There is no more rain outside – the air feels almost too stuffy, making me feel dizzy again. It gets worse on the bus to the clinic, which feels more like a Russian sauna, making me perspire under the soft wool, its little knots sticking to my skin and the expensive fragrance urging me to puke.
I barely hold on for the few stops to the Chelsea hospital without fainting, somehow making it across the street into the industrial gray building. The yellow parquet, blue chairs, kids’ drawings and random people wearing all sorts of strange outfits trigger a screaming craving to go back into investment banking.
‘I’m just not ready to have a baby right now,’ I explain to the attentive Indian-looking nurse, who has just scanned my tummy and confirmed my worst nightmare.
‘Would you like to end the pregnancy?’ she asks with a kind smile.
‘Yes please.’
‘For an early term like yours we recommend a non-surgical medical abortion,’ she says.
‘OK,’ I nod, removing the cashmere knots from my sweaty hands.
‘You’ll need to take two doses forty-eight hours apart to induce a miscarriage. Bleeding and pain similar to period pain might follow,’ she says, writing the prescription. ‘Try to rest as much as possible and eat a lot of fresh fruit. If you have any concerns, call the hotline.’ She gives me the yellow slip of paper and calls the next girl in.
The oppressive parquet corridors continue to haunt me as I leave the building to go to the nearest Boots store. I get the pill and swallow it right there and then.
The cramps start as soon as I get off the bus, and by the time I enter my apartment the pain is unbearable.
Cold vodka helps. It doesn’t even burn my throat anymore, and I drink it straight from the bottle.
I slowly walk out of the kitchen, as if hiding from someone in my bright, spacious studio apartment. I draw the curtains, kick off my shoes and lie on the edge of the big bed, trying not to use the chalk-white quilt too much.
There’s a cold breeze circling my bare feet and I’m desperate to sleep. But within a few minutes of closing my eyes, my brain springs open, like a flick-knife, waking me up into insomnia yet again.
To kill by murder is worse than the crime itself. Murder by intent is immeasurably more terrible than murder by brigands. Anyone murdered by brigands, whose throat is cut at night in a wood, or something of that sort, must surely hope to escape till the very last minute. There have been instances when a man has still hoped for escape, running or begging for mercy after his throat was cut. But in the other case all that last hope, which makes dying ten times as easy, is taken away for certain. There is the sentence, and the whole awful torture lies in the fact that there is certainly no escape, and there is no torture in the world more terrible.
My phone vibrates in the background of my oblivion.
‘Babe, it’s Alex. Tell me, where did you book the Libyan deals? I need to link them. Otherwise I have to realize a five million loss … You’re sleeping? … Oh I’m sorry … I’ll call you later.’
CHAPTER THREE
CAVIAR
What time is it?
What day is it today?
Richard. The pancake party. The damn caviar I promised. Have I missed it? I reach for my iPhone and, squinting from the screen light, see that it is Friday, 25th July 2008, 7.12 p.m.
It’s just started. I have to go. The old habit of getting ready in fifteen minutes so I’m not late to work comes in very handy now.
Straining myself to the maximum, I get up and squeeze my bloated stomach into jeans and cover it with a loose silky shirt. At the end of the day, it is just a house party at Richard’s new colleague’s house, with no big shots to impress …
Sitting on the edge of my bed in the shadow of an inclement twilight, I try to apply some makeup with trembling hands … but they just don’t obey me. Eventually, I put down the small portable mirror and all the blushers, sitting in a daze like a heroin addict after getting a fix, except there is no high. There is nothing … just raindrops pelting the window.
I maintain that it is the suffering of being unable to love.
Without switching the lights on, I traipse into the kitchen. I blindly tear off one of the trash bags and shuffle the caviar cans from the fridge into it. My em
pty stomach makes me slouch, but I decide to wait for Richard’s pancakes.
I quickly put on my raincoat and flats and walk down to the cold and misty street.
The black cab instantaneously appears - the beauty of living in Chelsea … for now: ‘Alright, love?’ asks a bald cabby.
‘334 Queenstown Road, please,’ I say, reading the address from the text.
‘Hunky dory, it’s just across the bridge,’ he exclaims, starting to drive. ‘Going to a do?’ he asks with a cockney accent.
‘Yes, to a party,’ I answer.
‘Ya bringing much stuff?’ He points at the trash bag.
‘Oh this … it’s my previous life,’ I smirk.
‘Barmy … looks more like the head of your previous fella,’ he laughs.
‘I’m not sure what you mean,’ I say, getting lost in his English.
‘Just banter, innit, love … here we go, Bob’s your uncle,’ he says, stopping at the entrance to the Queenstown Road station.
‘Can I have a receipt, please?’ I ask automatically, giving him a tenner. Then it hits me that I can no longer expense it to the bank. ‘Actually, not to worry - keep the change,’ I say.
Trying to keep out of the rain, I quickly jump straight under the big roof of the glass and metal entrance. The cold, wet glass door separates me from the warm lobby, but it opens up as soon as I buzz the necessary apartment number.
The sound of music and tipsy voices guides me out of the elevator through a white door into the narrow corridor of a low-ceilinged apartment full of strangers and exotic masks, cheap wine and the smell of frying.
The spacious room is filled with a few small but loud groups of tipsy people around the drinks table, trying to outshout the loud music with their posh English chatter.
Hearing no trace of Richard’s slight French accent, I head to the most logical place for him to be – the kitchen.
‘… And then I put my foot into the strap and sharply turn the sail into the wave. Ooh-la-la, it broke in two parts,’ Richard excitedly narrates, while making the crepes, to a few amazed females in cocktail dresses, packing out a small kitchen. He enthusiastically twists his trained body as if he was on a windsurfing board, with his biceps bulging out of his classic white H&M T-shirt.
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