‘It cost him six hundred euros to repair the sail,’ I say, squeezing through.
‘Katya!’ Richard exclaims, dropping the spoon into the smooth batter. ‘I thought you weren’t coming. Are you OK?’ He air-kisses me on both cheeks, brushing his perfectly-shaved face against mine, and I catch a glance of disapproval from an insipid blonde with an indecent cleavage.
‘I promised I’d bring caviar.’ I look into his distinct blue eyes right at my eye level, emphasized by thick black eyebrows and short dark hair, like a young Alec Baldwin but much shorter … and bigger. ‘The new head of Russian news at the FT needs a proper Russian-style celebration: caviar pancakes, vodka, champagne, gypsies … well, we can start with caviar,’ I riff, trying to sound my usual enchanting self - but something still holds me back.
‘Magnifique. Thank you. Looking forward to some crazy table dancing.’ He winks.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I hesitantly mutter, instinctively touching my stomach.
‘She always says that … and then you see her rocking the place,’ he smiles to that plump busty girl, whose super-tight beige dress matches the color of the carpet. ‘Oh, this is our lovely host and my new colleague Sophie,’ he says, giving me a glass of red.
‘So nice to meet you,’ she says with upper-class poise. ‘Richard has told me so many good things about you.’ She comes closer on her massive heels, barely reaching my shoulder. The perfectly-bleached roots of her bob haircut reminds me that I need to make an appointment at the hairdresser’s.
‘Really?’ I ask in disbelief, leaning on the windowsill to get a proper look at Sophie’s shifty dark-brown eyes.
‘Yes, about your hard work and dedication,’ she says, opening a tiny door onto the tiny balcony and lighting up a thin cigarette. ‘So how did you two meet?’
‘On a plane to Moscow,’ I say, making an effort not to pass out from the mix of the smoke, wine and the smell of the fresh pancakes Richard is making.
‘Katya got an upgrade from business class, to a seat next to me in the middle row,’ Richard mocks, adding a new pancake to a small stack. ‘You can imagine she wasn’t very happy,’ he banters.
‘Well, you weren’t happy either, when they didn’t bring you oysters and champagne to celebrate our acquaintance,’ I banter back.
‘Yeah, in economy they’re even stingy with words,’ Richard jests. ‘Good morning, it is our pleasure to have you on board. What would you like to eat?’ he croons, imitating a friendly business class stewardess.
‘Oh, yeah, in economy it’s just “meat or fish?”,’ I laugh.
‘You really pissed off that fat guy in the aisle,’ Richard laughs, making a new pancake. ‘The corpulent guy,’ he corrects himself, bowing at Sophie.
‘What else could I do if they made me put all my stuff in the overhead locker and I needed to get something?’’
‘Your stuff kept falling on the guy’s head.’ He bangs his head with the spoon, making me laugh.
‘Seriously, half of my seat was occupied by his mass. I had to … to move somehow …’ I am trying to find the right word in English.
‘Budge up,’ Sophie says derisively, exhaling cigarette smoke.
‘I mean, it’s just so unfair! I had to pay extra for five pounds of overweight baggage, and yet overweight people fly for free,’ I say, and already regret how arrogant I must sound, catching some kind of disapproval from Sophie, who has retreated back to Richard.
‘So you were just saying these things about the poor bloke sitting right next to him?’ Sophie rigorously enquires with a teacher’s tone, stubbing out the cigarette.
‘Oh, no, of course not,’ I justify. ‘He had his massive headphones on.’
‘Interesting,’ she says thoughtfully. ‘So how did someone … Ukrainian-educated … make it into London investment banking?’ Sophie asks with her annoying British accent.
‘Actually, I did my masters at Bocconi,’ I counter.
‘We also met in Italy,’ she retorts.
‘We both did our exchange year at Genoa University,’ Richard says, joyously putting a stack of pancakes on the table. ‘Voilà les crêpes,’ he winks at me and I volunteer to make the caviar rolls.
‘It was such a fluke to meet someone British,’ Sophie says, her pronunciation of “fluke” indistinguishable from the f-word … ‘Well, half British, my fidus achates.’ She glances affectionately at Richard.
