‘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 …
CHAPTER FIVE
BRICK LANE
The next morning I am woken by a phone call:
‘Hi, Richard gave me your number for the apartment … he says the apartment is amazing … and the location is fantastic! It’s the best part of London … and what a great chance, to take over your contract without the agency fees! Could I come around in an hour or so to have a look?’
‘Yes, sure,’ I say in a tired, croaky voice, realizing tonight could be my last night here.
I drag my aching body to the bathtub and sink into the Bulgari bath foam with its exquisite scent. It gently brushes against my submerged face. I move deeper down, fighting the urge to breathe.
I put my two fingers against my clitoris, pressing and moving them around, getting some twisted pleasure in the suffocation. The two fingers go all the way in, and it feels pulpy. I pull them out and see them covered in blood.
Repelled, I immediately wash them off and get out of the bath, clumsily drying myself with a towel.
A mug of coffee gives me just enough of an energy kick to tidy up the apartment so it looks good enough for the girl to want to take it.
Soon she comes over and breathlessly tells me her entire life story. She talks so fast I can barely follow. Eventually, she gives me a thousand-quid deposit and says she’ll move in tomorrow.
Until then it is just non-stop packing. All my pencil skirts, crisp shirts and chiffon dresses are hurriedly crammed into boxes and suitcases.
I predict that Richard will be shocked by the amount of stuff I have got … but he only says, ‘It’s OK. We’ll fit it in,’ and helps me to bring it down and pack it into a large minicab.
I sit in the back seat holding the boxes so they don’t fall as we drive to East London in a cacophony of heavy traffic, where worn-out cyclists and runners try to dodge the clouds of exhaust gas.
As we get closer to Brick Lane, my mood changes. The streets here are narrow and dirty and the corners are damp, moldering, blotting and rotting. The houses are small, gray and grotty. Someone needs to pinch me. I want to wake up back in my normal life.
Richard jumps out of the cab and energetically starts unloading my stuff. He salutes a little Indian dude in ragged clothes sitting in front of the deli across the street. The man returns a friendly gesture. ‘This is Katya,’ Richard shouts. ‘She’s going to stay with me for a few weeks.’
A moment later the man comes over accompanied by another three chaps, who bring with them the smell of the curry house across the room, up the narrowest staircase ever, and fill the entire fifty-square-foot apartment with my stuff.
‘Welcome to Brick Lane,’ says one of them with a very strong accent, happily giving me a grubby plastic bag full of dates.
I thank him and take my welcome gift with two fingers, holding it as far away from myself as possible.
‘Come to Bangla City,’ he says with a wink. ‘We’ll treat you very good. You beautiful,’ he flatters.
‘I’ll try,’ I say, politely shaking their grubby, rugged hands.
As soon as they go, I carry my bags and suitcases through the Thumbelina-sized kitchen where Richard has already put a single mattress on the floor, leaving a very narrow path to the shabby bathroom.
I thoroughly wash my hands, feeling like a giant in the little land of Lilliput. Even my bed by the tatty window feels t
oo small for me.
Richard quickly lifts anything I won’t immediately need to the top of the IKEA cupboards, magically creating quite a bit of space … and there are still a couple of shelves available for my use. Unbelievable!
‘I don’t need that much storage space anyway,’ he says, ‘only for T-shirts and jeans and a couple of suits.’
‘I believe you. Even on Halloween you were a stripper wearing only your pants,’ I laugh.
‘I won the best costume prize!’ he smiles, showing off his biceps. ‘So what are you going to do tonight?’ he asks.
‘I don’t know,’ I say, hoping he isn’t asking me on a date as he did some time ago, when we had just met.
‘Come with me to the gym,’ he suggests. ‘I’m doing legs tonight.’
‘The scary one in Liverpool Street where I picked you up for the gallery opening?’ I ask.
‘It was a good event: I pulled you a nice French guy.’
‘He was an associate at JP,’ I snarl.
‘What’s wrong with an associate?’ he asks.
