by Tonya Plank
“I am glad to see you have such an appetite,” Sasha noted with a nod and dimpled smile. “Good. You will definitely need it.”
Sasha and I had to go through separate lines at customs since he had a Russian passport and I an American one. It was weird being separated on our way to the same place. We kissed and hugged goodbye like we wouldn’t be seeing each other again for a long time.
“I’ll see you on the other side,” he said with a faux sinister tone before planting a long, solid kiss on my lips and dipping me dramatically. I lifted one leg, giggling.
It took forever and a day for me to get through the non-European line. There were a lot of Americans. When I got outside, Sasha was sitting on one of his suitcases, reading his phone.
“I was worried they suspected you of being a terrorist, and put you through the third degree,” he said, looking up right as I approached as if he’d sensed my presence.
“Do I look like a terrorist?” I said, play-slugging him in the arm.
“Sure, why not? Yellow-blonde hair, big jade doe eyes, soft, milky skin, good enough to drink. Mmmm,” he said, kissing my neck.
“Still waiting for the terrorist part?” I said, laughing.
“Oh yes. Well, terrorists come in all shapes and sizes, no? Wasn’t there an American newspaper heiress who was perhaps a terrorist? Something like that?” He had this cocked smile, like he was kind of serious, but not completely.
“I don’t know if terrorist is the right word for her, but Patty Hearst,” I said just as I remembered she’d gone by the name Tatiana at one point. That was what the Russian men had called me. My heart stopped for a second. I hadn’t thought about them in a while. Sasha had not fallen through on his word, not surprisingly, of course. The car was long gone. There was nothing to indicate the whole thing ever happened.
“What’s wrong?” he said, pulling back to look at me while cupping my chin in his hand.
“Nothing,” I said, deciding not to bring it up. He’d promised they wouldn’t hurt me again and I didn’t want him ever to think I doubted him. And I didn’t.
“Seriously. You suddenly are upset by something.”
“No. I’m just feeling a little upset stomach over all that I ate on the plane,” I lied.
“It will wear off. If it doesn’t we will get something at the pharmacy,” he said, kissing my forehead.
I knew that whole thing was over. I trusted Sasha. I did. After Blackpool he’d tell me all about it. Still, I couldn’t shake a sense of foreboding.
***
Several other couples around our age pulling large bags like ours walked toward a train station connected to the airport. Several of them looked at Sasha and smiled bashfully, then looked away without officially greeting him. He smiled back, knowingly. Admirers of his, here to compete as well, I thought.
Instead of going to the train station, we followed a sign for taxis. We walked into a big open area, where numerous black English taxis lined up. These were for real? I’d always assumed these old-style cars were only used in movies and that English taxis were yellow and looked like those in New York. But apparently I’d been wrong. Outside one stood a man holding up a large sign that read “Zakharov.” We headed toward him. As he took our bags, Sasha opened the back door for me. How fun that we were riding in one of these! As we got in, I saw camera flashes out of the corner of my eye. At first I got scared, remembering the flashes of light caused by the opening door during my kidnaping, then realized these were camera flashes and there would be no reason for those men to take pictures and make their presence so obvious. Still, I was confused, and stopped.
“Go ahead,” Sasha said into my ear, patting my arm.
Then I heard giggles and chattering. He was a celebrity here, I reminded myself. And he was trying to be nonchalant.
The ride to Blackpool was amazing. Everything was so charming. I kept having to mentally pinch myself in reminder that we were in England. Sasha put his arm around me and kissed my cheek and neck, eventually resting his chin in the crook of my neck.
“Mmmm, try to get some sleep at some point, love.”
No way! Not now. We passed a plethora of green, rolling hills with grazing cows, sheep, and horses. And then we passed through some towns with very old, gray brick buildings that reminded me of something out of Dickens. Some towns were more bustling and cheerier. One had a big clock in the town center. Cobblestoned streets were everywhere. I got out my cell phone and snapped away at everything. I spied a sign that read “Liverpool.” I hadn’t even thought about how close we’d be to Beatles-land.
