I step back and slowly walk to the bar, wiggling my hips, to draw attention to my tight behind.
A guy dressed as a cowboy grabs me by the waist and asks me what I would like to drink.
‘Champagne,’ I smile.
‘You are Russian, you should drink vodka,’ he yawps.
‘Oh … hmm, OK … vodka tonic please,’ I smile.
At some point, while I’m politely listening to the guy - whose accent I can’t make head or tail of - Gabi approaches me and promiscuously strokes my neck. ‘I hope you don’t mind if I steal this lovely lady from you,’ she says impishly.
‘Howdy!’ The “cowboy” exclaims in a creepy voice. ‘I can do this rodeo, yoo-hoo.’ He thrusts his hips as if he was already having sex. ‘Y’all Russian girls are so awesome.’ He touches his crotch.
‘We’ll be right back.’ Gabi quickly leads me to the lavatory.
‘You cannot go into the cubicle together.’ A toilet attendant tries to stop us but Gabi gives her a fiver and she lets us in. She takes out a card-sized mirror and makes a couple of fat lines, while I roll up a twenty-pound note.
I hesitate for a moment … it’s been a while … you just don’t refuse Cuba’s finest.
The sharp-edged snowdrops burn my self-restrained nostrils, freezing my gums, my soul … frozen like it has always been … sitting on the toilet, leaning on the wall, drifting away … closing my eyes to all Gabi’s talk of how amazing Omar is.
‘Let’s do body shots!’ She jolts me out of my stupor. ‘Those guys are from good families, you should totally hook up with one of them,’ she excitedly shouts, getting out of the loo.
Graciously we step onto the table and show off our sexiest moves, touching each other.
Gabi salaciously puts a lemon slice in her mouth, while I put some charlie on the edge of my palm. I lick it off, down the shot of vodka, and take the lemon out of Gabi’s mouth, progressing into a passionate kiss, as the crowd whistles and cheers around us.
We continue dancing and kissing each other, pretending we don’t see anyone. Soon she puts a new slice of lemon into my mouth and sniffs charlie straight from the little plastic bag. Then she takes the lemon out of my mouth, segueing into yet another passionate kiss … we’re touching each other’s pushed up breasts, and rubbing against each other’s hot bodies.
At some point Omar grabs Gabi’s arm and harshly pulls her down from the table. She barely manages to balance on her massive stilettos.
‘What the hell are you doing? Are you completely out of your mind?’ she yells at him.
‘You dishonor me in front of my friends,’ he yells back.
‘I always do this, this is how we met!’ Gabi argues.
‘You behave like a prostitute.’ He slaps her in the face in front of everybody.
She steps back, holding her cheek, gazing at him with abhorrence. ‘Let’s get out of here,’ Gabi sobs, hastily walking out of the club.
In the cab she cries, sniffing off the remains of the plastic bag. ‘What an asshole,’ she whines. ‘I hate him. This will cost him another handbag,’ she weeps, emotionally throwing the coral pink Chanel on the floor.
We arrive at the Mayfair club for the after-party, but just when we get to the front door Gabi manages to fall off her heels on the dirty red carpet, slippery from the drizzle.
With Gabi swearing and crying over her spoiled look, we get back into a cab to go home.
‘Try to have a good rest,’ I suggest, dropping her off in front of her doorstep. ‘The night brings counsel.’
‘Whatever,’ she rages. ‘I’ll never forgive that asshole!’ She totters through the doorway, hiccuping.
The drive back to the empty, scary East feels like leaving a fairy tale in a carriage turning into a pumpkin.
I quietly enter Richard’s apartment without switching the lights on, not wanting to wake him up, especially if he is not alone.
Trying to find my way in complete darkness, I bump into a chair by the door. Richard must have moved it there to lift more stuff up to the mezzanine above the front door.
Suddenly, I slip in my heels and crash into the IKEA closet.
Richard, squinting sleepily, comes out of the kitchen.
‘Katya, are you OK?’ he says, bending down toward me on the floor where I sit in pain, holding my left ankle.
