Chapter Fourteen
In which Iris’s glow up is not at all like the fun ones in the teen movies.
Iris…
One of our favorites is My Fair Lady, despite the long, painful scene where Professor Higgins is being a complete dick while trying to "civilize" Eliza Doolittle and frankly, it's a miracle she didn't stab him in the throat as he kept barking, "Again!"
The next three days are like that.
Worse, I can't direct my hatred at Andrey because he turned me over to a very nice woman who heads up his "transition team," and then went out of town on a business trip, the treacherous son of a bitch.
***
The Morozov Global Media Center
Jessica looks at me with a great deal of sympathy and the slightest bit of humor as Andrey introduces us before straightening his cuffs and glancing at his watch, as if the ten minutes of pleasantries has already thrown off his day.
He leaves with the casual comment, "I will be out of town for three days.
Melina will be sleeping at the penthouse. "
"Wha- hey, Andrey!" I call after him. Why does that sound like the kind of instructions you'd give a babysitter?
Did he tell Melina to not let me stay up too late and go easy on the sweets?
Joke's on him. Melina and the Redwood (Av) are addicted to my cinnamon roll cupcakes.
I'm baking a quadruple batch tonight, just on principle.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Iris. If I may call you that?" Jessica asks, breaking the uncomfortable little moment.
"Oh, please call me Iris," I ask. "There's around three thousand and twenty-seven Morozovs and every one of my sisters-in-law have begged everyone to call them by their first name because it just gets too confusing."
Jessica laughs and I'm liking her more and more.
She's older, in her fifties maybe with a sleek gray suit and an experienced eye that tells me she's been around the block a few times, the kind of assistant who could survive the polar chill of Andrey Morozov.
"I'm just sorry I couldn't make it to your wedding.
" She smiles slightly. "It was so sudden. "
"Yes, it was," I say fervently and then remember that I'm supposed to be putting on an act here. "I'm sure Andrey doesn't do these sorts of impulsive things, but it was a high emotion moment." I stammer. Yeah, I'm so slick. "We just… did it."
She's masterfully attempting to hide her amusement and I appreciate the effort.
"We might want to work on your responses for that," she says gently.
"It will be, of course, a very common question because Andrey - to my knowledge - has never had a long-term girlfriend, much less been interested in marriage. "
"The man is definitely uptight," I agree. "But maybe he's loosening up in his old age."
That really gets her going, her laughter fills the pristine office space. "Maybe we find another way to say that, too,” she says diplomatically. "Given the fact that your age difference may also come up."
"Got it. No age jokes."
That's when the real fun begins. And by 'fun,' I mean not in the slightest. There are spreadsheets of names and titles and their social or professional value to Andrey that I have to memorize.
A deeper dive on his more important supporters, and some of Andrey's most successful court cases that will be brought up in interviews.
More questions on how we met, my background, and perfectly prepared soundbites regarding my feelings about his ascension to the State Supreme Court and a whole bunch of other shit that makes my head throb.
Rose and I were raised in a wealthy family, but rocketing to the level of power and influence of the Morozov Bratva is staggering.
Being merely Roman's sister-in-law, I wasn't expected to know any of the deep implications about both the criminal and legitimate side of their dealings, other than a very clear understanding that I never speak of anything Morozov related.
The next day, a stylist comes in. Jenna, "just Jenna" with cat-like green eyes and red hair. "The face is perfect," she says to Jessica. "The hair is lovely, other than the occasional French twist for formal occasions, I think wearing it down is very striking."
Why, thank you for speaking about me like I'm a simpleton who doesn't need to be involved in the conversation about me.
Jenna runs a disapproving eye down my shorts and sleeveless shirt.
I thought the outfit was well-tailored and acceptably put together, but she's giving me the same look of horror as if I had walked in wearing a meat suit like Lady Gaga.
"We'll start with some simple business attire, cocktail dresses and formal wear.