Blackpool itself was a charming little seaside city with lots of curvy, narrow brick roads and streets lined with grocery markets, National Westminster banks, pubs and exchange kiosks—reminding me I needed to get some cash. Sasha told me he’d take care of everything but I wanted to bring some of my own money. There were small restaurants—mostly either fish and chips or Indian places. The town center had a big shopping mall with a Marks and Spencer department store and a Boots pharmacy, as well as a very cute-looking Italian bistro and some American-style cafes. There were lots of billboards and a few double-decker buses with large advertisements on their sides for Las Vegas-style entertainment and casinos. We wended around the slightly larger main street, the sea to our right, which had a nice little boardwalk and, off in the distance, a Coney Island-esque theme park. It was too far to see all they had but I could definitely make out a Ferris wheel. Too bad it was too chilly to go out on the beach.
Finally, we wended around a large round building that looked like a civic center. I saw the words “Winter Gardens” etched over the quadruple gilded doors. There were other signs pointing to an opera house and the grand ballroom. My heart pumped wildly. We’d arrived.
But we continued circling around the rotunda, then took a smaller street that led to a cobblestoned road a couple blocks away that led to another street bearing a series of small hotels. The largest one was called the Ruskin Hotel, which was quite packed with people, and brought back memories of college English classes. How fun!
The check-in counter at the hotel was booming. Wow, so many dancers. The nanosecond Sasha entered, all eyes were on us. And I mean every single one.
“Hey, Sasha, hey man, how are you?”
“Sasha!”
“Oh my God, look!”
“Where’s Xenia? Are you competing?”
And about a few hundred things were said in Russian. I recognized only the name of my man.
Okay, I was exaggerating. But seriously, so many voices. I didn’t know how many. Two large groups of people ahead of us in line walked over to shake his hand or pat him on the back. Most of them spoke Russian, but a couple were Chinese, three or four spoke Italian, and there was a small group of Brits. A group of Japanese men and women, all wearing jackets bearing names of dance shoe suppliers or costumers, was leaving the hotel. One of them saw Sasha and began excitedly speaking in Japanese. The others looked toward the leader’s pointed index finger and began giggling and talking excitedly among themselves.
“Rory? Rory?” I suddenly heard Sasha say. I was so engrossed with taking it all in, I had to turn around to look for him. “This is Max,” he said, introducing me to one of the Russians in line.
Max nodded, then said something in Russian, which Sasha answered in Russian, after which several faces in line turned around and looked me up and down, open-mouthed and wide-eyed. Both men and women. He’d obviously told them I was his new partner. I hadn’t looked in the mirror in a while, not since the plane. I must have had hair resembling a rat’s nest, sleep in my eyes, makeup smeared all over my face, and very possibly bits of that yummy pudding hanging from my lower lip.
As I turned around to take in the entire scene, I realized everyone—every single person in that room, including the two hotel clerks up front busy checking people in—was looking right at me. I knew Sasha was a huge star who everyone who knew anything about ballroom knew of, loved, fantasized about. Or hate
d, I guess if you were friends with or fans of a competitor. I just hadn’t thought about what that would mean for me. How I’d be received. And what it might do to my still sometimes fragile self-esteem. I took a breath. Get used to being on display, I told myself. And take a look at yourself in the mirror a little more often. This was nothing compared to the gawking we’d get when we were in costume, ready to dance. Or while dancing.
“Excuse me, excuse me,” I heard an accented voice behind me. The group of Japanese dancers was now standing directly behind us, and one was tugging on the bottom of Sasha’s jacket, thrusting a thick catalog-looking booklet entitled “Blackpool Dance Festival” in his face.
Sasha smiled and nodded, taking the booklet and the pen the man was holding. He opened it and signed his name. The man was practically orgasmic when Sasha handed it back to him. So it wasn’t just women who went all goopy over my man.
