by Con Riley
“Okay.” That makes sense. “What do you need to know?”
“Your work pays well?”
It’s an intrusive question that gets to the point. Jason hedges a little. “It pays enough that I’m serious about making a deal. I won’t waste your time as long as you don’t quote a silly figure. I’m coming to the end of a couple of projects right now, so I have a few days free to get this sorted.”
Vanya probes as he walks. “Will be out of work soon?”
“Only if I want to be.”
His expression shifts to doubtful. “Maybe hiring shopper isn’t best plan.”
“Do you make a habit out of talking yourself out of clients?” It’s an unexpected approach. Vanya walks backwards for a few steps so they face each other. His shrug is helpless.
“Need to understand money.”
“You mean you need to know my budget for this?”
“Budget.” Vanya shapes the word silently a few times. “Yes, budget is best clue. Help me choose best clothes shops.”
That makes sense, Jason supposes. “You want to know if I’ve got money to burn?” There’s something about Vanya’s straightforward nod that has him adding details he’d usually omit to a virtual stranger. “You don’t have to worry about blowing my budget. I have a nest egg I can tap into if I need to.”
Vanya’s utterly blank with incomprehension.
“It means I have some cash set aside for a rainy day.”
That provokes outright laughter. “Nest eggs… rainy days…. Now I’m think you joke.”
His grin is infectious; Jason finds himself explaining. “Some people might say I got lucky. I got a bequest in my twenties that helped me start my own business—my renovation consultancy.”
“Bequest?” Vanya almost backs into a puddle, saying a quiet, “Thank you,” when Jason grasps his elbows. They stand close as Vanya grumbles. “So many new words.” His huff is tinged with clear frustration. “Spend all day feeling stupid.”
“Don’t.” He’s clearly far from that. Jason’s honest when he says, “I don’t mind explaining.” It’s fascinating to watch Vanya process each new nugget of information. “A bequest is an inheritance.” Jason breaks it down even further when a line in Vanya’s brow deepens. “The woman who raised me passed away. She was like a mother to me. When she died, she left me part of her house and some cash.” Now, twenty years later, he’s not rich but he can pick and choose his projects.
“Oh.” Vanya’s face falls. “No Mama?” This time the shift in his expression describes sympathy, as does the stroke of his thumb to Jason’s bicep. The sensation lingers long after he lets go.
“She was my foster mum, but she might as well have been my real one,” Jason admits.
“Foster…?”
“It means she looked after me when my birth mum couldn’t. I stayed in lots of places until she kept me.”
“Mama gone, and no home?” Vanya’s gruff all of a sudden. “Were displaced?”
“I suppose you could say that. I don’t remember too much about places I lived with my birth mother before she left me.”
“How old?” Vanya’s face does something complex when Jason answers.
“Seven.”
His eyes widen, darkly limpid. “Foster Mama was good person.”
“She was.” The best. “I was only meant to be with her for one night, but she let me stay.”
“Forever?”
“For all the years that mattered. Her house was my first real home.”
Vanya’s wistful. “Home is always best.” He stops talking for a moment, his voice low when he continues. “Still get to visit?”
“Sometimes, when I take time off.” Truthfully, not at all since Chantel moved in. He focuses on better memories. “I used to ride. I’d go home most weekends to do that until—” He stops speaking when he realises that Vanya points at a group of men in the distance who ride bikes more suited to mountains than to central London. “No, not bicycles.” A bridle path crosses the trail. Jason touches the imprint of a horseshoe left in the mud with the toe of his work boot. “Horses.” He gestures across the park where a line of children ride placid ponies. “I used to ride a lot. Mum had a small stable and gave riding lessons.”
“Have clothes for that?”
“For riding?” Jason nods, not sure where Vanya’s going with this, like most of their conversation so far, but he finds that he doesn’t much care. It’s surprisingly easy to ignore the autumnal chill breeze and enjoy Vanya’s gentle interrogation. He even smiles when Vanya narrows his eyes and issues a demand.
