Vadim
"Well, the process has started!" Kostik cheerfully slapped me on the shoulder and took off his construction helmet. I smiled, not without admiration, letting my gaze wander over the floors rising upward. The construction in Presnya had begun in March and was moving at a rapid pace. If we didn't slow down, we'd definitely meet the deadline despite the initial delays.
I looked at the milky-white granite, imagining the entire complex as a whole. It would be a pretentious place for wealthy residents and entrepreneurs: shops, restaurants, fitness centers, beauty salons in abundance. And the children's playgrounds we designed were incredible! Veronichka would have loved it here.
"Vershina" would make a good profit, and so would I, but I wasn't sure it would be enough to compensate for everything I had lost. The project had come to life thanks to me, but it hadn't been easy.
"Dym, let's go grab something to eat. I'm starving!" Kostik complained. "And I even arranged to meet Boris at 'Uhvat.' Then we'll go to the office and review the contract."
"Great, at least I'll eat properly," I snorted gloomily. Homemade-style food, even if from a restaurant, was something my stomach had been missing badly. And I could talk prices with Boris in an informal setting. His company handled security and installation of communication and surveillance systems—we'd already completed five projects with Boris's "Pro#zona," time to talk discounts.
We were about to leave, but got caught up talking with the foreman. If not for the phone call, we would've been late for the meeting.
"I'll wait in the car," I threw to Kostik and glanced at the screen. Vika.
"Hi."
"Hi, darling," she started very sweetly—meaning she wanted something. "What are your plans for the evening?"
"My plan is to get some sleep. You joining me?"
"I wanted to suggest dinner with my parents at 'Lodka.' My dad wanted to discuss something with you. Can you make it?"
"Will Kostya Tszyu be there?" I joked, grimacing. Not eager to eat that Asian stuff again.
"No, he won't, but we can do some role-playing after dinner."
"What time should I pick you up?" We had to show up as a happy couple. And we were a couple, actually, and things were… not bad between us.
"I booked the table for eight."
"Then be ready at quarter to," I said, checking my schedule.
"See you tonight, kisses."
"Mm-hmm," I ended the call and tossed the iPhone onto the seat.
In the almost three months we'd been seeing each other (yes, seeing each other), I had gotten the answer to the main question: what if? The answer: nothing. Now I was completely sure that nothing would have worked out between me and Vika, even if she hadn't left all those years ago. We would have broken up anyway. I didn't love her and never would. At least not the way she probably wanted.
No, I liked her. We had fun together, and the sex, of course—solid, качественный, but nothing extraordinary. Maybe because my emotional attachment to her was weak. No one's fault—it's either there or it isn't. With Vika, it wasn't. And I think she understood that.
She didn't push, accepted my desire to calm down and live alone, but I clearly felt she expected something more from our relationship than a few meetings a week. And her parents already saw me as their future son-in-law. For nothing. I was still married, after all. But they treated me well. Mrs. Zimina even made concessions on the project—gave me an advance, it seemed. She was already thirty-five, and talk about freedom and living for pleasure was clearly just a story—for me, specifically.
Naturally, the femme fatale, mysterious, almost noir, was winning even over the most beautiful and sexy wife. If Vika had laid her cards on the table right away and said she wanted marriage, I wouldn't have gotten involved. Because—what for? But as they say, it's too late to drink Borjomi when your kidneys have failed. What's done is done. Or rather—not done. I no longer had a wife. Only on paper.
I hadn't seen Katya for a long time. I asked Nika about her on the sly, so she wouldn't tell her mom, and my daughter would report back—but selectively, only what she thought was necessary. We raised quite the little conspirator! I was guilty before Katya, very guilty—especially for the way I behaved like an asshole before the breakup. In fact, it was my bad temper and explosive nature that got me where I am now.
And it's hard for Veronichka too, I can see it, even though she's cheerful and never once blamed me. That's all Katya's doing—she didn't turn the child against me. I was grateful to her for that. And I missed her. Missed her a lot. But she disappeared completely. Probably hasn't gotten over it yet. She's angry. I hurt her badly. But time dulls the edges, and when she's ready—we'll talk again. We're not divorced yet. The bridges haven't been burned.
"Dad, hi!" Nika shouted loudly into the phone when she answered my call. "I got an A in math for the year!"
"Good girl, my Strawberry. We'll celebrate tomorrow!"