The Japanese group then formed a line—they were actually pretty organized about doing this, making me wonder if they were a formation team—and, one by one, handed him their booklets for autograph. Soon, another group saw what was going on and headed over as well. This group didn’t yet seem to have their booklets, so they were giving him all kinds of paraphernalia. Anything he could write his name on. One had a ticket to the day’s pre-comp competition for qualifiers; one had a greasy receipt from the fish and chips shop next door; one ran over to the front desk and grabbed a pamphlet showcasing the hotel we were in. Soon, everyone got that idea and followed in turn.
“Ah, wait, wait, please,” the desk attendant called out. But he was too nice and soft-spoken, and all of his pamphlets were gone in about three seconds flat. One of the women in line before me, who’d looked me up and down when Sasha introduced me to his Russian friends, caught my eye. When I made eye contact with her she looked at Sasha then back to me, giving me a look of pity. The man who’d been talking to Sasha when he was interrupted did the same. I wanted to disappear.
About two hours later, we were finally checked in and leaving the lobby. Our room was on the third floor.
The elevators were a trip. They were just wooden boxes that went up and down in an open shaft and you had to jump on and off as they slowly rose and descended in the open wall. The English word for them was “lift” and that’s what they literally were.
While Sasha showered, I unpacked, hanging my dresses and Sasha’s tuxes neatly in the large closet. I’d planned to take a nap, but found myself too pumped up. It was my first time in England and at a huge dance competition to boot. I had too much energy to sleep. So, when he got out of the bathroom, I took a nice, long, warm shower, blew dry my hair—thankfully, I had remembered to bring electric converters so my blow-dryer and other electronics would work—put on a full face of makeup, and moussed my hair up.
When I was all done, I looked in the mirror. Finally, I looked like a Sasha Zakharov partner. I came out of the bathroom in a lacy red bra and underwear, intent not on seducing Sasha right then—I wanted to go out and explore while we still had daylight and some warmth—but on giving him something to look forward to later that night. But he was gone.
Hmmm. Why didn’t he tell me he was leaving, I wondered. No bother. I dressed in a Mod Squad-esque short miniskirt, form-fitting red sweater, and over-the-knee black boots. When I looked just about as hot as I could make myself, I grabbed my bag and my set of room keys and ventured out. He wasn’t in the hall or the lobby. Just when I was about to get out my cell and text him, I heard him calling me.
I turned toward the back bar area. It was hard to make him out, and I mainly did so by his raised hand. I’d recognize those long, thick, powerful fingers anywhere! He was surrounded by people. I saw the same group of Russians he’d spoken to in the check-in line, but now there were many, many others.
I walked toward the raised hand.
“Um, excuse me,” I said to some people standing in front of the hand, my voice nearly a whisper.
They were turned away from me, toward him. And they didn’t speak English, or spoke very little. Of course I sounded like a mouse, anyway.
“Excuse me,” I said a little more forcefully after clearing my throat.
Still no movement. Then Sasha’s hand lowered and I lost sight of it. I sighed. This was ridiculous. But then I saw his hand again, now poking through the bodies directly in front of me. I took it and it pulled me in. I crashed straight into a black-haired guy and platinum blonde woman.
“Sorry,” I said with a nervous laugh as they were forced to part and allow me in.
My annoyance immediately dissipated when I saw my man’s beautiful smile.
“Mmmm, you look delicious,” he said, eyeing me up and down and licking his lips.
Again, all eyes on me. Every single one of them, looking me up and down in the same manner. Embarrassing, even if I didn’t look awful like before. I looked down, bashfully. “I didn’t know where to look for you. I’m glad I found you.”
“I thought you wanted to sleep for a little while so I came down to catch up with old friends,” he said, pulling me closer to him, ignoring everyone else around him, which simultaneously made me elated he was shunning the others but also made me feel badly about interrupting his fandom.
“I just can’t sleep. I thought we could go out and explore the town. And believe it or not, I’m hungry again.” It was like once I started eating regularly again, I couldn’t stop. It had been several hours, though, since the airplane breakfast. “Do you mind if we get something to eat?”
