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There was no car when I was of age.
And the whole of my uni tuition would be wholly my responsibility. Provided I went back, of course.
So nothing about my childhood had prepared me for the grandeur of moving in with my uncle.
Sure, as mansions went, it maybe wasn't the largest, the grandest, but to my lower-middle-class upbringing, it might as well have been a palace from a childhood fairy tale.
It was a two-story villa made of a warm yellow stucco with a red stone driveway that matched the red tile roof. Inside, you could find six bedrooms - an ostentatious amount considering my uncle had no children, just a wife who wasn't even around on my first day to introduce herself to me.
My uncle - who looked like a stockier version of my mother with thinning hair and a somewhat laughably thin mustache - said something about a beauty day or something like that as he showed me to my bedroom, one quadruple the size of my one back in Burford. And, luxury of all luxuries, my own private bathroom complete with a soaking tub.
As I settled in, getting a meal served to me from one of the staff members who actually wore gray uniforms like they were in some kind of movie or serving royalty, I decided that maybe this wasn't the worst thing in the world - a little vacation to refresh me. Maybe after having some of the pressure off of me, I would be ready to go back, make a decision, stick with it, get my life on track like my parents wanted for me.
That was, of course, until my uncle woke me up at six a.m. the next morning, nixed half the items in my wardrobe, made me get dressed, then drove me into the bank before I had even got a chance to get any coffee in my system.
There were a lot of boring jobs in the world. But as I walked through the gray-walled, gray-floored, grey-everything'd halls, my heels louder than any actual conversations going on, I decided that working as a floater in a bank was possibly the worst of them all.
Then as the days stretched into weeks, and I saw less and less of my uncle - and almost nothing of my aunt - and my workdays went from eight hours to ten, six days a week, I was starting to feel even more down than I had back at home. At least at home, I had people to talk to, friends to go out with at night, some connection.
In this foreign country, well, I had never been lonelier.
So, I guess I had been a prime target.
I hadn't known that at the time, of course.
All I knew was I was sitting behind a desk, chin in my hand, and a suit walked up.
Over the weeks, I had gotten good at sizing men up based on what kinds of suits they wore. You had your middle-class businessmen - people who sold cars or ran hotels - in suits in basic colors - black, tan, blue - their shirts and ties very matchy-matchy, the cut of everything about half a size too big. Then were the wealthier men who had their suits tailored perfectly, who had stylists on their payroll to match patterns and colors you wouldn't normally think fit together. They were also the sorts to wear their sunglasses inside. Even when having a full conversation with you.
"You look bored out of your mind."
English.
God, it had seemed like so long since I had heard English. While I could - and did - speak Armenian, nothing came as naturally to you as your native language. So speaking and listening required actual effort.
Hearing English again was like getting a nice cool rain on an insufferably hot day.
"Oh, sorry. I didn't see you there," I told him, forcing a hospitality smile that always managed to make my cheeks hurt. "Can I help you with something?"
"You're new here," he declared as I took in his suit - a dove gray - tailored, but not tight - with a deeper gray shirt underneath. No tie. Top two buttons undone. A belt buckle that was a little flashy, but not enough that it could be called a statement piece, just something that drew your eyes downward.
Which was exactly where my eyes were, I realized, making my gaze shoot up to finally land on his face.
I had gotten used to my uncle's average clientele.
Which was older men mostly. Forties and up.
This man was older than me, sure, but maybe around thirty with a body that filled out his suit well, deep chestnut hair worn just a tad long to be considered professional, deep eyes, and just enough scruff that somehow seemed to say he was a busy man who didn't always have time to commit to a fresh shave every day.
