His cold, pitiless eyes narrow at the sight of us: my grandmother in her dressing gown and me all dressed as if to go out or … no, the thought will not even occur to him that I could engage in a dirty stop out night. Surreptitiously, slowly, I push the black bag with the rope ladder deeper under the table.
‘Good morning, Papa.’
‘Why are you dressed at this time of the morning?’ he asks, a frown marring his forehead.
‘The child has her first wedding dress fitting this morning and she is so excited about it she woke before the birds were up.’
My father’s face relaxes. He turns to me. ‘Who are you going with?’
‘Lina.’
‘Good.’ He comes into the kitchen. I stand and, walking over to him, dutifully peck him on his cheek. He smells of alcohol and perfume, a strong cloying scent. It makes me step away from him quickly, afraid that he will smell Noah on me, but he absently rubs his cheek where I have kissed him, and turns to look at his mother. When I was younger, I thought he didn’t want me to kiss him, and he was actually rubbing away the kiss, but when I stopped kissing him the next time I saw him, he looked at me with his cold eyes and asked me why I did not kiss him. ‘Never forget to kiss your Papa,’ he told me sternly.
‘Vasily is coming from Moscow this afternoon,’ Papa tells my grandma, ‘and he is bringing Ptichie Moloko from The Prague restaurant for you.’
Ptichie Moloko or Birds’ Milk Cake is made from French marshmallows and chocolate and set on a cake base. It is the king of all Russian desserts and Baba’s favorite.
Grandma keeps her eyes on me while she smiles, but her smile doesn’t reach her eyes.
‘Oh good. No one makes it like they do at The Prague restaurant. All the rest are plastic imitations.’
A dull heat spreads up my throat and into my face. My father looks at me. ‘You’re blushing. Why?’
I swallow hard.
‘Leave the child alone, Nikita. She is excited about her appointment,’ Baba says reaching for her cup of tea. She sips the cold liquid calmly.
Papa just grunts.
It never fails to amaze me the tone my grandmother uses on her son. This is the man who makes grown men shiver. He has never raised a hand to me. He has never needed to. The only time I saw something cruel and frightening in his face was when I came home from school and called him Daddy. Like all the other children in my school did. His head swung around so fast it was like the strike of a snake.
‘What did you call me?’ he asked, so softly I felt goosebumps rise on my hands. Anyone would have thought I’d used the f or the c word.
I thought he must have had misheard. ‘Daddy,’ I repeated.
‘I’m not your daddy. I’m your Papa. Don’t ever try to be like those miserable creatures you go to school with. You can mix with them and pretend to be one of them, but never forget you are Russian and only Russian. You have my blood in your veins. Never let me hear you exchange your culture and your Russian ways for theirs again.’
He had totally discounted my English heritage. The blood of my mother. Of course I never said anything. My mother tells me. Let sleeping dogs lie. Wake them up and they will bite you.
‘Yes, Papa,’ I said immediately, and since then I have never done anything that has earned that soft, menacing tone from him again.
The kitchen falls suddenly silent.
‘It’s been a long night. I’m going to bed,’ Papa says into the strained silence.
‘Sleep well, Papa,’ I say, and step forward to kiss his cheek again. My father reaches out a hand and plucks a one-inch-long twig from the elbow of my cardigan and drops it to the ground. I freeze with fear, but he doesn’t realize the significance, and turns towards the door. I watch him go out of the door with relief and hear the sound of his shoes on the marble floors echo through the empty house.
‘I suppose I better go to my room as well. Sergei will be waiting,’ I tell my grandmother.
She nods.
I bend to pick up the black bag and she grasps my hand suddenly in hers. The steely strength of her grip surprises me and my eyes fly to meet hers. Something strange and dark lurks in them.
‘Solnyshko, if you ignore your dreams they will limp away from you to die a sad death,’ she warns urgently.
