by Alix Nichols
A second later a snowball hits the back of Anna’s head. The kids giggle and run to the farthest end of the garden.
Anna narrows her eyes and hollers, “I’m coming after you little monsters, and when I catch you, expect no mercy!”
I watch her chase them.
“Here, put this on,” Mama says.
I turn around, take my coat from her, and put it on. The moment I turn back, a big snowball hits me between my eyes, exploding all over my face. I wipe it off and look around for the perpetrator. The kids are too far away, but Anna is just a few meters to my left, feigning interest in the fluffy clouds above her.
OK. If she thinks I won’t retaliate, she doesn’t know me well enough.
I flash a maniacal smile. “Anna. You. Will. Regret. This.”
I pull on Papa’s rubber boots over my wool socks and gather enough snow from the porch to form a large ball. The snow burns my gloveless hands, but I don’t care. I pack the ball a little more, keeping very calm, and then dash down the steps.
Anna lets out a squeal and starts running. But I’m faster. I catch up with her, grab her from behind, and smear the snowball on her forehead, cheeks, and mouth. She wriggles and shakes her head. I wrap my arms tightly around her, pinning her arms to her sides so she can’t clean the snow from her face.
“Beg for mercy,” I command.
“Please, Anton the Terrible,” she says in a comical voice. “Take pity on a weak, helpless woman!”
Before I open my mouth to say I’m feeling magnanimous but don’t try to attack me again, she sticks her foot out in some clever way and trips me.
As I fall, I drag her with me to the ground. Five seconds later, she’s on her back and I’m on top of her. With my right hand I shackle her wrists above her head, and with my left I clean the snow from her laughing face.
It’s at that precise moment that I become fully aware of the extent and the variety of trouble that I’m in. It’s huge. And it isn’t the kind that goes away by throwing enough energy or money on it.
I’m neck-deep in a sticky, debilitating kind of trouble.
The kind that could shatter the foundations of my world—the world I’ve painstakingly built over the years. The kind that could bring everything crumbling down and incapacitate me with pain and rage as Stacia’s infidelity did eleven years ago.
Only this time round, I’m older and less resilient. I may no longer find it in me to rebuild my life.
This time round, it may destroy me.
Part II
Anna
Chapter 6
Piroshki
Just an hour ago, the elegant gray-haired gentleman opening the door of his BMW to let me out was handcuffed to the bedposts, confessing he’d been a bad boy, and begging his Mistress to punish him. I’m still surprised I managed to keep a poker face while slapping and spanking him. Even more astounding was my composure as I wielded the flogger and repeated, “You’ve been very bad, indeed, Leonid. And bad boys must be disciplined.”
I grin.
Shit.
So much for the poker face.
Leonid smiles back brightly and blows a light kiss on my knuckles. “I’m so glad we see eye to eye, Anna.”
Thank God people can’t read each other’s minds. “Good-bye, Leonid.”
“Until next month.”
I nod regally. “Until next month.”
He releases my hand and walks back to the driver’s seat.
I rush down the street. I have exactly one hour to shower, change, and arrive at Mom’s on time. She’s making piroshki. Over tea, I’ll announce the big news.
In the shower, I tell myself that Leonid is my ideal client. My only challenge with him is remaining serious during his favorite role-play. Other than that, our transactions have been swift (not counting the copious dinners), painless (excepting the slight burn of my palm), and dependable. Two Friday evenings each month and a few emails between.
Another great thing about Leonid is that I react to him in the same way I do to an oyster. He causes mild revulsion that I can easily hide, and beyond that—nothing but total and blissful indifference.
I wish I could say that about Anton. I wish he were more of an oyster. But the man is too good to look at and too much fun to talk to. I may have fallen for him a few years ago, before Stan changed me.
But today, Anton is a nuisance.