‘That he lives in a shared apartment, FaceTimes till midnight, making boring spreadsheets, and goes on vacation only when his senior lets him. And all that is based on the idea that he’ll eventually get paid enough to buy a red Ferrari, put a blonde in it, drive back home to his village and prove to everyone who bullied him at school that he isn’t a loser.’ What I’m describing is a common profile for bankers.
‘I’m OK with female associates. That Russian one you introduced me to was quite nice,’ he smiles.
‘She didn’t last long after the visit to this apartment,’ I say.
‘OK, OK. Anyway, there are only guys in the gym. Who knows?’ he winks. ‘You coming?’
‘OK, although I doubt I’m gonna meet anyone decent there,’ I smirk.
‘Worst case, you get a good workout,’ he reasons. Well, I’ll do anything not to stay alone … especially in this place.
We get a quick carb fix of rice cakes and jog to the gym through the narrow, murky streets.
In the busy, sweaty basement Richard exhausts me with squats, after a long cardio session. He counts to ten in French, so I can simultaneously learn the language. ‘C’mon three more … huit … neuf … dix … Bien fait!’ he exclaims, taking the bar off me.
He notices a bulky guy at a chest pumping station across the floor, who is checking me out.
‘You should go and talk to the guy,’ Richard hints, as I stretch my quadriceps.
‘No, I can’t,’ I say, quickly moving out of the guy’s field of vision.
‘Why not?’
Hesitant, I freeze for a moment: ‘I don’t know, all those dating books and articles say that the guy has to approach the girl first.’
‘Oh, c’mon. C’est pas vrai,’ he exclaims. ‘Some men love to be seized. This guy is that type for sure, trust me. Just go over and ask him what he’s doing’
‘It’s obvious,’ I say. ‘He’s training his chest muscles.’
‘Yes, correct, but you need to come across as if you needed his advice. He would love to tell you about the bar he’s lifting.’ He smiles, pushing me out to the middle of the room.
‘I don’t know about that …’ I whisper, pulling back.
‘Just go and ask him,’ Richard whispers back.
‘I cannot do this,’ I say. I look at the hulking guy again. He’s laughing at us.
‘OK, OK,’ Richard agrees. ‘One more set and we’ll go. We’ll take a shower at home. The one here is small and disgusting.’
‘If you say so … it must really be awful,’ I grimace, lifting the bar for the squats.
‘Stick your bum out more,’ Richard commands. ‘Weight on your heels.’
‘Huit … neuf … dix …’ I drop the bar, breathing heavily.
‘You are stronger than you think,’ he says, adding twenty kilos to each side, and starts the squats himself.
When he finishes he wipes the bar with a small towel and we finally leave the sweat chamber.
The cold, annoying drizzle makes me instinctively pull my jacket in tighter. The filthy drops melt into my skin like mulch. The only wish I have right now is to get somewhere warm and dry as soon as possible, even if it is Richard’s tiny apartment.
‘Bloody chirimiri … sorry, no more cakes and ale,’ he quotes, giving me a small black umbrella from his backpack, but I insist we use it together. From the outside we probably look like a real couple, leaning towards each other under one umbrella, walking home along the edges of the little damp streets, which are made even narrower by all the litter in the gutters.
When we get back to our little slum Richard lets me shower first, while he makes a tomato, tuna and egg salad.
I put my flip-flops on and walk across the worn-out but clean linoleum floor of my bedroom-living room, through the kitchen, to the minuscule bathroom. The boiling water from the grungy rubber shower tap in the tattered shower reminds me of the one I had when I was a kid … when you had to pump the water with your foot. There is absolutely no question of going back!
The Bulgari scent triggers a slight flashback to my previous life and it feels surreal to have filled a grotty apartment like this with its smell when I open the door of the fogged-up bathroom.
Richard adds herbs and lemon juice to the very simple tuna salad, made to feed our muscles after the workout.
‘A dish fit for the gods,’ Richard declares. He gives me an enormous bowl of the salad and starts a Top Gear episode on his computer while he eats. He sits on the chair by the table and from time to time responds to incoming laptop messages, interrupting the video, but it doesn’t bother me.