Twelve
Tasha Evanoff
Moving through the high-ceilinged, gilded, pillared excesses of my father’s home, my heels clicking on the marble, and the relief of not being discovered gone, I feel oddly hollow, as if I have left an important part of me back in Noah’s home.
I go up to my room, open the door, and immediately my beloved four-year-old blue Doberman, Sergei, rushes over to me and throws his sleek body at me. I crouch down to have my face and neck thoroughly washed, but he suddenly stops and sniffs me curiously.
‘I know,’ I whisper. ‘I’ve been with a man, a beautiful, strong, powerful man.’
Sergei stops sniffing me and licks my face gently, as if he understands that I am sad and lost. I hug him tightly.
‘Oh, Sergei, Sergei, what am I going to do? I never thought it would be like that. I thought I had built it all up in my mind and it would fall flat. He would be a selfish brute, but he was just beautiful. Just beautiful. Indescribably beautiful.’
I lie on my bed, Sergei’s head on my stomach, while my mind replays last night. I think of Baba’s expression when she grasped my hand and told me ignored dreams die sad deaths. I think of my father’s chilling eyes and then I think of Mama.
When I was five years old my parents separated, no, that would be giving the wrong impression, that the decision was in some way mutual or amicable. Nothing could be further from the truth. My father kicked my mother out. Literarily opened the front door and kicked her out so she fell sprawled on the front door steps. He spat on her and forbade her to ever see me again. He did all this with me watching and screaming with fear while Baba held me in her arms. I still remember Mama, getting up to her feet, her knees were bleeding, but she was staring at me, desperately memorizing my face, when the door shut on her.
He did all that because he suspected her of being unfaithful to him. Of course it was not true, but my father was, is, and will probably always be highly paranoid. Every shadow is a Judas waiting to betray him, steal from him, plot his murder. He even did a paternity test to confirm that I really was his child. And since then Papa has been married three times. None of them could bear him any children. He divorced the first one. I think she went back to Russia. She hated me and I didn’t like her. The second one was more cunning. She made a huge pretense of liking me, but disappeared one day. I don’t know whether she ran away because she was so afraid of my father, or my father did away with her. Papa’s third wife died in a car accident. Brake failure. When he was informed of it, he nodded slowly, then put another forkful of calves’ liver into his mouth. We went to her funeral dressed in black. Nobody shed a tear.
After my mother went I cried for days. I never stopped begging Baba to let me see my mother. At first she told me to forget Mama. Mama had left the country.
‘But where could she have gone? All her clothes and shoes are here?’
‘You can’t see her. The sooner you accept that the better it will be for everybody.’
‘I’ll run away,’ I threatened.
‘There are bad men outside these walls. They will catch you and do terrible things to you.’
‘Can’t you ask Papa to bring Mama back?’ I begged.
‘No, Solnyshko, I can’t.’
But I wouldn’t relent. I was determined. Every day without fail I begged her. Sometimes I wouldn’t even eat.
Then one day she took me shopping and we ‘accidentally’ bumped into Mama. Oh the unexplainable joy. I can still remember how I wrapped my arms tightly around her neck and howled when it was time to part. Then Mama started crying and Baba scolded me.
‘If you don’t stop that we’ll never be able to see Mama again.’
Every time I turned back I wo
uld see her standing where we left her, watching us sadly until we turned a corner, or the crowd swallowed us.
In the car, Baba cautioned, ‘Remember you can never ever tell anyone about this. If you do you will never see your Mama again.’ Her eyes stared at me earnestly. ‘And perhaps not even me.’
My mouth opened in horror. ‘Will Papa kick you out of the house too?’
‘Perhaps,’ she said softly.
From that day on I learned to be ultra-secretive. To keep my mouth shut. To watch everything that came out of it.
As I grew older, Baba taught me how to use the rope ladder. Ever since then I have been using it to go visit my mother.
Sergei suddenly lifts his head, jumps off the bed, and goes to scratch at the door. I let him out and call Lina. It is nearly nine o’clock.
‘What?’ she says sleepily.