It’s annoying that I can’t stop ogling his V-shaped back and the exquisite slant of his shoulders. It’s frustrating and infuriating that I nearly drool at the sight of his bulging biceps when he removes his suit jacket. As for the thing my heart does on those precious occasions when Anton smiles his soft, lopsided smile, it’s simply unacceptable.
And that’s just scratching the surface.
I resent that he books me so often, always for a full evening and a night. He doesn’t fuck me—he makes love to me. I suspect that from his distorted, self-confident perspective, he isn’t paying to use my body. He’s paying to clear my schedule.
Besides, he isn’t even trying to hide me. I met his parents, for Christ’s sake. Admittedly, the idea was to silence them on the subject of his relationship phobia for a while. What I fail to see is why he needed a whole weekend for that?
It doesn’t make any sense.
As streams of delightfully warm water caress my breasts, abdomen and thighs, I remember that night at his parent’s dacha in Peredelkino. I didn’t tell him then and I doubt I ever will, but that night I came for the first time in my life. I don’t think he noticed the difference from the previous orgasms that I had faked. I’m good at faking orgasms.
The funny thing is, I started doing it long before I became an escort. I started with Stan to please him, to make him believe that his prowess had transformed me from an uptight virgin going on spinster into a lusty sex kitten. Isn’t it ironic how I stroked the ego of the man who had set out to destroy me?
These days, at least, I have a financial incentive to stroke my lovers’ egos.
But when Anton made love to me in Peredelkino, I felt the tension build in my groin beyond what I could bear, and then go away in one delicious leg-quivering spasm. No stars or fireworks that one reads about in romance novels—just an escalation of pleasure-pain, and then a sweet release. It took me a few minutes to understand what had happened. As soon as I did, I told myself it had been an anomaly.
Until it happened again on Wednesday in “our” suite at the Ritz.
Careful, Anna. Beware of Greeks bearing gifts.
Anton Malakhov is not a romantic hero. They don’t exist in real life. He’s a flawed man and a ruthless businessman to boot. He just happens to find me entertaining and appealing right now. His interest will wear off soon enough, and he’ll move on to another woman. He can have most any woman that catches his fancy. He won’t have to pay her or book the Ritz suite for her. All he’ll need to do is take her out to dinner and perhaps give her a Cartier trinket—and bam! She’s in his bed.
Actually, he doesn’t even need to splurge on a Cartier. A Swarovski would suffice.
Hell, considering his looks and his charisma, I think most women would be happy to oblige without dinners or trinkets.
So, why on earth is he wasting his time with me?
I guess I’m his little extravagance, a bit of deviant fun, or maybe just a handy pinch of solace in a moment of weakness. He and I, we don’t have a relationship. What he’s having is the thrill of transgression, understandable in a straitlaced guy who married too young and then got too bitter. What I’m getting is a well-paid gig with a rookie client who’s unaware of or unwilling to respect the customary boundaries.
Nothing more.
Besides, last time we met, he said he’d be out of town for a month on a string of business and private trips to different countries. I’m not sure if I’m reading too much into it, but he had a funny look on his face—something between regret and determination. Was it his way of saying good-bye?
I contemplate my entangl
ement for a few more moments before turning the faucet off and drying myself.
Don’t you dare imagine this could lead anywhere, Anna.
Don’t you dare.
When I arrive at Mom’s, the table is already set, and the apartment smells like Heaven (because Heaven, as everyone knows, smells of freshly made piroshki). She’s wearing her best dress and some makeup. It helps to attenuate the dark circles under her eyes but it can’t fill out her hollowed cheeks.
“Annushka, my sweet girl, are you taking good care of yourself?” She ushers me into the kitchen.
“I am, Mom. I make sure to eat an apple in a Lotus position every day.”
She chuckles.
On my third piroshki I decide to take the bull by the horns. “Mom,” I say as brightly as I can manage. “You need to start your treatment. If we wait much longer, it may be too late. You do realize that, yes?”
She picks up her fork and begins to move the lettuce around her plate.
OK.
