CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

PAST

Sex with Angel was like everything I had ever wanted, lusted, dreamed about, longed for but had given up on- thinking that it could only possibly exist in my mind.

But - there was a catch.

There are paranoid “preppers” in Alabama that dedicate less time to prepping for the end of the world than Angel spends prepping for sex. Everything had to be perfect. She can spend eons of time looking in a mirror, making infinitesimally small adjustments to a wayward hair or adjusting the shade of her lipstick by half a pan tone.

Don't get me wrong, the results are enough to melt the mind of any man with functioning testicles - but any man with functioning testicles would have his mind melted at the results of 15 minutes of prepping. The additional 2 hours 45 minutes Angel regularly put in were wasted on everyone but Angel.

But today, waiting those extra 2 hours and 45 minutes allowed my mind to reach a very mind-boggling conclusion. I realized with a sudden horror that I was now responsible for providing the wages of Angel’s entire family.

The hotel where Angel’s mother worked had been having a bad year. Most hotels were having a bad year, thanks to the UK TV series “What Happens In Sunny Beach……..” which aired over Christmas. Sunny Beach was a massive tourist destination for the English abroad looking for a low-cost holiday. The Bulgarian Tourist Board had done a typically Bulgarian [crap] job of marketing and it was starting to get a reputation. That reputation went from bad to horrific, courtesy of Dragonfly Film and Television Production. The company figured that six, one-hour documentaries about families enjoying a nice time by the pool is pretty dreary viewing and not likely to lead to further commissions; but six hours of drunk British teenagers, puking all over the girl they’ve just been making out with, on top of putting each other in hospital while they turn “glass” from a noun into a verb, trying to kill themselves with drug overdoses - THAT they figured would make amazing ratings - even if it is massively unrepresentative of the reality.

Hang around long enough at any holiday destination with a camera running and you will find drunken idiots doing drunken idiot stuff. It’s the nature of a camera and drunken idiots, they attract each other. However, in 2014 NO ONE wanted to go to Bulgaria’s Sunny Beach except very specifically 17 to 23-year-old British males who had watched the program and thought ‘THAT looks good, I'm going there!’ This is not a high paying demographic and everyone was struggling.

So, Angel’s mother was laid off on the Friday and she started as my house keeper last Monday. I’d agreed to pay her $60 a week for doing the “job”, I guessed it would take three to five hours, three days a week. She seemed inordinately happy at the pay, questioning Angel and R2. I later discovered I was paying her the same as she’d been getting for nine hours a day, six days a week at the hotel. I was shocked, I thought Angel had been downplaying how much her parents earned to strengthen her position on the immorality of the rich.

R2 took my shock and ratcheted it up a notch when she proclaimed ‘I earn more than my teachers earn!’. R2, who now had been working for me for a couple of months already, was paid the same $60, 100 Bulgarian Leva, which for a 16-year-old working 20 hours a week seemed fair to me. Once more I was stunned into silence. R2 received 433 лв a month plus a weekly bonus of 20 лв if she made fewer than 3 mistakes. 3 mistakes in 1000 orders was an error rate of 0.3% but she had never not got a bonus, she was a machine when it came to accuracy. Her monthly total wage was 520 лв, her teachers were paid 400 лв by the government.

The trickle-down effect is a highly nonlinear model of economics. When times are good and the money is pouring in, the employees may get a 5% pay rise while the Boss pockets a $500,000 bonus and the company buys him a new CL63 AMG and a Porsche Cayan for the wife. When times are bad the Boss may begrudgingly downgrade the CL63 to an S320 Blue Motion Diesel but the employee gets canned or it they are lucky - get to enjoy a 20% pay cut in exchange for generously not getting canned. You never see minimum wage employees fighting for huge corporate tax cuts and preaching about the trickle-down effect.

Angel’s mother was not the only one to get canned. The general outlook in the region, a region that entirely relied on the tourist trade, was grim at best. My business was booming; my markets were exclusively outside Bulgaria. We never sold a single item in Bulgaria, if we had we would have completed a “trading cycle” and we’d lose our status as a Representative Office of an English company. This status allowed us to avoid much of the bureaucratic nightmare that was running a business in Bulgaria. But everyone else in the region was suffering.

This afternoon, over another round of the spectacular work of art sandwiches, which Angel now regularly produced, especially after and in between our high conflict arguments, we discussed the effect the economic situation was having on her father’s small automotive repair business. I poured another glass for each of us from a bottle of White Horse white wine, the Domain Boyar sadly exhausted, and enquired exactly what it was he did.

It turned out his business was mostly small damage repair of the type people would fund themselves as the excess on the insurance negated the possibility of a claim. But when times were tough people preferred to drive around with a small dent in their car instead of a big dent in their finances.