“Of course not,” he said, kissing me right on the lips. He took out some English bills and put them on the bar and said something to his friends in Russian. “You look so good, Rory,” he said, turning back to me. “I’m just afraid you might get a little cold. The weather here is not like L.A.”
I hadn’t even thought about it. I’d thought only about what would make me look my absolute hottest. “I’ll be fine,” I said, shaking my head. This was the end of May, after all.
But when we got outside I was definitely sorry I didn’t wear a heavier sweater and a longer skirt. Or pants. Thankfully, that little Italian bistro I’d admired when we drove in was just around the block.
“Oh yeah, this is where everyone always goes. It’s a nice little place,” he said.
The restaurant was absolutely packed, and again every single head turned when we walked in, followed by lots of chattering and giggling and pointing.
“Sasha!” a male voice called out.
Now I felt like I might have overdone it a little with my outfit. Everyone seemed to smile widely at Sasha, only to turn their eyes to me and give me the up and down, eyes widening. Most people were dressed in jeans, sneakers and jackets bearing the name of a dance costumer or shoemaker. I hadn’t even thought to wear the windbreaker Sasha had given me with the name of our shoe sponsors on the back. It wouldn’t have gone with my current outfit, of course. But I was definitely planning on wearing the silk robe, with Daiyu written in both Chinese and beautiful Roman cursive letters across the back, over my costume to keep myself warm during the competition. I even packed the lovely robe—practically a gown itself—along with my dresses in the costume bag.
“I see a friend from Moscow. Be back in a sec. Get us a table in the back, in a quiet area, if possible,” Sasha said, giving my shoulder a squeeze and my cheek a gentle peck.
A woman holding menus approached me. She said nothing and wore only a bemused semi-smile but I assumed from the menus she was a hostess.
“Hi, um, a table for two,” I said.
“Yeah, might be tricky at this hour.” Her words were coated with a light layer of irony. I looked around. She was right; there didn’t appear to be anything free. “I think there’s a couple in the back who’re about to leave,” she said and walked away, I assumed to check.
But just then I heard Sasha calling for me. “Rory! Rory!” I looked to the far right side of the room. He had his hand up high in the air and was waving me over. He was completely surr
ounded by people. I’d longed for our nice quiet table in the back too but his deep-dimpled smile, oozing with boyish charm, was just too much to deny. My boy was ecstatic about something.
I took a breath and walked over, bracing myself for the crowd. When I got there, again, bodies blocked mine from his and I couldn’t see his shining face in that sea of heads and shoulders. But somehow he sensed when I was near because his big, brawny arm darted straight through the bodies and parted them, his long, suave fingers finding their way to my hand, interlacing with mine and guiding me toward him.
When I got inside the throng, I saw that Sasha’s Russian friends had carved out a place for us at their insanely overcrowded table. There was one cushionless wooden chair for me. You could smoke here and tobacco was just about all I could smell. This was so the antithesis of what I’d had in mind. I wanted a quiet dinner with my sweetheart, to eat something with lots of protein and carbs to give me energy for the very stressful next few days, and maybe have a glass of light white wine to soothe my frayed nerves. But it was all too obvious from the looks on the faces of everyone seated, these were people he hadn’t seen in a very long time. I could do this. I could be game for him.
Sasha said something in Russian while caressing my arm and gently guiding me down onto the hard wood seat. In response to whatever he said, everyone looked at me and nodded politely.
“Yes, very, very good to meet you,” said one man in English but with a very thick Russian accent. He extended his hand to me and I took it and told him it was wonderful to meet him too.
I nodded and smiled at the others as well. Blushed, is more like it. It would have been nice to know what exactly Sasha was saying to them as he continued talking in Russian. People looked back and forth between him and me, so I assumed he was talking about me, about us, but I came to terms with the fact that since no one here spoke English very well, I’d have to resign myself to asking him later what all he said. It was definitely nice to be spoken of, just a little embarrassing when I didn’t know the content.