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Downstairs the driver is waiting next to the open passenger door of a long black Rolls Royce. I thank him and slip in. The door closes, a heavy reassuring thunk. Classical music fills the faintly perfumed air as Alex slides in next to me. Instantly, I feel my heart start pounding in my chest. Even though he rejected me, my body still responds to him.
“Are you familiar with Russian food?” he asks quietly.
I turn to look at him. Gosh, he is so damn handsome. “My first introduction was last night when I tried the chak chak.”
“Good. You’ll like this restaurant.”
After that he keeps the conversation light and casual. The restaurant is in a grand old building. The staff are ancient and dour to say the least, but shockingly efficient.
“Since I know nothing about Russian food, why don’t you choose for me?” I say.
As I sip my champagne, very delicious by the way, he orders some fish appetizers for which the English translation is ‘herring under a coat’, and for the main course, meat stew, but no doubt a fancy version. I look around the grand, beautifully preserved surroundings curiously. There is something unreal, almost fairytale about the best of Russian architecture and this interior exemplifies that idea. One can imagine splendidly robed Tsars and Tsarinas in these lofty, gilded spaces. The Macau and my unrelentingly hectic life in London seem a million miles away.
“Like it?” Alex asks, cutting into my thoughts.
I look across the table at him. He looks so at home here. So regal. This is his birthright. I tried to imagine him as a thug and couldn’t. Not even with his huge, thickly muscled body or the tattoo poking out of his shirt collar. I smile at him. “What’s not to like? The architecture is stunningly beautiful. Almost as beautiful as Babushka’s palace.”
He glances around as if seeing the interior for the first time through fresh eyes, through my eyes, then looks again at me with a strange expression. “Yes, it’s very beautiful. I’m afraid I took … I take all this privilege and splendor for granted.”
“I can’t imagine taking something this marvelous for granted.”
He leans back. “What was your childhood like?”
It is flattering how interested he seems in what I have to say so I tell him about the small apartment we lived in, the neighbors next door who fought night and day, the school I went to, and my three best friends. I’m sure I would have carried on if the first course had not arrived. It is a colorful dish that looked like a layer cake. On the top was mayonnaise, then the fish, followed by the onions, carrots, apples and a bottom layer of boiled potatoes. Even though it looks beautiful I can’t imagine I would like cold fish, but it is surprisingly good.
I put the fork down and find Alex watching me.
“Well?” he asks.
“It’s actually excellent,” I say honestly.
He smiles slowly and I have to remind myself this is not a date. The conversation flows easily and I find myself revealing even more unnecessary stuff about myself.
Next, an old Russian favorite, the Zharkoye, beef stew arrives. It is what the phrase ‘something to write home about’ was invented for. The meat is full of intense flavors that melt on my tongue. I close my eyes to shut out every other sensation but the taste explosion going on in my mouth.
Alex laughs softly. “If this is your reaction, I wish you could have tasted Babushka’s version of it.”
I look at him in surprise. I can’t imagine Babushka cooking. She has staff for everything. Alex seems to read my expression and he laughs.
“Babushka has always had plenty of staff. And I’m sure you can see why.”
I nod, thinking of the sheer size of the place.
“But her real love is cooking and horses. She had a real talent too. She would cook up the most amazing meals and up until five years ago, she even tended to and rode her horses. No matter how wet it was, or how much snow there was, she’d be out there with them every morning.”
“She sounds like a hell of a woman,” I say.
“Oh, she is,” he agrees. “What you see now, is just a ghost of what she used to be.”
“I don’t know, Alex. She seems very spritely to me and in good spirits. I think she is a very lucky woman to have you and Valeriya. Especially since Valeriya seems to have a genuine affection for her.”
“Babushka is more her family than her own,” Alex says. “And I suppose compared to her actual family, we are. Her mother, who used to work as a maid for Babushka, died when she was ten. Her father immediately began to beat her. Because of the loss of income, he tried to send her out to work the streets.”