“Well, he can refinish the Merc for me,” I offered. The Mercedes CL500 I’d bought in 100% showroom condition only six months before had already developed scratches on three corners from careless drivers in carparks, along with half a dozen dings in the door where people had opened their car door into it, again in carparks. Additionally, the local Triffid Trees, a form of acacia tree that grew at a simply alarming rate, had dropped stupendously sticky sap all over it in the spring. Not knowing to wash this off immediately, I’d left it and it had turned to Amber resin on the bonnet, roof and trunk of the car.

What had started out with my giving her sister R2 a job a couple of months ago, has quickly spread like poison ivy, leaving me now supporting her ENTIRE family.

After offering to give her father work, Angel had beamed brightly and exclaimed she was going to go and prepare for sex, this was clearly the answer she had been hoping and angling for. I could still hear her hustling around in the closet, switching into her Basque, stockings, stripper heals, doing her hair, accessories, lipstick - the whole preparation would take no less than three hours.

For those long couple of hours as Angel prepared, I tried to pinpoint how I had been maneuvered into such a sticky situation, how I had little by little begun to take on more and more of Angel’s financial load as well as that of her families until the point that it sat now squarely on my shoulders. My mind retraced the past few months with such attention to detail that the two hours uncharacteristically flew by and in walked Angel into the bedroom, looking so amazing had she not been standing before me I would have thought she had been photo shopped.

All doubts and concerns melted from my mind at the sight of her, except that as I made to get up but I’d been lying on the bed with reduced blood supply to my extremities for the full three hours of Angel’s prepping, and my legs had gone numb.

Instead of springing from the bed like an enthusiastic 10-year-old I slumped sideways like an MS sufferer trying to fart. Angel was oblivious to this as she had found a mirror and was busy checking nothing horrific had occurred to her lipstick in the 30 yards from the dressing room to the Bedroom.

I squeezed and punched the muscles of my legs to encourage the blood supply to get a move on and facilitate locomotion. Unfortunately, my legs were not the only thing that were nonfunctioning at the moment, I realized with the amount of meth I had been taking since my relationship with Angel began, I was in serious need of Viagra.

I hobbled to the bathroom, passing Angel as she admired her body in the mirror. A quick calculation of how long it would take me to run to the pharmacy left me convinced that she was so in love with herself that I had little doubt that she would still be there admiring some piece of her remarkable body when I got back.

I walked along the freezing cold solid marble tiles of the entrance hall, all the way around the horse shoe that it formed around the central stairwell of the apartment building. In most apartments in the block you would never notice this great bite out of the floor plan but as this apartment was one entire floor, you had to circumnavigate the central stair well to get from one side to the other.

At the very end of the hallway was the dressing room. Presumably it had once been a bedroom. Either that or the architect felt the need to give the dressing room an on-suite bathroom. Entirely possible. He had, after all, donated a third of each of the seven floors to an internal stair well wide enough to get a sofa up sideways, in addition to a lift that didn't actually stop at any floor. Instead the lift stopped at the landings where the zig zag of the staircase made its turn in order to continue upwards. That meant you had to walk up a flight of stairs to get to the lift, arrive at a floor that was above yours and then walk back down a flight of stairs to your apartment. The lift had been included to comply with wheelchair access. ‘DUH’ isn't a word in Bulgaria, but it should be.

I’d had the entire dressing room refitted at my expense. The original fit out had been done by a man who was probably a blood relative of the guy who made the kitchen. His style was very different but his knowledge and skill were identical. Vast slabs of featureless veneered wood panels were in fact full length doors. The veneer was probably mahogany but it was difficult to tell because it was finished with “Bulgarian Lacquer”.

Lacquer is shellac varnish. And shellac is the wing casings of little shellac beetles. Something that is also shellac is old 78 rpm records so Bulgarian logic goes ‘if 78’s are made from shellac beetles and shellac lacquer is made from shellac beetles then shellac lacquer can be made from old 70’s - that will save me a fortune’. Which is true to an extent, you’re just emitting the refining process that takes a lot of the black pigment out of the shellac and makes it suitable for producing a transparent lacquer. So, this heavily pigmented Bulgarian Lacquer had been copiously applied. With age it had darkened to a solid black finish. It was highly reminiscent of walking into a Goth teenager’s bedroom and about as depressing as meeting the teenager who’d decorated the bedroom.

The Marilyn Manson finish on the doors, which went full 360º around the room, could have been brightened by an application of paint or HPL sheeting. However, a combination of cluelessness and Eastern European obsession with having vast areas of unused open space to show off, meant the depth of the wardrobe doors was significantly less than the length of a coat hanger. This placed the units somewhere between unusable and hideously frustrating. I tore them out one day in a fit of rage.