‘Hey,’ I say. ‘I … uh … left a jacket in your recycle bin. Would you mind very much putting it into a bag? I’ll pick it up from you when we go to my fitting appointment.’
There is a slight pause. ‘A jacket?’
‘Yes, a brown leather one.’
‘In my recycle bin?’
‘Right,’ I confirm.
‘Uh … huh. Am I going to get any kind of explanation?’
‘Um … not, right now.’
‘‘Fine, go ahead and be mysterious, then.’
‘It’s important.’
She sighs. ‘What do I do with it again?’
‘Just bring it with you when we go for our appointment.’
‘Okay. What time are you coming?’
‘About ten thirty.’
‘Are you excited?’
‘Yeah, sure. Sure, I am.’
Thirteen
Tasha Evanoff
Lina thanks Anatoly, our driver, and slips into the back of the car next to me. She thrusts the John Lewis plastic bag at me as Anatoly closes the door behind her and goes around to his seat.
‘Thanks,’ I say air kissing her cheeks.
‘No problem,’ she says. Lina is American. She has a thick head of shining, chestnut hair, chocolate eyes and a blood red mouth. She gets her dusky coloring and her sultry looks from her Italian mother.
‘Are you excited?’ she asks with a grin.
‘Yeah,’ I say, trying to inject enthusiasm into my voice.
‘So, you want to tell me about the jacket?’
‘Not just yet.’
‘Okay. I was under the impression there was a fairly innocent explanation behind it, but now I’m having to revise it up to scandal category.’
I squeeze her. ‘I’ll tell you later. I promise. We’ll go somewhere for tea and cake.’
‘No, not cake. I’m on a diet.’
I smile faintly at her. I’ve known Lina since kindergarten, but I’ve never truly confessed my secrets to her. Sometimes I would make things up so that it did not seem as if it was always she who was telling me things, pouring her heart out to me while I was holding back. Even when I became engaged to Oliver, I never told her how I really felt. Always at the back of my mind, Baba was saying, The less you say, the safer you and they will be.
It is only a short journey to Wardour Street, where Valeria Lahav, the most famous Russian bridal dress designer has her studio. The first to get out is Vadim, my personal bodyguard. He walks to Valeria’s black door with its gold knocker and rings the bell on the side.
When Valeria answers and her receptionist comes to open the door, Vadim returns to the car and holds the door open for us. Afterwards, he positions himself outside the closed door.
Valeria comes out to the reception area to greet us. She has curly blonde hair that is in a messy ponytail at the back of her head and she is smiling widely at us.
‘You are going to be so pleased. I can’t wait for you to see it. The dress is more beautiful than I thought,’ she gushes.
I smile politely and follow her into the large room. There is a long wooden table and a few tailors’ dummies in one corner. She positions us in front of a curtain. ‘Are you ready?’ she asks theatrically.
‘Yes,’ I say with a big fake smile.
She pulls the curtain and I hear Lina gasp beside me. It is certainly not modest. Then again, Valeria’s designs are famous for their extravagance and intricacy. Italian ivory lace over light gold featuring a high mandarin and yards and yards of silk tulle skirt. There are Swarovski crystals delicately sprinkled throughout with rich decorative beading at the empire waist. I stare at it with conflicting emotions. I have to admit the dress is stunning, extravagant, intricate and more beautiful than I ever imagined when Valeria and I first discussed it and she showed me her sketches and swatches, but I don’t want to marry Oliver. Not in this dress, not in any dress.
‘All of this,’ she is saying, ‘is hand finished by the top seamstresses in Russia using the finest luxury sewing techniques. All the stitches are so tiny you cannot see them without a magnifying glass. Come and see the back,’ she encourages.
I walk around it, noting its keyhole back and the fishtail train finished with scalloped edging.
‘The zipper closure is hidden with silk-covered buttons,’ Valeria says proudly.
I nod automatically.
‘It’s absolutely mind-blowingly gorgeous,’ Lina says.