I think four or five evening gowns should do, to start with. "
Pursing my lips as I watch her talk to Jessica, I finally cut in. "Thank you for the insight. It's so nice to have an expert's advice." She looks at me for the first time, as if startled that there is a voice attached to the body. "Do you think five evening gowns is perhaps a bit excessive?"
I smile pleasantly, I think I'm exuding the, 'gracious wife of a Supreme Court Justice' vibe really well.
"Jessica has been speaking to me about my 'platform' because apparently, I need one.
I thought focusing on at-risk teenagers here in the city would be a good focus.
My sister Violet Morozova runs two community centers devoted to giving them a safe place to be.
I think stuffing my closet with Dior and Balenciaga undercuts the message we're attempting to send, don't you? "
She and Jessica exchange a glance. "The sad truth of the matter," Jessica says, "is that the people in this orbit will like the fact that you have a platform.
They'll think it's sweet." She watches my face twist in revulsion and smiles sympathetically.
"We're dealing with a social class who like to look like they're saving the world, one fundraiser at a time.
In front of the press, at any rate. But when they're having their special little parties, they want to display as much wealth as possible.
Unfortunately, you will be at a disadvantage if you can't keep up. "
"It's Andrey's billions," Jenna says, looking slightly more human. "I can promise you; your new wardrobe won't even make a nick in his monthly budget."
The afternoon is not like one of those fun montages in the teen movies where the girl gets the glow up while her friends clap and cheer.
Instead, I enjoy hours of fabric samples slapped against my chest to see how they look with my complexion while the seamstress mutters something uncomplimentary about my waistline as she tries to take in a skirt.
I thought I was in pretty good shape, but some of the dresses they give me to try on either shove my boobs up towards my neck or flatten my ass. The worst are the ones that make me look like a forty-year-old matron.
"Now," Jenna says, "do we need to arrange for pregnancy wear?" She's busy sorting through a rack of blouses so it takes her a minute to realize I haven't answered. This is because I'm laughing silently.
"Is that it?" I ask, trying to contain my amusement. "You think Andrey had to marry me because he knocked me up? Oh my god…" I give up and burst into a round of boisterous laughter. "Yeah, that's not Andrey's style, but I am entertained by your low opinion of me."
On the bright side, that ends the fitting.
It feels lonely, going home to an empty penthouse.
Melina may be sleeping here but there is a special guard's bedroom on the first floor that I hadn't found yet.
There's also a full apartment one floor below where the guards live while on duty.
After a full day of having to hover around me, I can understand why Melina wants some space.
She has a way of closing a door that does not invite you to knock on it.
Everything is huge here. Oversized, too tall, with the kind of excessive square footage that should be disallowed in Manhattan. I wander through the rooms, feeling like Jane Eyre mooning around Wuthering Heights.
Andrey's home is beautifully designed and oddly blank, sort of like him.
I know he's close - in his chilly way - to his family, but there's no personal items. No pictures of anyone, just graceful, well-chosen, impersonal as fuck artwork.
No tottering stacks of books on the table next to the couch.
They're all in the custom-made bookshelves that line one full wall.
All sectioned by subject, then sorted alphabetically.
I go to bed, angry at myself for feeling his absence.
The third day is the most exhausting.
I move in and out of three different dresses with extremely high heels.
I'm told I'll be wearing them so that the top of my head will reach Andrey's shoulder. This, I can handle. Skyscraper heels are my specialty. I once chased an asshole down a club hallway in my five-inch Prada’s to slap him across the back of the head for grabbing Rose's ass.
It seems that when it comes to sitting, I have been doing it wrong for these last twenty years.
"You sit down with your back straight and chin held high, legs crossed and tilt your knees slightly to the left." I'm a little concerned that Jessica’s going to pull out a wooden ruler like the nuns used on us at parochial school. "Keep your hands gracefully clasped on your lap."
Am I still living in this century? I'm not sure.
Jessica then acts as my interviewer/interrogator, pelting question after question at me on camera, and then playing the footage back, forcing me to see the "key highlights" of where I can improve.
When I'm allowed a very late lunch, I huddle in a quiet corner of the studio, stuffing down a sandwich. I send one of the camera clips to Rose.