I could proudly take credit for that—I helped her in that subject and made sure she understood it. Tomorrow we'd have a special evening, and on Saturday we'd go have fun at "Dream Island": she could ride all the attractions until she felt sick, and no one would stop her—her anxious mom wouldn't be there…
I didn't invite Vika on my days with Nika, even though she hinted she'd like to meet my daughter. But I'm not ready for that. And Veronika isn't either. This is hardest on her, and I don't want to traumatize her even more. Besides, there shouldn't be other women around me—to avoid provoking Katya unnecessarily. And Vika just wants to put down roots in me, tie me to her, stake her claim—but no woman will use my daughter for her own purposes. Nika is the most valuable thing I have left.
"Ready?" Kostik leaned into the open window and, as usual, flashed all thirty-two teeth. "I'm starving."
"You're such an animal," I couldn't help but say, thinking he definitely needed to get married. So a good woman could make a human out of him.
"I'm a lion," he tossed his thick blond mane back. "King of beasts and tamer of females. By the way, I met one at the club this weekend—when we get there, I'll tell you what tricks she can do with her—"
"You need to get married," I said very seriously.
"Only to your Katya. She'll be free soon," Kostik smirked.
"Fuck off!"
"Alright, alright, I'm going."
I hit the gas and sped toward the restaurant. Damn jokes. Kostik was a man and didn't try to teach me how to live, but he couldn't resist teasing. Divorcing my wife was my choice (yeah, right—Katya decided for both of us!), and my friend didn't judge me, although he always had warm feelings toward my wife. Kostya always said he envied me and didn't get married because the best woman was already taken. I never got jealous. First, I was always confident in my Malvina, and second, I assumed it was just a convenient excuse for him not to tie the knot. But now I started thinking.
Does that mean men will start hitting on my Katya? What if they already have? Damn it! While I, losing my temper, got deeply involved with Vika and even convinced myself that it was really over with Malvina. While I was enjoying unexpected freedom, my wife could have tasted its pleasures too?!
I резко turned the wheel, pulling into the parking lot near "Uhvat." I hadn't thought about that. For ten years I'd gotten used to my rear being securely covered, and the most beautiful woman in the world loving me and never betraying me. Even now, I couldn't imagine Katya with someone else—just thinking about it made everything turn red, like a raging bull.
"Alright, I'll have syrniki, borscht, a pie with meat and one with cabbage and egg. Slow-cooked shoulder with vegetables and homemade potatoes. How long for the Kolobov pie?" I asked the girl, who was nervously writing down the order for two large grown men.
"About twenty minutes."
"Then bring that too. Also a large cheese plate for the wine, and a bottle of 'Chablis Saint Clair.'"
"Wow," Kostik said in mock amazement, "and I thought I was hungry."
"You're used to eating junk, but my stomach is selective—it needs homemade food."
"If something else about you were selective," he glanced meaningfully at my crotch, "you wouldn't be scavenging in restaurants."
"Ever heard the phrase 'a tongue without bones'?" I asked calmly.
"Well, I've heard it."
"If you don't grow some 'bones' back into that tongue, Mr. Architect, you'll be begging at Kazansky station and no restaurants for you."
He burst out laughing. I smirked too. We both understood my threat was empty: Konstantin Potryasov was a professional, he wouldn't be lost—people like him are rare on the job market. But hopefully he got the hint. Maybe at least for half a day he'd stop messing with me.
"Hey," Boris extended his hand. "Sorry I'm late," and shook Kostik's hand. Always polite and well-mannered, hyper-calm and reasonable. A European-style businessman, as we called him. Only when he drinks does he become emotional, and the Russian soul bursts out. Then he takes off his glasses and you can call for bears and gypsies.
"Oh, isn't that your Katya sitting over there?" Kostik nodded behind my back when we had already eaten and were going through documents. I turned and instantly found her refined profile, even though she was sitting at the other end of the hall. She was meeting with our lawyer. Without me. Maybe that wasn't a good sign, but I couldn't think about nuances right now. I hadn't seen my wife for about two months! First I wanted to cool off after that terrible fight, then she disappeared completely. Didn't contact me at all. And my confident "she'll come running back to me" remained just mine. She didn't come. Didn't forgive.
Katya turned in my direction, as if she felt my greedy gaze—my gaze. And she was so beautiful, impossible to look away. A bright blonde in a pale blue jacket and matching trousers, with shiny, perfectly styled hair—I could even see from here how striking the lipstick looked on her full lips, as if they were moist, tempting like ripe strawberries.
And I couldn't understand—where was even a hint that she missed her husband?!