‘It’s lovely,’ I murmur.
‘Are you ready to get into it?’ Valeria says.
Her assistant comes and they carefully help me into the dress. I stand on a raised round platform as still as a statue as they do their thing. Lina is sitting on a chair, watching. She doesn’t say anything.
‘That’s it. All done,’ Valeria declares.
They ask me to turn around and look into a large mirror on the wall. I look at my reflection. The dress will cost in the region of £45,000 and it is undoubtedly very, very beautiful, but I simply don’t look like a radiant, blushing bride. My eyes are dull and I can barely bring a smile to my face. I can see that Valeria and her assistant have both realized that the appointment is not going as swimmingly as they thought it would. They think they have done an amazing job, and they have. Lina strolls over to my side.
‘Do you mind if I have a moment with Tasha?’ she asks Valeria.
‘Of course not,’ Valeria says, and quickly bustles out.
Lina stands in front of me. ‘You don’t want to get married, do you?’ she says slowly, her eyes filled with a sick realization that everything I was doing was a lie.
I shake my head slowly. I can feel tears burning at the backs of my eyes. Before last night, I don’t know how I did it. Maybe because I so desperately wanted to, I had somehow managed to persuade—or rather trick—myself into thinking I could do it. I could live that loveless life. I could be a good wife the way I was a good daughter. I would pour my love on Sergei and my kids when I have them.
‘Why?’
‘I thought I loved him,’ I lie.
‘Don’t lie to me. Please. You think I didn’t know about all those other times you were lying? I just let it go, but not this time. Just tell me the truth for once.’
I shrug and look down.
Her mouth falls open as the realization dawns. ‘Oh my God. You’re doing this for your father!’
I don’t say anything.
‘This is completely crazy. This is the kind of thing they did in the 18th century. What? You’re just supposed to marry a man you don’t have any feelings for because your father tells you to?’
‘It’s not like that. It’s a mutually beneficial alliance. My father has money. His family has the title and the right social circle. It will be good for everybody.’
‘What about you? Hmmm?’
‘It will be good for my children.’
‘To be in a loveless relationship?’
‘To have the advantages that his family name will give them.’
‘From what I can see all these lords and ladies are all fucked up, stuck-up, weak motherfuckers. Give me a commoner any day. Do you really want that for
your children?’
The tears that I have been holding back leak out.
‘Oh fuck,’ Lina says and starts rooting around in her bag for some tissue. She finds one. It’s scrunched up and has lipstick stains on it, but otherwise it looks clean. I take it and wipe my eyes.
‘So what’s with the leather jacket?’
‘It belongs to someone I spent last night with.’
‘Fuck me ragged!’ she breathes, then laughs. ‘It’s always the quiet ones you can’t trust.’
‘Oliver is not faithful to me and he doesn’t care if I sleep with other people either. He once told me that if I wanted to have affairs after we are married I am welcome to it, as long as I follow two conditions. Ensure I do not get pregnant and I am very discreet.’
‘See what I mean about them being fucked-up.’
I smile half-heartedly.
‘So tell me about this guy then,’ she urges. ‘Who is he?’
‘You don’t know him and it’s better if you don’t know who he is. The less you know the better it is for you.’
Her eyes become wary. ‘What’s really going on, Tasha? Are you afraid? Because you’re fucking scaring the shit out of me.’
‘I’m not scared and I’m not trying to frighten you. It’s a truism in my father’s world. The less you know the safer you are.’
‘Fine, don’t tell me who he is. Was it good? Did he have a big dick?’
In spite of myself I smile. ‘Yes, it was very good.’
‘And the dick?’
‘Yes, it was big,’ I admit with a giggle.
‘So what happens now?’
I sober up again. ‘Nothing.’
‘Was it just like a one-night stand?’
‘Yeah, something like that.’
She looks at me curiously. ‘Why is it, it feels like more?’
‘It’s not more, Lina. It can never be more.’
You Don't Know Me: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance Page 5