‘It hurts,’ I whine, not having enough strength to control my tears, or the coordination to strike a more graceful pose.
‘Take off your shoes,’ he says, examining my foot, gently touching it in various places with his hands … such caring hands … each stroke magically takes away some of the pain, substituting it with warmth … melting the snow that has been dancing in me for the last couple of hours.
My short skirt is pulled up way above my panties and, as Richard examines my foot, I stretch out the other leg, so he can see my crotch.
I move my face towards his, resisting the pain in my leg, and kiss him. For a second I close my eyes and feel the closeness of his body, his iron muscles … and his care. He was so nice to me … I must be grateful … and pay him back.
Richard abruptly pushes back, gets up and walks off, pulling the closet back up on the way, leaving me sitting there in dismay, wondering what has just happened.
A moment later, he brings me a bag of ice. ‘It’s just a little sprain. You should be fine tomorrow. Try to get some rest. You have an important day tomorrow,’ he says, closing the door to the kitchen.
Beaten and sobered up, I slowly shamble to my bed as my foot goes numb, as though all of the bones have been removed.
The metal bars of the mattress punish every part of my body, piercing my heart. I want to cry from desperation but refrain from making a sound, scared to wake him up again.
Nobody wants me here … I need to get out of this place as soon as possible … get this job in Moscow … and the relocation package. This is the only way.
Quietly, I take my laptop to get the updates for my interview in six hours’ time … It opens up Dostoyevsky’s The Idiot, which I could never start reading …
She enjoyed her own pain by this egoism of suffering, if I may so express it. This aggravation of suffering and this rebelling in it I could understand; it is the enjoyment of man, of the insulted and injured, oppressed by destiny, and smarting under the sense of its injustice …
At 7 a.m. Richard wakes me up. I quickly get up, make up my bed and sit still on its edge with my legs crossed and arms folded, waiting for the verdict.
‘How’s your leg?’ he asks, making porridge as if nothing has happened.
‘It’s OK,’ I say, hobbling to the bathroom.
‘I’ve got a bandage you might want to use. It’ll be easier to walk.’ He speaks in his usual cheerful manner, but I know there is something wrong. He just wants to make sure I can walk fine so he does not feel guilty kicking me out.
‘Thank you,’ I say, noiselessly brushing my teeth, trying to get rid of the unpleasant aftertaste, a mix of vodka and blow coming up my throat.
He looks at me for a few moments. ‘Look, about last night … it’s not that I don’t find you attractive or anything. It’s quite the contrary, actually.’ He sounds somewhat bashful. ‘But you were drunk and all vulnerable; it just would have been wrong. Do you understand?’ he asks attentively.
I nod. ‘So, when do you want me out?’ I ask shyly.
‘I don’t want you out!’ He raises his voice like a strict schoolteacher. ‘It doesn’t change anything. We’re friends. You can stay as long as you like.’
‘OK,’ I say quietly, convinced our relationship is never going to be the same again.
‘I know I’m amazing, girls cannot resist me,’ he banters, coming over and putting the bandage on my foot. ‘It doesn’t mean, however, you won’t need to clean up all this mess,’ he says, hinting at the clothes and shelves strewn all over the floor.
‘Of course,’ I nod guiltily.
‘I don’t know what you were on last night, but you are
a lot more attractive sober,’ he says jauntily, making me smile.
‘How was your date?’ I ask, stretching my leg.
‘She’s a nice girl … well, maybe too nice … a bit boring actually, no spice whatsoever … she has no intention of changing the world, unlike my lovely roommate,’ he winks, and puts a bowl of porridge in front of me on the table.
‘I don’t have any intention of changing the world …’ I say, confused.
‘Well, you want to change yourself, that’s a start … even if you don’t realize it yet.’ He smiles cryptically. ‘By the way, Hugo Chavez is in Moscow today to discuss the construction of new oil plants on the Venezuelan coast. If you get a question on business opportunities in Russia, you could say you’ll be selling lots of the high-margin Venezuelan currency to your oil-dependent clients who are investing in the project. Actually, I might write a big article about it on the weekend,’ he says, putting his sneakers on to go for a jog.