‘Did you socialize much with the locals?’ I ask, opening the giant can of caviar.
‘Oh, they were charming,’ she says with a slight lascivious hint in her eyes, watching me taking the caviar with a spoon and spreading it on the pancake. ‘Fab fashion sense, and their eating habits are absolutely fantastic even though they go on longer than Queen’s coronation.’
‘Those are fun,’ I smile, putting the first semi-clumsy roll on the plastic tray.
‘I did an anthropological study on them to determine cognitive behavioral patterns in modern investment banking,’ she says with a confident smile, pushing her oversized breasts forward.
‘How’s that?’ I ask, perplexed.
‘For instance, overconfidence, over- and under-reaction, gambling behavior, culture and social contagion are rather common in both worlds.’ She sounds like a cold fish.
‘To me Italy is aperitivo, antipasti, loud discussions, outbursts, fights over too much salt in pasta and making up over digestivo, complimenti ‘bella, brava’…’ I imitate an Italian accent, gesticulating wildly.
‘We did have a few crazy nights out,’ Richard shouts from behind the stove. ‘Sophie couldn’t resist some Italian charm either.’
‘Oh for goodness sake, Richard,’ she exclaims. ‘You couldn’t possibly have thought it was anything serious.’ She vigorously takes cream cheese and salmon from the fridge and starts making her own rolls.
‘It’s like driving a Ferrari,’ I remark. ‘Full speed, no brakes, no gaps, do whatever you want. He’s yours, flames on snow … for one night,’ I say, sipping the cheap red, which is making me more and more frivolous.
‘It’s disgusting!’ Sophie sharply pulls back. ‘One-night stands aren’t my cup of tea,’ she says, putting a textbook roll on a tray.
‘I mean, they know how to treat you.’ I am trying to explain myself. ‘They take you to the best places, tell you the words you want to hear, declare their undying love, nestle into the estuary of your lips, blazing in the scarlet light of sunrise,’ I say theatrically, fueling Sophie’s obvious embarrassment regarding such emotions. ‘You must know if you lived there.’
‘Of course not! But you are obviously well aware,’ she taunts.
‘Well, actually I was in a committed relationship with a lawyer from Milan,’ I say proudly.
‘And what happened?’ Sophie asks cynically.
‘I had to throw all his stuff out of the window when I found out he cheated,’ I smirk, downing my glass.
‘Classic!’ Richard exclaims from behind the stove. ‘You absorbed that culture so quickly. I can picture you shouting ‘basta’ and ‘bastardo’ gesturing like a proper Italian woman.’
‘It was more like pezzo di merda brutto figlio di troia bastardo,’ I chortle, dedicating the phrase to Alex.
‘Richard’s family house was absolutely lovely.’ Sophie tactfully changes the topic, tucking her short, well-blow-dried hair behind her ears.
‘I thought you never wanted to go back there?’ I say, looking at Richard in bewilderment.
‘We drove past Biarritz before taking the ferry back to England,’ he says, staring at the frying pan.
‘Oh, the coast is absolutely stunning. Gobsmacked!’ Sophie exclaims. ‘The house is a bit of a drive and a bit rustic, but you could still pay someone to make it look transcendent for the pictures when you want to sell it,’ she hints at Richard.
‘You want to sell it?’ I ask Richard with unhidden regret. ‘Thought you wanted to keep it as a memory of your father … renovate his sculptures?’
‘These look
scrummy!’ Sophie retorts, pointing at the rolls on the tray. ‘Our guests must be really hungry. Katya, would you be a dear and help me bring the trays to the guests?’ she asks, heading to the living room.
‘In a minute,’ I nod, making a show of being busy making rolls as she leaves.
‘What happened?’ Richard steps towards me seriously looking me straight in the eye.
‘I … I lost my job,’ I say quietly but screaming inside. ‘Alex fired me!’ I take a deep breath, trying to control the unintended tears filling my eyes.
‘Oh shit.’ He leaves his frying pan and reaches out to me to put his hand on my shoulder. ‘But it’s not the end of the world,’ he comforts me. ‘Life goes on, make the most of it.’