I shook my head and turned away. Of course, it was irony. Katya would never show (especially to the bastard who hurt her) what was going on inside—her heart and soul. But, to be honest, I was stunned: both by her and by my own reaction to her.
"Look how beautiful she is!" Kostik whistled admiringly, and even Boris got interested, although he usually didn't pay attention to other men's wives, only politely kissed their hands. "Well," Kostya spread his hands theatrically, "Katya doesn't look like she's suffering."
Fuck, I'll kill him. For sure! But he's right, of course, right. Ekaterina Polonskaya absolutely didn't look like a desperate housewife. I watched their table with Rudolfovich closely, and when she started to leave, I got up too. I'll go have a smoke. Kostya followed me.
We stood there with our iQOS, not exposing anyone to secondhand smoke, talking exclusively about business, when the graceful figure of my wife appeared at the exit. Katya paused on the steps, looking at me with those velvet eyes, then descended, calm and businesslike.
"Hi, Kostya," she kissed him on the cheek, and he was all too happy—hugged her in return, then took her hands.
"You're blooming!" he whistled and even inhaled the air near her hair. "And you smell good."
Idiot! With his cheap flirting!
"Thank you," and Katya, damn it, blushed at the compliment! What the hell! "And thanks for the witch's cauldron too. Nika loved it."
"She's a smart girl, finished the year with top marks."
"Not finished yet, but she's on the right track."
While those two exchanged small talk, not noticing me, I was seething, and when Katya finally deigned to turn toward me, I was boiling so much it felt like steam would come out of my ears.
"Uh…" she turned away awkwardly, even looked at Kostya as if she needed support to talk to me. Damn. "I don't know what to say," she said simply, shrugging. "Hi, I guess?"
"You can kiss me if you're eager," I replied rather sharply. Told you—I was boiling.
"I'm not," she answered coldly, regaining composure. "Hello, Vadim."
"Hello, Katya."
"I'll go," Kostya removed the filter from his device, threw it in the trash, and quickly disappeared.
The level of testosterone-fueled aggression inside me dropped immediately, and I added more softly:
"You disappeared somewhere… How are you even living?"
"I'm living fine, Polonsky. Fine." Katya, as always, showed her character. It's easy to provoke her, and she won't switch off just because I calmed down. "I hope you're not unwell either?"
"I live thanks to your prayers, my Malvina."
"Well then, bye," she tried to pass by me. No, we weren't done yet! If she didn't want to talk "about life," then we'd talk business.
"What were you discussing with Rudolfovich, if it's not a secret?"
"It's a secret."
"Katya, I'll find out anyway."
She shrugged indifferently and looked around demonstratively. As if she was in a hurry. Little devil.
"Should I expect surprises at the hearing?"
"It doesn't concern our divorce," she replied evenly, then added sarcastically: "Don't worry, I'm not going to sabotage the process. And I won't hold you back, Polonsky." She walked around me and headed toward her car.
"Why's that?" I called after her. She hit a nerve, I admit.
Katya, without stopping, spun gracefully as if in a dance and replied:
"We were married nine years, Polonsky. I got tired of you too! And one more thing—don't call me Malvina anymore."
So I stood there, soaked in her ironic statement. Got tired of me, huh. Really? That's something. Damn it. Better if pigeons had shat on me.
"And what did you expect?" Kostik put a hand on my shoulder and, for once, was serious. "That she'd cry and throw herself into your arms? That she'd suffer? Let her start living again. You're living, aren't you?"
"With whom is she starting?" I asked quietly, threateningly. I wasn't in the mood for jokes either.
"Not with me, if that's what you mean," Kostik snapped irritably. "You're my best friend, and I'd never do that, even if I was tempted. Besides, Katya's like a sister to me after ten years."
"Sorry, brother," I felt ashamed of those dirty thoughts about my best friend. "I don't know what came over me."
"But I do," he muttered. "You're jealous. Katya's young, beautiful. You're the thirty-five-year-old dog who needs care and attention, but she can find a guy in no time."
"Very comforting, damn it."
"I'm not comforting you. Just think it through. If it's Vika, then it's Vika. If it's Katya, then…" he spread his hands. "I don't even know how you'll manage. She's strong-willed, and, pardon me, she's not yours anymore—will she forgive you?"
I didn't know that myself, but she was mine. My wife. And inside, I felt like it wasn't the end. My Malvina would waver. She still loved me. I could feel it—she hadn't forgotten. If a woman tries to hurt you, it means she still cares.