Having torn them out, I couldn't get a company to replace them. A further genius move, on the part of the architect, meant the sewer ran under the buildings foundations. The weight of the building had cracked the sewers and the sewers got their own back by scouring away the foundations of the building. This was most evident in the dressing room. The farthest corner was a full three inches lower than the entrance. Huge booms could be heard on a night as the ‘re-bar’ notched passed its self on its inexorable downward journey.

Bulgarian contractors might be greedy, but they are not entirely stupid. They knew the room was going to continue to adopt more peculiar shapes in the future. Each new shape meaning a call from me saying “the doors won't open”. Each contractor happily arrived with the expectation of milking a new cash cow, did a survey and said ‘you don't own the apartment, do you?’. When I said it was rented they invariably responded ‘I’d get our before it falls on your head.’

I didn't bother mentioning the five-year lease. It was too embarrassing.

I’d had to adopt an “open” arrangement using shop fittings, this meant it was like walking into a small but well stocked designer clothing store - all our clothing on tiered hanging systems. The one advantage was that shop fittings are very well designed to show off clothes - you could always find the exact shirt you wanted.

I picked out my clothes fast, black gym pants, a black T Shirt and my Baldadini dog walking boots - soft Italian leather boots with zipper access. They could be put on bare feet in seconds, they didn't require socks due to the beaver fur lining.

Me and my carbon fiber bike were out the door and down the stairs before I realized that I had forgotten my wallet and ran back up. I was off back down the stairs AGAIN and out onto the street, past the bamboo that would one day cause a civil war between the residents and the architect of the building.

I skidded to a stop in a graceful arc in front of the pharmacy, no one witnessed my consulate bike control, as the pharmacy was shut. Of course, the pharmacy was shut it was nearly 4.30 am. Then I remembered Burgas had an emergency pharmacy that stayed open 24 hours a day, presumably to sell to old men and Meth Heads Viagra.

In my hurry I’d forgotten my telephone so had no way of calling Angel to ask her which pharmacy it was. An educated guess told me it would be a pharmacy in the most accessible area - the center of the city. Me and $5,000 of carbon fiber shot down the smooth surface of the new road that had been constructed through the center of the city.

Burgas is not a 24-hour city - it goes to sleep. When it goes to sleep the traffic signals also go to sleep, it’s a quaint Eastern European tradition that is fucking deadly. I shot downhill through intersection after intersection, the blinding flash of head lights and the noise of blaring horns accompanying most crossings. Neither party having the right of way and neither party having looked, blame was dished out based on the size of your engine and I was universally the one in the wrong, it appeared.

Motoring right and wrong is regularly assessed on the size of engine or the value of your car in Bulgaria. The large number of uninsured drivers and the unlikelihood of cheap car insurance ever paying out leads to drivers of cheap cars avoiding expensive cars at all costs, even if it means plowing into another cheap car. The knock-on effect is that drivers of expensive cars drive like they own the road knowing that almost everyone else will get out of their way.

Another graceful curving arc of black rubber announced my arrival at the most logical pharmacy to be open all night.

It was closed.

But, I was in luck, a young couple still hot and sticky from the club they had been in walked passed and guessed my plight. Much to my annoyance they also guessed I was English without me saying a word, this always annoyed me when it happened. I was directed to a pharmacy I knew of but would have never guessed was open due to it being in just about the least accessible part of the city on ‘Democratzia’. Democratzia was an eight lane stretch of highway running through the outskirts of the city. It was a no stopping zone for traffic and had only one bus stop. If you didn't live there you didn't go there. So naturally that was where the 24/7 pharmacy was.

My back tire was starting to wear thin on rubber as I created yet another jet-black crescent of the pavement infant of pharmacy number three. The lights were on and the sign lit - this meant nothing in Bulgaria. For reasons I had not worked out in my 6 years in Bulgaria all retail businesses leave there lights on and signs illuminated 24/7. But this time it coincided with the pharmacy actually being open. Like all night businesses the world over you were served through a hatch in the wall and to get attention you had to press a doorbell type button.

I pressed the bell and a couple of minutes later a rather groggy and somewhat dorky looking pharmacist opened the green framed window and looked through smeared glasses with an expression that said ‘what do you want?’ I casually wondered just how many times he opened that little serving window at 4.30 a.m. and it was NOT Viagra that was required?

“Viagra please,” I forgot to speak in Bulgarian. He answered in fluent English and crushed my spirits under the jackboot of his words.

“We don't stock Viagra, sorry.” Seeing my distress, he quickly interjected, “but we have many brands of Sildenaphil.”