I stare at her. “I’ve made all the arrangements with the hospital. You’ll have your first radiotherapy on the fifteenth.”
She looks up, her expression panicked. “There’s no way we can afford the full treatment. What’s the point in starting it?”
“I just got a loan.”
“What?”
“My law firm gave me a zero percent loan, to be repaid over ten years.”
“Really?”
Yeah, really. In the fairy-tale world where everyone is kind and things always go according to plan.
But, of course, that is not what I say. I give Mom my brightest, sunniest smile and say, “Yes, really. I got the news this morning, and I called the hospital immediately.”
For the first time since her diagnosis three months ago, Mom looks hopeful. I hide my hands under the table and dig my nails into my palms.
Mom stands up and begins to pace the kitchen. “I’ll need to tell my boss, and get a medical certificate from the hospital.” She stops and turns to me. “I can’t believe your boss changed his mind after that flat no two months ago!”
He’ll change his mind when hell freezes over. “He must have connected with his humanity.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” She lets out a sob.
“Mom, please, don’t cry.”
“I’m not crying.” She grabs a paper towel and blows her nose. “Annushka, you’re the best daughter a mother could hope for. You’re doing so much for me.”
“It isn’t much,” I say drily. “You’ve always put me first. Believe me, I wouldn’t move a finger for my father.”
When I’m back home, I spend half of the night tossing and turning and reminding myself how vital it is that I remain as pragmatic and cold-blooded as I have been over the past three months. Strangely, it isn’t the worry about my mom or the shame over lying to her that bother me most. It’s the knowledge of how little it takes to push a person from hope to despair.
And then back again.
Exactly three months ago, Mom was told she was very sick. Next, she was told her illness would kill her within a year. But, the doctor said, finally smiling, she could beat it with an aggressive combination therapy and keep it at bay with drugs. She could enjoy years—maybe decades—of normal life.
Two weeks later, we knew we couldn’t afford the therapy.
And tonight Mom realized she could dare hope again.
It’s such a hard, and yet banal, fact of life that what often stands between living and dying is just a stack of banknotes. A fat stack of banknotes, in my mother’s case. So fat that no friend, relation, or bank would lend it to us. But if Filip and I can hold this escort gig for a year, I’ll be able to pay Mom’s initial and most expensive bills. After that, I’ll find a way to get a promotion or a better day job.
I’ll have to, even if Filip remains an ace at filtering out the dangerous types, negotiating the terms, and ensuring my safety. Even if I continue to rock at faking orgasms, shutting off my emotions, numbing my discomfort with Advil, and keeping my dignity under lock and key.
I am perfectly aware of what would happen if I do this for too long.
I’ll break.
Or someone will break me.
Chapter 7
Paris
I’m staring at Van Gogh’s Café Terrace at Night and telling myself it’s time to move on to the next painting, and then the next room. Anton is planted by my side, contemplating the Van Gogh in impenetrable silence. He must be getting impatient, even if he doesn’t show it. He’s been in this museum before. For me it’s a multiple first—my first original Van Gogh, first visit to the Musée d’Orsay, first time in Paris.
How I found myself here is a baffling, albeit remarkably short story. On Tuesday, I got a call from an unfamiliar number. I never answer such calls. It’s usually a telemarketer or a pollster, and I don’t have time for either. My clients don’t have my private number—they call Filip.
But, for some inexplicable reason, I picked up this time.
“How do you feel about Cézanne?” Anton asked by way of greeting.
“I’m not a huge fan.” I felt giddy at hearing his voice… before I got angry over his intrusion. “Who gave you this number?”
“I have my channels. And no, Filip is innocent.” He snorted. “As much as a pimp can be.”
There was a short pause before he spoke again. “What about Van Gogh?”
“Love him. Van Gogh rocks.” I took a deep breath to make sure my tone was earnest when I asked him, “Is this for the Russian Public Opinion survey?”