‘Not sure the UK investors of the Russian Oil Company will get too excited about that,’ I say, slowly starting my breakfast.
‘Yep, you can help them to buy their sterling back.’ Richard fixes his backpack on.
‘Thank you for the tip. I might use it at the interview,’ I say timidly.
‘It’s OK,’ he smiles. ‘In the theater, they say, ‘break a leg’. You’ve practically done that already, so you’ll be fine,’ he winks.
After he leaves I get up, make myself a cup of strong coffee and take a couple of painkillers to stop the endless pain in my head … and my foot.
Subprime crisis … Oil … Russia … Venezuela … Richard … refusing a hot girl, just because it is not right? Who does that?
I put on a crisp, white blouse, knee length skirt and flat shoes and take a taxi to the Swiss Bank office to save my poor foot from the hassle of the tube.
The interview is held in a big white boardroom, identical to the one at Lehman. Two efficient blonde females with fake smiles and a balding high-profile MD shake my hand, prompting anxiety, extensive perspiration and a strange sense of déjà vu on my part.
I take a few deep breaths and tell the MD pretty much the same that I have already told Bruno, with textbook confidence and a can-do attitude, straight spine, eager gaze, and low tone. I pause before the important words: ‘… Vast business opportunities … enhanced profit on structured notes … twenty million dollar revenue projection.’ A greedy smile on the MD’s face suggests he likes what he hears.
The mystery of human existence lies in finding something to live for.
Fighting exhaustion and an increasingly pounding headache, I squeeze out the remains of my strength to keep face until the last question and the final handshake.
‘We’ll be in touch,’ one of the blondes finally says, implying the meeting is over.
‘It’s been a pleasure meeting you. Have a good day,’ I say, smiling professionally at the MD and leaving the room.
The first cab in the line in front of the building takes me back home to the crappy mattress, which now feels like the most comfortable bed ever, and I pass out. I did everything I could today …
A phone call wakes me up.
‘Ciao, Katya. This is Cara. I’ve just had a call from Bruno. He would like me to tell you that his colleagues were impressed by you and your market knowledge. They would like to make you an offer,’ she says cheerfully.
‘Oh my God!’ I force the scream I imagined I’d produce on hearing those words, but it comes out hoarse. ‘That’s fantastic news!’
‘We did it!’ she exclaims. ‘You’ll receive the formal offer within the next few days. They’d like you to start as soon as possible. The corporate apartment is already waiting for you. Exciting!’ Her voice sounds like a loud bell in my fragile head.
‘Amazing, I’m so delighted.’ I try to match Cara’s tone.
‘You did really well. They were really impressed with your strategic view of Russian–Venezuelan current affairs. You can celebrate now. I’ll deal with all the formalities for you.’
‘Grazie mille. It’s a pleasure doing business with you.’ We keep exchanging compliments until she finally hangs up.
‘I got the offer!’ I immediately message Gabi.
‘OMG. We should totally celebrate,’ she texts back.
‘Of course!’ I respond.
A few hours later, after my prolonged siesta, we meet at the British Luxury Club. A few drinks and lines later, whilst Gabi is dog-licking some Paris Hilton clone, I accidently fall on a tall mulatto with funky curly hair and a designer jacket, and break his exclusive, one-of-a-kind Alexander McQueen sunglasses.
After having a stoned discussion about his shades, we snog in the same fashion as Gabi and her companion. Hours later I wake up with my blue-eyed stud at his hotel in Bond Street and in the evening fly to his beach house in Trinidad and Tobago, where he produces music for Destiny’s Child … or so he says.
‘The world is your oyster,’ Richard texts me when I inform him of my whereabouts.
The drug haze sweeps over me - until one morning I wake up and realize I need to be in Moscow the next day …
CHAPTER SEVEN
BACK TO THE USSR
The buildings on Leontievsky Lane are built with the general noble restraint more typical to the environs of Vicenza than Moscow. With their decorative stucco, they look more like the baroque homestead villas of the late Italian Renaissance than the hideous Soviet style I anticipated being thrown into.
