‘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.
‘You aren’t lecturing anymore?’ I ask.
‘The academic year is over. There were some great graduation parties. You know, the usual drill: Movida, China White …’
‘Still going to those student pickup spots?’ I smirk. ‘How did it go with that hot student of yours? Has she finally graduated to your bed yet?’ I can see him sniggering with a triumphant smile, signaling yet another medal on his pumped chest. ‘So, is she a keeper?’ I eagerly ask.
‘Nah. She’s a nice girl but too immature for me,’ he says confidently.
‘I thought she was a perfect ten.’
‘She’s alright,’ he muses. ‘I’m happy to be in love, but it doesn’t mean I have to be with her.’ He gazes at me as we pass by the darkness of the park, hearing the rustle of its foliage.
‘What do you mean?’ I ask.
‘She wants all these nice gestures like coffee in bed, flowers, restaurants, thinking that her looks are enough to cover everything. It would even be fine if she didn’t annoy me with her insecurities, trying to make me responsible for her life. She isn’t capable of understanding the real me, what I want to achieve – all she wants is to hear that I love her all the time.’
‘What’s wrong with that?’ I tease.
‘Well, sometimes when I – or for example, your parents – yell at you, there is a lot more love in that than in that stupid phrase.’
‘I was not loved,’ I cut in.
‘You were,’ he replies, ‘just in a way you wouldn’t accept. Many people didn’t even have that.’
‘My mom only loves Lenin,’ I snap. ‘Maybe this girl loves you too and you just aren’t accepting the form it takes?’’
‘Maybe, but with partners we can choose. I don’t have to be with someone who’s breaking my balls all the time.’
‘Shame, you were so into her,’ I say genuinely. ‘She must be really stupid. Or bad in bed. Or both.’
‘In any case, she’s not The One. Next! That’s how you should be thinking about it too,’ he winks.
‘If only it was that easy,’ I shrug.
‘Listen, I’ve got an idea, you should stay at my place until you sort yourself out,’ he says exuberantly as we approach my house.
‘Are you kidding me? In your tiny studio in Brick Lane?’
‘I can sleep on the mattress in the kitchen, and you can sleep on my bed.’ He says it like it is really not a big deal. ‘The opportunity cost is very small. You should do it,’ he says, getting distracted by the sound of a newly arrived text on his ancient Nokia.
‘I don’t know …’
‘When the future is uncertain you need to save money.’ He sounds like Alex. ‘I’ll help you move your stuff. You should sublet your apartment as soon as you can. It’s just a money burn. What you pay for this place is ridiculous in any case.’
‘All my stuff is never going to fit in there,’ I say, unwilling to cause any inconvenience.
‘My apartment is more spacious that it looks … an ill-favored thing, but mine own.’ He smiles, typing a message.
‘Why are you doing this for me?’ I ask distrustfully.
‘You are very high-functioning, competitive, driven and used to succeeding,’ he says, looking me straight in the eye. ‘Things are going a bit out of control right now and you’re driving yourself even harder, and afraid to ask for help so as to not be perceived as weak. It’s OK. This is what London does to people. It’s normal. You’ll be a successful kick-ass again in no time … and it costs me nothing to help you.’
‘Me – a successful kick in the ass?’ I ask, dumbfounded. ‘I wish I were this confident, self-sufficient person,’ I sulk.
‘It’s just a bad patch. Not even that bad, because nobody died. It’s just a challenging period of your life, that’s all. Where one door closes, another one opens. With a bit of dedication and discipline you’ll get back on track sooner than you think.’
‘If I move in with you,’ I say, beginning to see his point about the rent, ‘where are you going to bring the girls?’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll figure something out,’ he says, quickly typing another text. ‘Think I’ve found someone you can sublet your apartment to. She’ll call you tomorrow. Start packing,’ he instructs. ‘I’ve got to go back to Sophie’s.’
He kisses me goodbye on both cheeks and hurriedly vanishes off into the sharp, clean air of the night, tingling with adventure.
The exclusive party at Kensington Palace. must be picking up … in the opposite direction from Brick Lane. I wonder if it’s the one requiring the ‘fidelio’ password. No one would care how I looked if I had to wear a mask …