Chapter 2
Varvara
The taxi ride back to my tiny one-bedroom flat in Kensington is eating up more miles than it should. The bastard is taking the long way around.
“Hurry it up,” I say at him. “I know what you’re doing. I’m not a fucking tourist.”
He gives me a grimace, but now that I’m on to him, he cuts the theatrics and takes the next turn without another word.
I sit back against cracked vinyl and check my phone. Half one in the morning. A bank notification that makes me want to throw myself into the Thames because my rent has gone out, and my account now looks like a tragic joke.
“Left here,” I say sharply as we turn onto my street.
He obeys this time. The taxi rolls to a stop outside my building, a converted Georgian terrace that is well-maintained and beautiful. It’s my one luxury because living in comfort and close to work in Mayfair is high on my list of priorities.
I tap my card, get out, and slam the door harder than necessary.
The taxi lingers for a second, then finally drives off, leaving me alone on the pavement in the humidity of early summer.
I move quickly to the door, with my bag cutting into my shoulder, my heels threatening mutiny, and my keys gripped tightly in my hand, staring up at the black railings and white stucco and pretending I don’t feel exposed.
Kensington at this hour likes to sell itself as safe. Wealthy. Civilised. All polished brass and expensive silence.
That is a load of shit.
A woman alone is a woman alone, whether the streetlights are pretty or not.
My key is ready to slide into the lock as soon as I’m in reaching distance, because standing outside fumbling for keys is how people end up on the news with neighbours saying she always seemed so lovely, and her smile lit up a room.
Bullshit.
The main door clicks open, and I slip inside fast, locking it behind me out of habit.
The hallway is cool and dark, but the security light flickers on overhead as it senses movement. Marble tiles. Mirror with a gilt frame. An arrangement of white flowers that the landlady replaces every Monday. I move to the stairs and start climbing.
Second floor. Third.
By the time I hit my landing, my feet ache even more, and my patience is gone.
I fit the key into my lock, push the door open and slip inside quietly so I don’t disturb the neighbours.
Closing the door, I kick off my shoes and then bolt it behind me.
I stand there for a second with my forehead against the wood, listening.
Nothing.
No footsteps outside. No scrape of anyone lingering on the landing. Just the old pipes in the walls and the faint hum of the fridge from the kitchen.
“Fuck this night,” I say.
My flat is small, expensive, and entirely mine.
Open-plan kitchen and sitting room, one bedroom, one bathroom, tall sash windows with cream curtains, a sofa I saved for months to buy, and books stacked anywhere they fit because I refuse to live in a place that looks staged for an estate agent.
The lamp by the sofa is still on from when I left earlier, so I didn’t have to walk into a dark flat.
I drop my bag on the table by the door and immediately wince because that bag contains my entire life.
My bra is trying to cut me in half because humidity sweat, big tits and bras are a combination that pleases no one.
Plucking at it, I head straight for the kitchen, fill a glass with water, and drink half of it in one go.
My hand is shaking. Not much. Enough to annoy me.
I set the glass down and brace both palms on the counter, staring at the dark reflection in the kitchen window.
Black hair coming loose from its pins. Lipstick fading.
Mascara still intact because if I am going to be poor, exhausted, and working for men who think smiling when they grab my tits is part of the uniform, I can at least remain waterproof.
What a fucking life.
I fish my phone out of my bag and check tomorrow’s rota. Late shift again. Of course it is. More hours, more drunk men, more fake smiles, more cash that vanishes the second it hits my account.
My shoulders ache.
My feet ache.
My patience is dead and buried.
I open the fridge and stare at leftovers in labelled containers, a full carton of eggs, cheese, and half a bottle of white wine with the cork pushed back in. I stare at all of it for a beat, then shut it again.
Bed wins.
I unclip my name badge and drop it in the ceramic dish next to my bed. I hate wearing it. I hate that men know my name and think it gives them some kind of access. I strip off and move into the bathroom. I am down to knickers and that hateful bra.
I unhook it and hiss in relief. “Fucking finally.”
The red marks on my skin irritate me almost as much as the memory of tonight.
Losing my knickers, I pull my hair from its tight bun and turn the shower on hot and step under it the second it warms. Water beats down over my scalp and shoulders, and some of the tension eases.
Not enough. Enough to stop me from murdering someone in my head for five straight minutes.
I scrub my face clean, wash the club off me, and stand there longer than I should because hot water is expensive and this month is already trying to ruin me. Then I force myself out, dry off, and pull on an old, oversized tee that used to be black and is now more of a tired grey.
I leave the lamp by the bed on. It’s soft enough that it does not feel like I am under interrogation. Bright enough that I can still see if someone decides to smash a window and make my evening even worse.
Crawling into bed, I pull the duvet up to my waist and flop back, my hair splaying over the pillow around me as I close my eyes.
I don’t sleep. I never can after the last shift. Too wired. Too paranoid someone will come breaking in. Too everything. Too hot.
I lie there and listen to London outside the window. I turn onto my side, then onto my back, then onto my other side, and finally throw the duvet off with a hiss of frustration.
Pointless.
Sleep is not happening.
I sit up, drag my hair off my neck.
Time ticks along too slowly, yet too quickly.
I should try breathing exercises. Meditation. Some other bullshit people with functioning nervous systems recommend. Instead, I get out of bed and go back into the sitting room.
The city outside my windows is quiet now. Too quiet.
I pull one curtain aside by an inch and glance down at the street. Parked cars. The usual Range Rovers and Audis that adorn these streets. Right at the end, a flashy sports car of some kind sits like it owns the road.
I let the curtain fall back into place and head to the kitchen. If I am not sleeping, I may as well eat. I open the fridge again, take out leftover pasta, and stand there with the container in my hand, debating whether cold carbohydrates at two in the morning count as self-care or surrender.
Deciding I don’t think I can stomach it cold, I place it in the microwave and heat it up.
The microwave hums. I brace my hip against the counter and rub at my eyes, already regretting this because now I’m awake enough to notice every little noise in the flat.
The old pipes tick.
A car passes outside.
Then nothing.
The microwave pings, sharp in the quiet, and I nearly tell it to fuck off. I take the container out, grab a fork, and eat standing up at the counter in my bare feet.
Minutes later, shoving the last forkful into my mouth, I rinse the dish and set it in the sink to deal with later. I yawn and decide now I can give sleeping another go. Crawling into bed, this time I close my eyes, and I’m lulled to sleep from exhaustion and a full stomach.