“Explain so I’m understand. Why have clothes for work and for sport and for riding ponies but nothing for special date?”
“I don’t need clothes for a date.”
“Want personal shopper. I’m think must be for a very special date.” Vanya meets his gaze and holds it. “Or date with very special person?”
“I already told you, I don’t have someone special. I don’t want your help for that kind of date. I-I’m going to meet my foster brother’s fiancée, so I need to appear much smarter.”
“Fiancée cares how you dress?”
“I don’t care what she thinks.” Perhaps he speaks too sharply. Vanya’s eyebrows shoot up. Jason adds some more detail. “I don’t even know her, but playing nice is important to my brother. He thinks I should try to get on her good side.”
“Good side?”
“I have to make her like me.”
“She doesn’t like? Why?”
It’s a good question, one that’s been on his mind since Andrew’s ultimatum. “I don’t actually know what she thinks. I’m not bothered about her opinion, but it matters to my brother.”
“Don’t care because she is bitch?”
“I don’t know for sure.”
Vanya knocks his shoulder against Jason’s. “Is old bag?” He seems particularly pleased with that Briticism.
“No.” Even Jason could see that Chantel was pretty from the pictures Andrew showed him. “She’s not an old bag. She’s just really young.”
“Young is biggest problem?”
Jason’s nod is instinctive. “They can’t have anything in common. Andrew’s only a year older than me. I can’t help wondering what she sees in him.”
Vanya’s eyebrows rise a little again, but his summary is close to the truth. “Think she wants brother’s money? The house Mama left after dying?”
Jason only realises he’s stopped walking when Vanya returns to stand with him. Considering English is his second language, he’s cut to the chase succinctly. “It doesn’t matter what I think. I’m going to see her very soon,” he says and admits something that now sounds childish. “The last few times my brother arranged for us to meet, I… uh… I didn’t turn up.”
“In Russia, saying ‘yes’ to meeting can mean ‘maybe.’ I’m guess this is different in England.” He tilts his head. “Not turning up is very big deal?”
“It was to Andrew.”
“And he is important?”
“Yes. He’s….” How to explain while keeping it simple? “He’s my brother and my best friend.” His hand rises without permission, tracing the still-sore edge of his black eye.
Vanya’s expression turns stony. It’s a split second change from its former softness. “Brother did this?”
“It was an accident.” It really had been. “My face got in the way of his fist while we were at the gym, that’s all. It’s fine now.”
Vanya’s unconvinced. “Let me.”
Maybe it should feel weird to incline his head and wait while joggers run past, weirder still to let an almost stranger map the extent of his bruising. Instead, he closes his eyes as fingertips gently trace a slow and thorough orbit.
“Is not fine.” Vanya’s voice is a murmur, his thumb retracing the same route, this time touching his other cheekbone like he’s comparing the two. “But isn’t broken.”
“My cheekbone? Of course it isn’t.” Jason should probabl
y step back. “Andrew wasn’t even aiming for me. He was just frustrated. It was a glancing blow, that’s all.” Watching Vanya repeat that last phrase is compelling, his lips pursing as they shape the final word blow. Yeah, he should step back right now, but Vanya’s dark gaze pins him.
“A brother would not do this.”
“He should have hit me sooner.” Honesty leaves Jason raw. “I would have hit me harder. I’ve been a dick lately, I know it, and now I need to make things right between us, even if his next wife’s awful.”
Vanya’s low-pitched hum sounds like agreement, and he nods like he’s come to a decision. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay, I’m think about where to find better clothes,” he says with another firm nod. “Won’t be hard.”
There’s no reason in the world to smile while getting insulted. Jason covers his mouth, only dropping his hand when Vanya says, “Better clothes will be easy, but best might take a long time. Could need two appointments.” Vanya rushes his next words, staring somewhere over Jason’s shoulder rather than meeting his eye. “Will have to charge by hour. Cash only.”