"I look like an asshole, Rosie."
She offers the loving, calming support that I knew she would, by laughing so hard that it takes her a minute to get the words out. "You kind of do! What that hell is this look?"
"Thank you for your comforting support, my beloved sister," I say sourly.
"Yeah, sorry but this is too good." She valiantly tries to stop laughing. "You look like one of those super uptight anchorwomen or an awards presenter. Are you supposed to look that rigid?"
"No," I admit, slumping in my seat and ignoring the aioli from the sandwich dripping down my hand.
"I'm supposed to appear poised, and competent.
My answers should show my deep conviction that Andrey's going to be the best fucking Supreme Court Justice in the history of New York and surrounding states, and blah, blah, blah. "
"They're not… terrible," she says, attempting to cheer me up.
"The blue suit you're wearing now is totally office chic.
It's lucky you have summer off from school.
I'm glad they're appointing Andrey in September because I don't know how you can keep this act going and keep up your GPA at the same time, Little Miss Oh, I want to finish my double major in three years instead of four. "
Then, I say the thing I fear the most. "I don't look like Mom, do I?" It bursts out of me, frantic and Rose's face softens.
"By the end, I don't think she was functioning as an actual human being, she was more like a lizard. No. You look nothing like her."
"It's bad enough to have the kind of mother who would sell you off so her husband could get a corner office, but it would be even worse if I turned into her." I smooth down the soft wool of the suit. Mom would have loved this.
"No chance of that," Rose says decisively.
"I don't care what the glow-up people do to you: you're still the girl that can turn any man into a drooling idiot within ninety seconds.
You're the girl who hijacked that case of Strangelove NYC perfume - which sells for fifteen hundred dollars a bottle - and resold the whole thing within the same day!
These people can't fuck with the essential you! "
My laughter dies off as something occurs to me. "Oh shit, what if Jackson or one of our other douchebag felony acquaintances comes forward with a story? You know how much this would be worth?"
She turns quiet. A trickle of something dark and scary slithers down my spine. "What?"
"I haven't wanted to bother you," she says reluctantly.
"I haven't heard from Jackson, not once after that first phone call about the Rolexes.
I asked a couple of our mutual friends at the coffee shop where we did most of our drop offs, and they said he left town.
The next time I went in, none of them were there, either.
In fact, I can't find any of our former associates. "
The bite I'd taken out of my sandwich lodges in my throat and I have to spit it into the wrapper, hacking weakly.
"You don't think Andrey…" She doesn't finish the sentence and she doesn't have to.
We both know what she's thinking, what we're both thinking.
Is the entitled lunatic who made me marry him thorough enough to simply kill off any inconvenient reminders of our felonious past so they don't stain his perfect reputation?
"Hey, this is a good thing," she says, trying to sound cheerful. "It's a fresh start for both of us. It's not like we could keep doing it anyway. Your arrest was a wakeup call. We'll just have to find other ways to entertain ourselves."
"Yeah, but we can't even torture men anymore," I say sadly. "You're engaged to be engaged and well, there's Andrey."
"Hah!" She pounces on my comment. "Your claim that you fell madly in love with him and how he made you feel safe is getting weaker and weaker by the day, my beloved sister." Her tone turns serious. "Are you sure there's nothing you want to tell me?"
"No!" I snap. "Andrey is fantastic. He's deeply considerate and he just bought me a shit ton of expensive new clothes."
“How is he in bed?"
"What the hell, Rose!" I shriek, then hastily take a drink of water when everyone turns to stare at me. "I am not going to talk to you about that. Remember, we had a deal that when we started having sex, it would be the basic information only, and nothing weird like dick size."
"What about dick size, darling?"
Two beautifully polished Louis Vuitton dress shoes stop in front of me and I look up to see my husband gazing at me with one eyebrow raised. Rose hears him, of course, and oh, she's howling now. Still holding his gaze, I say, "You're a horrible human being and I'm hanging up now, Rose."
She's still laughing as I end the call.