He let out a hearty laugh. “I’m in Brussels. I’ll finish my business here by Friday, and I was thinking of going to Paris for the weekend, to revisit some of my favorite impressionists.”
“Nice.”
“Anna, would you like to spend your Saturday in the Musée d’Orsay and your Sunday tasting the best Champagne wines near Reims?”
“I…” My mind went blank. Pristinely, immaculately blank.
“My assistant should be able to book us into the Hotel du Marc. It’s a luxury mansion for the guests of Maison Veuve-Clicquot.”
“I don’t have a visa,” I finally managed to say.
“Not a problem. You’ll have it by Friday. Maria—that’s my assistant—will send someone over tonight to collect your passport.”
I didn’t bother asking how I would get to Paris. Maria the Wizard, who was going to get a French visa stamped into my passport without me having to move a finger, would no doubt take care of my travel arrangements, too. A part of me screamed that the whole idea was crazy, excessive, way beyond the customary boundaries. But a larger part of me jumped up and down and drowned my caution in a flood of gleeful drool.
A weekend with Anton in France, tasting the world’s best wines, and admiring Van Gogh originals sounded simply too good to resist.
And, what with my transformation into a machine still incomplete, I didn’t.
The Van Gogh I’m looking at now is on loan here from the Netherlands. It’s my all-time favorite. Even a small reproduction of it in a book never fails to transport me into that café in Arles. Now, standing before the real thing, I’m fully gone. Anna Sopova is no longer inside the Fin de Siècle railway station converted into a spacious light-bathed museum. Nor is she in a wintry Paris morning. Her local time now is around midnight in late July. She’s in a small town in Provence, sipping her pastis on a brightly lit sidewalk terrace, letting the mild breeze blow cool kisses to her face and ruffle her hair.
It’s pure bliss.
Anton’s gaze burns into me, so hot and fierce that color rises to my cheeks.
I turn to him.
He blinks and gives me his crooked smile. “So you’re a Van Gogh girl, huh? Of course you are. Why did I ever imagine you a Cézanne fan?”
I grin. “I live to confound you.”
He takes my hand. “So you do.”
We spend the rest of the morning and the entire afternoon at the museum, refueling on coffee and mac
aroons as we move from room to room. I want to see as much of the collection as I can, and Anton doesn’t seem to mind. When the guards kick us out at closing time, I’m exhausted but profoundly content.
At dinner in an elegant restaurant off the Champs Elysées, I bring his hand to my lips. “Thank you.”
Anton shakes his head. “You don’t need to.”
His hand goes to cup my cheek, and he peers at me for a long moment while his thumb traces my cheekbone.
“I insist.” I smile, trying to diffuse the suddenly fraught silence.
He opens his mouth as though to say something, but only exhales instead. Then his expression changes, lightening up. “I must fess up. I failed to keep my promise to you.”
“What promise?”
“The Hotel du Marc was fully booked. Even almighty Maria was unable to do anything about it… So, we’ll have to contend ourselves with the second best.”
“Which is?”
“Les Crayères Castle. Their champagne is almost as good as Veuve-Clicquot.”
“Fine by me. Even though I’d rather stay in Paris. There’s so much I’d like to see here!”
“You will—next time.”
Next time.
My soul fills with hope before I remember myself, and anger takes over.
What’s your deal, Anton? Why are you so nice to me? What kind of vicious letdown are you plotting? How much pain and agony will you inflict once you have me exactly where you want me to be—crazy in love?
I’m not going there again.
I won’t let you—or anyone—do what Stan did to me.
Men are animals.
I grew up hearing Mom repeat this adage every time she got hurt. I guess that’s why I was still a virgin at twenty-eight—prim, proper, and convinced that men simply weren’t worth the trouble.
Besides, I had more important things than dating on my mind. I had a mission—pull Mom and myself out of poverty. We both worked crazy hours, accepting any job that came our way including the shittiest cleaning and dishwashing gigs, until we had saved enough to put me through law school.