20
TAYLOR
Hayley and Payton are calmer about the apartment than their husbands, who glare at every piece of furniture like it might bite. I think all four of them would put a leash and a dog tag on me if they could. But I explain that I want them to have their space as couples, and although there are protests that they love having me stay, I know I’m a spare wheel. And when finally, it’s just a general grumble that they’d rather it wasn’t in Harlesden, my point that the people I’ve spent my time with for the last five years live around here and there’s the ballet studio downstairs, is strong.
Payton’s husband, Feliks, insists that he puts in what he deems to be a new security system. Harlesden’s is “adequate, but out of date”, apparently.
That night, I sleep in my own bed, in Kon’s building, knowing he’s here too, somewhere through the wall.
And it’s good. Not as close to Kon as I’d like, but better than being half a city away.
21
KON
Fucking Beckenham.
I had the cameras set up perfectly, and that shithead looked right into the lens of each one before he removed it. The kitchen, the lounge, the hallways. A sensor on the door.
I was restrained. I didn’t put anything in her bedroom, bathroom, or her library.
Though I did hope that perhaps she’d wander around semi-clad.
At least I still have the surveillance in the communal areas, which is how I follow her the next day as she goes to dozens of London shops that specialise in Eastern European food. I figure it’s another food-based whim when she picks a whole tub of dill-covered potato salad, and crispy, carbohydratey cheboureki.
But she keeps going, to shop after shop, mostly coming out empty-handed. Then the last one she exits with a bag.
She was searching for something.
But then she heads up to my apartment and when I open the door and pretend to be surprised, her blue eyes are so full of hope.
And she offers the bag. I stare down at the tiny paper-wrapped sweets, labelled “strawberries and cream candy” and my heart somersaults.
I told her about my sugar addiction, and she spent hours finding exactly what I like.
“It’s to say thank you,” she says.
I honestly don’t know how to answer, because I’m the one who schemed to get her here. I’m an unethical bastard, but I invite her in, and we end up on my sofa, watching an old movie that’s a classic she’s never watched, and eating the confectionery she brought.
And every moment I struggle to not reach for her, because “thank you” isn’t “I’m okay with you claiming me body and soul”.
The day after, I turn up at her door with a movie she should watch, and popcorn seasoned with fresh dill, because she mentioned she was craving dill, and she bursts out laughing.
The popcorn is weird, not terrible, but Taylor eats it like it’s delicious.
Then she invites me over for dinner, and when she burns it, I shake my head and order in pizza. I tell her to stick to the procuring of sugar, and the next evening bring over stuffed bell peppers and chicken kievs that are oozing with butter and crispy on the outside.
And dill.
I keep a careful distance between us, because she’s half my age. She’s vulnerable. I’m a reminder of bad memories for her.
But we talk for hours, about her plans to teach ballet, and her sisters. She has an idea about teaching dancing, and wants to talk to Madam Polina about it. She tells me about the books she’s bought with my money.
There are no topics off-limits, except the secret that stretches from her heart to mine, like a binding thread. The night I took her virginity.
22
TAYLOR