‘I don’t know … he sponsored my visa, taught me everything I know, looked after me … he was the perfect man.’ I pull back, sobbing, trying not to burst into tears, especially having noted Sophie lurking in the corridor.
‘There are tons of men around. You’ll get snapped up in no time, especially now you have time to meet guys.’ He suggestively checks me out, making me smile. ‘Go feed the party, make some new friends,’ he says, giving me the tray.
‘OK,’ I simper.
‘You might even find your dream man tonight,’ he winks.
CHAPTER FOUR
FIDUS ACHATES
‘Babushka … harasho … suka,’ says the only semi-cute guy in the room with spiky ginger hair, in a velvet jacket, with a scarf thrown over his shoulder. For the past few minutes he has been trying to impress me with his knowledge of Russian.
‘‘Oh, it’s only ten,’ I yawn and look around the room for something to hang on to.
‘Time for the next round.’ He takes my empty plastic cup and stumbles towards the drinks table, cruising through the Sophie-lookalikes and -soundalikes in strapless dresses. They discuss the weather and get methodically smashed, as Britain’s finest do.
‘Tickety-boo.’ My new encounter comes prancing towards me with open, elevated arms, grabs my hand and clumsily leads me to spin around. ‘You Russian girls are the dog’s bollocks,’ he shouts over the music, trying to press up against my aching stomach.
‘I’m … just going to … the ladies,’ I say, resentfully getting out of his embraces, before he says something even more insulting.
‘Katya!’ Sophie catches me right at the exit of the room with a synthetic smile. ‘It was such a brill idea to bring the caviar. People love it. I told everyone you brought it from Moscow,’ she says, stretching her head up like a peewit trying to pick a worm.
‘My pleasure,’ I say, looking down, politely faking a smile.
‘My intern Ben seems to really like you.’ She points at my wannabe salsa partner.
‘Yeah, he is nice,’ I say instead of ‘he’s not bright enough even to get an interview in investment banking.”
‘So, did Richard ever ask you out?’ Sophie asks cheerfully, trying to move to the music, wobbling on her heels.
‘We often go out together,’ I say, keeping my distance from her, overpowered by the smell of cheap wine and cigarettes.
‘I mean … have you … you know … any hanky-panky … rumpy-pumpy?’ she asks, lowering her exceptionally posh voice.
‘Humpty-dumpty?’ I ask, puzzled.
‘Had a bit of … how’s-your-father?’ She rubs her perfectly polished index fingers against each other.
‘My father lives in Siberia,’ I say, flummoxed.
‘I mean … sex,’ she whispers shyly, inadvertently producing a proper twerk with her extended pads.
‘Oh no, we’re just friends,’ I say, observing a slight sign of relief on her genteel face. ‘But he fucks pretty much every skirt he can pull.’ I twist the truth, rebelling against her two-faced nature.
‘Is that right?’ Her lips twitch and eyelids flutter.
‘That’s his philosophy: to have as much sex as he possibly can before he gets old and can’t do it anymore,’ I say, realizing Alex might have had an affair with me for the same reason. I take a deep breath, forcing myself back into my poker face smile.
‘Oh,’ she says, with aristocratic dignity. ‘Where does he meet them?’ She seems to be sobering up.
‘Everywhere. The Internet, clubs … his students.’
‘Oh yes, he teaches … of course. I’ve just got an offer to teach.’ She takes yet another big sip of her white.
‘Anywhere nice?’ I ask, gladly diverting the topic.
‘I think it’s Magdalen College in Oxford,’ she says, checking her phone with the attention of a drunk person. ‘I listened to the message at the Royal Enclosure … didn’t quite get it, and now I can’t access it anymore … but I’ve got the number … bloody phone,’ she exclaims irrationally.
‘Shows your enthusiasm,’ I say cynically.
‘I don’t need any snide comments,’ she suddenly erupts. ‘We can’t all be as perfect as you, for crying out loud.’ She leans over me as though to whisper, but her voice is loud, and it is angry.
My eyes grow wide, getting engulfed with tears born of a feeling of injustice … they all hate me here … in this entire city, no one can say a single good thing about me …
‘Excuse me,’ I say, pushing past her, rushing out of the living room, saving up my tears for the bathroom - but it appears to be occupied, with a drunken aristocratic crowd standing in line at its door.