I knew Sildenaphil was the generic name for Viagra.

“Great! Four capsules of 100mg Sildemaphil please, the best brand.” I added at the end for good measure.

He returned with two boxes one by a German manufacturer with a very long unpronounceable name he didn't attempt, just referring to it as ‘this German one’ and one by Sopharma the Bulgarian pharmaceuticals company from Sofia. I was familiar with Sopharma, we stocked several of their products, so I selected them. I was in need of a rest from all the cycling, so we chatted for a few moments.

He was a likeable guy, slightly darkish-looking and possessing a darkish manner to his movements but this was at odds with his personality which was caring, intelligent and quietly confidant. He was the embodiment of the old saying ‘don’t judge a book by its cover’, a lesson that girls clearly needed to learn, as he confessed to having been single for a few years. Given he looked about 23 years old, that probably meant since high school. It struck me how highly he would rank on a ‘great catch’ scale; a qualified pharmacist, tall, fit, healthy, intelligent, quietly confident, caring. I guessed most girls would have him up in the 8 to 9 regions, that is until you added slightly dorky looking and that apparently crashed him to a 3 or a 4.

He was good enough to point out to me what I had already researched online, it was not a good idea to use Viagra in conjunction with Meth. I was risking heart problems or a stroke.

But I was dating a gorgeous girl half my age, what was I supposed to do?? Give up sex with Angel?

No way.

Give up Meth? More likely but - nah.

Meth and Viagra cocktail, it was going to be; I’d take the risk.

Did I mention Meth impairs decision making skills?

Thankfully the Meth free, and therefore compos mentis, pharmacist had a safe alternative

“If you take 2,000mg of liquid L Arginine it will have the same effect and will be much safer,” he said.

I knew this, I used to own an herbal medicine company. I could not believe my stupidity. Did I mention Meth impairs your memory?

“Do you have a picture of your girlfriend I could see?” he asked.

This is a far more culturally acceptable request in Bulgaria than it would be in the UK, people photograph each other whether they are friend or stranger in Bulgaria. If you want a picture of a pretty girl in Bulgaria just take it, she will regard it as a complement and likely pose for you. I grabbed my phone out of my back pocket and opened photos, then felt like crap. It really was going to be rubbing salt into this guy’s wounds to show him a picture of Angel.

He knew I was going to go home to be with the girl in the picture while he sat doing a night shift and thinking about being single. I flicked through for a bad picture of Angel. There wasn't one. While I had the photogenic qualities of a bad car crash Angel was extremely photogenic. The camera didn't so much love her as have a torrid affair with her. I picked the least provocative picture of her, which was a very provocative picture indeed.

“Oh, wow, she is SO beautiful!” He said slightly wistfully, “I have seen her many times,” he said staring at the picture. “EVERYONE has seen her, she is the girl with the red lip stick.”

“Yes, it’s very red isn't it?” I said, struggling for something to say.

“It looks like dry powder on her lips, I have never seen a girl with lips like that before,” he said wistfully and something in his demeanor made me a little uncomfortable all of a sudden.

“She orders it off the internet, I don't think you can get it in Burgas,” I replied.

“No, no,” he said. “You cannot get things that beautiful in Burgas.” His words were clear and measured.

“Everyone knows the girl with the red lipstick,” he repeated cryptically as if daydreaming out loud. After a second the emphasis registered on me and the true meaning of his words became clear ‘everyone lusts after with the girl with the red lip stick’ was the unspoken inference. I looked from the picture to his face it was clear he was talking about himself.

 

—- § —-

 

I told Angel the essentials of the events at the pharmacy, including the pharmacists interest in her. My perspective on the story was how shallow girls could be. This guy, with so many admirable qualifications as a boyfriend, was left on the sidelines while girls went out with jerks who looked good and beat them when drunk.

But her interest in the story was not about how others girls should feel about him nor was it an interest to know him as a person, it was not genuine curiosity, she simply wanted to know every single thing he said about her and about how he said everyone knew her.

This wasn’t a romantic interest; it was not sexual - it was technical. She wanted to know all the details as if it were some kind of forensic investigation she was conducting. I could see her thoughts spinning in her mind, her eyes light up every time I told her something he said about her. I watched her expressions change as I explained in detail what had transpired.

“That’s it?” she asked as if incapable of understanding why I hadn’t stood there for hours with this guy doing nothing else but hear him talk about her.

“Yeah, he had to order a box of the L Arginine for me.”

Her eyes lit up once again.

“When will it arrive?” She was eager to know.

“Tomorrow, why?”

“Because I want to meet him,” she said frankly as if I was a fool to not have reached that conclusion on my own.