“What are you eating?” asks Feliks, Payton’s husband, looking across the table in slight horror at Canary Wharf’s meal. Most of us have Russian fare, including me, which is mainly creative ways of mixing meat, soft cheese, creamy carbohydrates, broth, and dill, and actually delicious.
Since I’ve been in England I’ve had this weird craving for the herb dill. It just isn’t used that much in food here.
“Toad in the hole.” Canary Wharf shrugs. “With onion gravy, mashed potatoes, and vegetables.”
“Whatin thewhat?” Feliks demands, his Russian accent coming through. He looks, if anything even more concerned.
“Yeah, it does sound unhinged, doesn’t it?” Payton says thoughtfully.
“You eat this?” Feliks turns to my sister. “I thought it was only the French who did weird things with?—”
“No amphibians were hurt in the making of this dish,” Hayley hastens to say. “It’s basically Yorkshire pudding with sausages in it. Maxim and I decided we would have some non-Russian options.”
I wish they’d stop talking about sausages. I might bring up what little food I’ve eaten so far.
“It’ssweet?” Feliks looks like this meal is personally offending him.
“Oh god, Yorkshire puddings aren’t like pudding-puddings, they’re not dessert.” Payton covers her face as she laughs. “It’s like roasted dough. It’s light and fluffy and also stodgy and delicious.”
“Sounds awful.” Feliks shrugs.
Payton giggles and nudges him with her elbow. “Says the man who I saw eat a whole pile of those deep-fried meat-filled pies! This is basically the same ingredients!”
“Who would want deconstructed cheboureki when the true version is so perfect?” he replies, as though it’s obvious.
I look away as Feliks grabs Payton’s chin and kisses her, and my heart lurches when inevitably I look at Kon, and he’s holding ababy.
Oh my god. I melt.
Kon has obviously asked to hold the child, and is jigging the little bundle in his arms. The big, scary bratva boss is all soft for the tiny baby. The mother and father of said infant are clearly seated to his left, distinguished by their looks of indulgence and annoyance respectively.
As though feeling the weight of my gaze, Kon glances up, and catches me watching him. His face remains impassive, but his eyes light, and he mouths a word.
It’s probably “Hey” but my brain fills in, “Come”.
I mouth back “Hi” or “Oh god I missed you,” or “Yes” as my cheeks flame. Something. I don’t know what.
The baby, apparently sensing Kon’s inattention, whacks Kon’s stubbled cheek, and Kon laughs wide, looking down. The baby reaches out and touches Kon’s front teeth. And it’s like seeing a lion play with his cub, as Kon bares his teeth, making the child burble and smack a podgy hand over Kon’s mouth.
Kon is so good with the baby, and I have feelings from watching him with a child that I had no idea were part of my make up.
Like, are my ovaries vibrating?
“Do you like piroshki, Taylor?” Adi asks me from the other side of the table, holding one of the deep-fried bread-coveredpies and considering it dubiously. “Hayley says they’re great, but she’s in love with a Russian, and I am not so sure she’s reliable.”
Something catches in my throat, and I have to tear my head to the side to look at Adi. In love with a Russian? Is that what I am too? And former member of Volk, too.
“Everyone loves piroshki, Hayley’s right about that one,” I say lightly, and I’m immediately subsumed by the conversation again. By the time I glance back to Kon, he’s returned the baby to its father.
And he’s not looking at me.
15
KON
It shouldn’t be a shock to see Taylor, given how much I’ve watched her since we returned to London. I haven’t let her see me though, and the burn of Taylor’s gaze on the back of my neck during dinner was like a sunbeam that is turning my skin red, but I can’t step away from the heat because the alternative is so, so cold.
I watch her constantly. Follow her. I should forget her, and stay away, but I can’t.