At least he’s prepared for this part. Jason pulls his wallet from his back pocket and flips it open. Bankcards nestle in their slots next to a wad of crisp twenties. “How much for this…?” Consultation seems the wrong word for a pleasant stroll and the longest non-work-related conversation he’s had in forever.
Vanya leans close, his eyes on Jason’s wallet and his hand extended before he recoils. He backs up, glancing around as if someone might be watching. “Need time to think about price.”
“Text me a quote.” Jason slides his wallet back into his pocket. “We’ll negotiate.” As long as Vanya pitches a cost lower than those websites, there’s no need to waste time haggling. “When do you want to get started?”
“Need to think first. Think much faster after eating.” Vanya turns back the way they came, and his expression switches from awkward to sweetly hopeful. “Last one to café buys sandwich?”
When Vanya takes off running, Jason doesn’t even try to keep up.
Chapter Seven
The one good thing about returning to the hostel later is finding their bedroom door repaired, complete with shiny hinges. Vanya decides not to dwell on how futile that is or how it’s only a matter of time before someone breaks in again. Dread can grow like a vine, he knows, if he lets it twist around every waking moment, so he hurries, only entering the room for a moment. He finds his tea things and is absently picking specks of mould from the last of his bread when he walks in on another repair in progress in the kitchen.
Kaspar’s finally made a move on his crush.
He hugs Anna beside a greasy oven that should be condemned, next to a fridge that always smells of sour milk, and dips his head to murmur. Vanya doesn’t need to hear what he says to Anna; his quiet rumble suggests the same in any language. It’s a private moment in this house so full of strangers, a scene of care and consolation that he can’t look away.
The tenderness on his friend’s face only deepens after Anna whispers something. Vanya sees the exact moment tenderness turns to resolve when he speaks over her shoulder. “They tried to get in her room again.”
“Why? There can’t be anything left to take from her.” Vanya hears his mistake as soon as he speaks—it’s right there in the way Kaspar’s embrace tightens.
Of course there’s something left to steal from this woman.
Anna’s back stiffens like she knows it.
“You should stay in our room again,” he urges.
Kaspar nods. “Yes. Do that. Stay with us for as long as you want. I know it’s not a long-term solution, not like moving somewhere safer would be….” Kaspar asks Vanya a question rather than dwell on their lost deposit. “Tell me, how was your dirty builder?”
“Fine.” Better than Vanya expected. Meeting Jason was an unexpected bright spot after so many dull days. An unconscious smile curves, only to fade when Kaspar asks, “Did he pay you?”
“Not yet.” Right now he regrets not taking the cash Jason offered, no matter his fear of deportation. “I will. I’ll see him tomorrow and ask for enough cash to get new locks fitted, at least. Padlocks will make the doors much stronger.”
“No,” Anna pulls out of Kaspar’s embrace. She’s nowhere close to weepy despite another attempted break in that must have scared her witless. Instead, she’s white with anger. “We can’t do anything to make our rooms safer. And there’s no point going to the police. They don’t want to listen or do anything about the Brits who break in. No one wants to know about that, but if I added extra locks to my door, I could be arrested. It’s called ‘damage to property.’”
Like a pin to a balloon, her anger deflates swiftly.
“The girls in the room next to me tried it. I came home one day, and they were gone. Cautioned by the cops and then thrown out.” Her fingers curl around Kaspar’s. “I hoped we’d get a place together, but I don’t know where they are now.”
And that’s so true of his time in Britain that Vanya can’t help nodding.
Complete strangers form alliances in stressful living situations, banding tightly together to improve their chances. He knows he’s very lucky that his own alliance has lasted while he has so little to offer.
He thinks about that later as he tries to sleep top-to-tail with Kaspar in a room that barely houses one person, let alone three adults.
As minutes take hours to pass, his thoughts circle just as slowly.
Something Anna said echoes in time with the thud of dance music from the next floor.
My friends were banned from other hostels.