I am busy checking the vacancies on efinancialcareers, sitting slightly further away on the edge of my future bed. The metal bars of its mattress keep poking me, making it impossible to settle down.
Through the small shabby window, which I occasionally look through while my application is uploading, I can see an elderly couple having dinner across the narrow road in a grimy Georgian townhouse.
When the program finishes, Richard moves closer to the computer and starts quickly copy-pasting some text.
‘Making some extra cash online?’ I ask.
‘Ha, no, just responding to some girls on easyroommate.’
I detach from my screen and look at him alertly. ‘Are you looking for someone else to live here?’
‘Oh no, of course not. It is just ‘pour draguer les filles’ – you know, to meet girls,’ he explains.
‘How do you mean?’ I ask, not convinced.
‘French girls want to come here to boost their careers or whatever. They are single by default. Et voilà, I am the one who speaks their language and can make their lives easier, someone they can trust, give them some pointers … and if she’s cute, who knows what might happen?’ He smiles mischievously.
‘What are you copy-pasting then?’ I ask, more relaxed.
‘It’s always the same conversation. They all want to hear the same thing,’ he says, copy-pasting yet another message.
Is this what Alex was doing too? Copy-pasting a story, to create the illusion that he as MD would sky-rocket my career …?
The lemon from the salad feels very bitter in my mouth all of a sudden … Through the window the older woman caringly puts a blanket over her husband’s shoulders … a wave of tears momentarily surges in me, forcing me to look away.
‘Don’t worry, I’m not bringing anyone else here. It’s just to meet people, you know,’ Richard says with a poised smile.
‘You have sex with all those girls?’ I ask, instinctively crossing my arms.
‘I’m not into cold-hearted fucking, as Lady Chatterley would put it,’ he mocks, with private-school pronunciation. ‘I just want to help them to settle here to begin with …’
‘So altruistic,’ I smirk.
‘Look. I don’t like people that only go along if they think the other has something to offer sexually, materially or in any other way. I’ve know
n people like that and I don’t want to be one of them.’ He unnerves me with his gaze. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I love beautiful women, and dinners in fine restaurants in London or Paris. I love fast cars and expensive watches, but I don’t attach happiness to any of it.’
‘My parents could still be together if they hadn’t lost all their money in the early nineties when the Soviet Union collapsed,’ I avidly argue.
‘Money makes life easier and can buy a lot of things that make you smile, but it’s not the be-all and end-all! It’ll give neither depth nor value to life. Value for me now is helping a friend, a good person in trouble.’ He looks at me kindly, making me feel something warm inside. ‘My dad told me when I was a kid that person A is a better friend than person B, because person A is more generous.’
‘It seems like your father was a very wise man,’ I praise him, not knowing what else to say.
‘Yes, he was … I wish I could have at least a fraction of his wisdom. Part of me always wants to go back to his house in France … to follow in his footsteps, to try the taste of the land – le goût du terroir, you know?’
‘So why don’t you do it?’ I ask a simple question, evidently causing Richard pain.
‘My father died at thirty-three – five years younger than I am now,’ he says seriously. ‘He was by far a greater man than me. His reputation as a sculptor was pretty high. He did things correctly … started teaching straight away, which helped to finance his art. He spent a great deal of his time sculpting bronze figures in glass balls. And I still can’t even come close to understanding what the hell they mean!’ he says passionately.
‘Maybe you just need to look from a different angle? Get under his skin … think, behave the way he did … become him?’ I suggest, trying to come up with something constructive.
‘He was fairly macho for those days … into big, powerful motorbikes … very short hair. Far more intellectual than me … played hard, worked hard, drank a lot. It’s strange to look on a ‘younger’ father, who will always remain that way … in some ways I hardly knew him … in a lot of ways. But when he went, there was nothing,’ he says, looking very distraught, making me want to get up and hug him, but I only manage to say quietly: ‘I’m sorry.’
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