I take a few deep breaths, determined to leave, but decide to say goodbye to Richard first: ‘I’m gonna go,’ I say to him, as he makes yet another pancake by the stove.
‘How’s the party?’ he asks.
‘It feels like everyone is telling me to fuck off in some very fancy way,’ I smirk, looking away.
‘Language!’ Richard scolds. ‘You have to mind your Ps and Qs around here.’
‘What?’
‘Queen’s English, please,’ he says with an affected posh accent. ‘These are my new colleagues, with whom I’m trying to develop the ties of kinship.’
‘OK, I’m sorry, I’d better go home. I don’t want to spoil your party any further,’ I say like a true loser, avoiding eye contact with Richard on my way out.
‘Wait,’ he says firmly. ‘You shouldn’t go home alone in this state. I’ll walk you.’
‘You don’t have to. It’s your party.’
‘Oh, don’t worry about it. I’ve made enough pancakes and there are plenty of dessert spreads. They should be able to figure out what to do with them.’ He smiles comfortingly. ‘It’s only a fifteen-minute walk to your place. I’ll have time to come back here. Wait a sec. I need to clean up a bit,’ he says light-heartedly, declining my every offer of help.
‘I just want to get out of here …’ I whine.
‘You can wait on the balcony.’ He opens the tiny door to the tiny open glass terrace overlooking a vast construction site, crowned by the four pale, scary chimneys of Battersea Power Station. They rise over the heavy brown bridge and the empty gray face of the groundwork, ready to ingest me.
The few people and cars down on the street seem like little dots in the middle of the gray puddles.
The mist covers my face. ‘Chirimiri,’ they call it in Biarritz. What a great word for drizzle. Chirimiri is exactly what it is …
The dim colors beat the moisture out of the air. The dots become shadows. The music of the party behind me sounds like it is miles away.
Let them have their prissy fun - for me there are only shadows … I do not belong here … Air and energy, death and digestion.
The purple, yellow and red flowers are all the way down in the blur of the abyss. Their full-flavored smell beckons me to rest on their soft woven blanket.
Whether you like it or no, that death is so terrible and so powerful that even he who conquered it in his miracles during life was unable to triumph over it at the last.
No more pain. No more pain … no more.
‘Are you sure you aren’t gonna dance on the table tonight?’ Richard’s mocking voice shatters my
distant musings as he steps out onto the terrace.
‘Mm,’ I mumble, returning to reality, where I can hear my own voice and wiggle my fingers.
‘Shall we go?’ he asks loudly.
‘Sure.’ I stare at my cold, ashen palms and then again at the devil’s horns of the power station, alluring in its atrocity.
‘I am sorry you lost your job, especially in such a harsh way.’ Richard’s voice sounds far away but somehow reaches out to my consciousness. ‘When my father died, it felt like there was a big black hole drawing all my feelings into it. My life stopped at that moment, and now there will always be a “before” and an “after”. I can’t bring my father back but you can get a new job. Easily. You’re smart, you’re bright and you’re a fighter.’ He gently lifts my chin up with his massive, frying-butter-infused fingers. His hair has gotten completely messed up in the rain and now looks like a pot around his broad, chiseled face.
‘Thank you for sharing it with me.’ I instinctively smile and immediately cover my mouth with my palm, realizing I’ve had too many glasses of red.
‘You don’t have to be ashamed of your purple teeth. It happens to everyone after drinking red wine. It’s normal,’ he says with a friendly smile.
‘OK,’ I nod, continuing to cover my mouth.
‘Come on, you can smile. You’ll still be my friend,’ he grins. ‘Though you know my stance on alcohol,’ he says, coming in off the terrace and leading the way out of the apartment.
‘Yes, it’s intoxicating,’ I say, following him down the long corridor.
‘To say the least.’
I put my raincoat on and walk out holding Richard’s massive arm in a dark blue French peasant-style pullover.
‘So how have you been?’ I ask as we walk to the bridge.
‘Well, I was sick with some stupid cold for about four days. I don’t even know how the hell I got it.’ His preoccupied look abruptly changes to a more joyful one.
Snow Job Page 3