Walking down the Tverskaya Street in my statement Louboutins, Armani skirt suit and Prada sunglasses, hiding my hangover, I feel somewhat confused – what the hell am I doing here instead of lying on the beach in the Caribbean?
The distinctive mellow beat playing in my headphones takes me back there as I walk downtown, with the gentle tailwind pleasantly playing with my soft conditioned hair, leading me to my new office right across the street from the Kremlin.
The strict gray monumental buildings jar violently with my recent Rastafarian experience, bursting into the wild perspective of Red Square.
The six lanes of the main street are packed with all sorts of cars, from ancient smelly Ladas to flashy Jaguars and Maseratis. They slowly move to the playful blink of the traffic light, joined by even noisier vehicles, dissolving in a disharmony of beeping, torturing my poor head.
Finally, I approach a futuristic modern building embedded in the façade of an old villa, with the sign of the Swiss Bank amongst ten others on the entrance.
With my head held high, I walk through the glass and chrome extravagance of the empty hall, and take a high-speed elevator to the bank’s dealing room on the top floor.
At 9 a.m. sharp, as my contract requires, I stand in front of a rich mahogany-and-gold front desk with no one behind it.
A few moments later, a friendly, petite girl with unfortunate curly hair and no makeup hurriedly scurries up to me.
‘Hi, I’m Ekaterina Kuznetsova, the new employee,’ I say in a patronizing voice.
‘Good morning, Miss Kuznetsova,’ she politely smiles. ‘I’m sorry for being late. The traffic in Moscow is very heavy on Monday mornings,’ she apologizes.
‘You’ll need to find a way to be on time. What if a client calls?’ I ask arrogantly, feeling my superiority.
‘Of course, Miss Kuznetsova,’ she says sweetly.
Offhandedly, I sign in and patiently wait whilst she ineptly searches for the pass. ‘Please.’ She hands me over the plastic card with my photo on it.
‘Thank you,’ I say formally, and walk to open the mahogany-and-gold doors, entering a new world of serious money and success.
It’s going to be a smaller version of the trading floor in London … but there is … no one here. Not even juniors.
The vast territory of the office is absolutely empty. According to Bruno, the team in Moscow consists of ten dealers, eight sales people, five researchers and another forty support functions. For that amount of staff, one would expect much smaller premise
s.
The massive, dark cherry wood desks, polished to a mirror sheen, are not set in equal rows as usual, but rather randomly grouped, relatively far away from each other. Between the tables there is a punching bag, right in the center of the floor, overlooking the majestic red towers of the Kremlin from the large soundproofed windows. It is so unbelievably close. I can almost touch it, hear its secrets … smell its power.
Further down there is a bin with some golf clubs, which explains the holes in the slate-gray designer carpet, scattered with abstract patterns. I am trying to follow them with my eyes, when suddenly the main door opens and a small, slightly overweight young guy with a sweaty bald patch enters the room, tucking his loose shirt back into his trousers.
I walk towards him, giving him a friendly, businesslike smile, offering my hand for a shake. ‘Hi, I’m Katya. New sales.’
After giving me a somewhat suspicious glance, he arrogantly introduces himself: ‘Dima. Trader.’ He negligently shakes my hand with his damp one, and quickly goes to hide behind the numerous screens of his desk in the far corner of the room. He must be very busy. Traders in London are usually grumpy on Mondays too, which is understandable. They need to adjust their books to the weekend changes.
Not far from his desk there is an entrance to the spacious office kitchen. I walk in and for a few moments, trying out Richard’s tactics, pretend I don’t know how to switch on the coffee machine, but Dima completely ignores me.
Eventually, two espressos are ready, filling the office with the fresh barista smell and, putting a couple of small Swiss chocolates on the saucer, I walk to Dima’s desk, ready to charm the guy off the boring spreadsheets and graphs.
Approaching his screens from the side, I see his sweaty forehead and a close-up of rough porn.
I almost choke but quickly put my regular smile on when Dima in a flash turns around, quickly taking his headphones off.
Snow Job Page 6