A couple quarrel in the room above them, their baby whimpering before wailing.
The only option they had left was to squat in an empty building.
He’s still thinking about it when sleep finally, uneasily, finds him.
It’s early the next morning when Vanya mentions a solution to their housing problem. However, the moment he says, “I heard about an empty building,” he wishes he kept his mouth shut.
Jason seems like a nice guy.
Sharing part of his private conversation feels wrong.
But recalling his words is like trying to dam floodwater. It doesn’t matter that second thoughts rise tide-like and relentless as Kaspar and Anna ask him questions. Neither of them can know he’s already waist deep in regret, his conscience slowly sinking, only buoyed a little by the strength of Anna’s tight hug.
The brightness of an autumn morning shines new light on his hasty offer.
Why did I open my mouth? he asks himself over and over, as they hurry to the Tube station.
The wan expression Anna woke up wearing shouldn’t matter to him, nor should the way it lightened at the sight of Kaspar’s fearsome bedhead. Yet as he walks beside her, Vanya can’t help noticing how she keeps glancing his way, her smile grateful like he’s already done something special for her. He gets to see that same gratitude up close as they travel beneath the streets of London, their party of three separated by crowds of tourists.
Anna leans close to avoid getting a face full of a tourist’s rucksack, and she speaks directly to him. “So a man is really paying you to dress him?”
“Not yet.”
“Do you know a lot about fashion?”
Her tone of disbelief startles a small laugh from him. “I know a lot more than him. Although I guess you wouldn’t know so today.” His shirt is washed out, the rip in his skinny jeans left by a prior owner.
“You could get away with calling your look eclectic.” She touches where buttons are missing from his jacket. “Let me fix these for you later. I have some lovely buttons at work. She quickly unfastens a Union Jack badge from her lapel, securing it so it sits snugly before repeating the same actions with another of her badges. When she’s done, the blue-black-white of the Estonian flag sits directly above Britain’s. “There. Now you’re fashion forward.” She touches the collar of his jacket.
“You know, some braiding would look good here? I could patch your jeans too, if you wanted.”
Trading favours is a currency he’s well aware of. “You don’t have to do anything for me. I haven’t done anything for you.”
“You didn’t have to share your room,” she says quietly. Then she tilts up her chin. “You’d be doing me a favour if you let me loose on your clothes. I get so bored at work hemming wedding dresses. Fixing up your stuff would be fun, I promise. A way for me to thank you.”
“There’s nothing to thank me for yet. The place we’re looking for might be no good.” Unease has him adding, “We might not even find it.” He regrets saying so when her face tightens.
“I hope we do.” She pauses before changing the subject. “Kaspar says you’ll be granted asylum any day now.”
Vanya attempts a smile, but lately that possibility seems further away rather than closer. The last official at the immigration office promised nothing, his bored gaze skimming over photos that still turned Vanya’s stomach. Now, in the stark light of morning, looking for somewhere to squat seems like complete madness.
The train lurches, but that’s not why he feels queasy.
Is he really about to risk his chances?
She must see his change in pallor. “Are you worried they won’t grant it? Asylum, I mean.”
He can’t contemplate it. There’s no other option for him.
“I think it will be okay, as long….” His next words come out in a hurry. “As long as I don’t break any rules.” It’s the one thing that stopped him from taking Jason’s money when he offered. Leaving the hostel feels as risky.
“Wait.” She stumbles against him when the train takes a corner, leaning against him as she asks, “Does it matter where you live?” Hope disappears between blinks after he shrugs.
He recites Home Office guidelines he knows by heart. “I have to keep a registered address. So….”
It doesn’t matter that the Tube train lights choose that moment to dim and flicker—her expression brightens so fast they aren’t required to see it. “Oh! That’s no problem!” she promises. “That just means they need a contact address for you. All you need to do is keep going back to the hostel. Pick up your post once a week or something. If anyone there asks where you’ve been, say you were visiting friends. That’s allowed, isn’t it?”