Chapter 28 Mila
Chapter 28
Mila
Fin’s kitchen is huge and largely unused. Like the rest of the penthouse apartment, its color palette is moody—matte-black cabinetry and marble countertops veined with gold. Its high-end appliances include an unused professional range and a Sub-Zero fridge, a central island as large as the bow of a ship, and pendant lighting that looks like alien spaceships.
I run my finger over the silky petal of a potted orchid, artfully arranged in a shallow silver urn topped with moss. It’s an odd thing to have on a kitchen counter. But then, so is the stylishly arranged stack of cookbooks, all tonally monochrome, and all unused. And the shiny balloon dog that’s an original Jeff Koons. According to Google, it’s worth twenty thousand big ones. For an ornament.
It’s like another world.
Minutes ago, while drinking my coffee from the built-in Italian coffee machine, I recalled an article I’d read last year about orchids and how some wealthy people—billionaires, I suppose—employ an orchid keeper. That’s an actual job. Someone who tends to the potted pretties, swapping them out for other orchids of the same color and size when the plants go into their vegetative state and stop flowering. For nine or ten months of their lives.
How crazy is that?
I was trying to convince myself that wasn’t Fin, that he wouldn’t be so wasteful. So shallow, I suppose. Then I picked up the balloon dog, googled it out of curiosity, and discovered what it was worth. To borrow a Ronny phrase, I was shook.
I still am, but I’m trying not to hold it against him as I rifle through the kitchen drawers looking for a pen and paper.
It’s like no one even lives here. Where’s the junk drawer?
I’m being unfair, I know. Especially after I acted like such a bitch last night. It’s his money, and I’m sure he works hard for it. But when there’s so much poverty in the world, it’s hard to stomach. To think my fee might only buy me ten of these stupid balloon dogs!
An objet d’art or maybe an investment piece , I’m sure the interior designer would’ve called it.
It might only be a drop in the filthy lucre ocean to Fin, yet this money is a lifeline to me. I’m so grateful to have it—and I have better plans than spending it on bits of shiny rubbish.
Ah, good. A pen and paper. I pull them out and flip open the pad.
I was a total bitch as a defense mechanism, but I apologized for calling him a fuckboy. I know that’s not him. I apologized with words too. Not just with my body. That wasn’t my intention when I flung myself at him. I think, in the moment, I just needed to be held. And I wanted to hold him.
My cave of safety.
The thing is, I don’t think I’d ever need to be on the defense as far as Fin is concerned.
“ We need to think about our sleeping arrangements. ”
Last night, as Fin’s chest rose and fell under my mine, our bodies still joined, his back sprawled across the sofa, he seemed to think I might need an excuse to sleep with him after I said I’d take another room.
“What do you mean?” I was seminaked and sprawled across him. Wasn’t that hint enough?
“I have staff. A housekeeper, a cleaning crew.”
“An orchid keeper?”
“A what?” He lifted his head and stared at me as though I had two heads.
“It’s a thing. Apparently.”
“If we sleep in separate rooms, we might set tongues to wagging.”
“As long as they only wag in this apartment,” I said, my eyebrows riding high on my head. “Because surely a smart man like you had them sign NDAs.” So he wouldn’t see my amusement, I pressed my lips to his chest. His skin was salty with sweat and a musk unique to him.
“I did. They do.” I could hear the smile in his voice as I struggled upright and he slid the hair from my face.
“So what’s the problem?”
“The press gets their information from somewhere.”
“You have a leak?”
He shrugged, not quite committing himself. “Who knows? But do you want to take the risk?”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say this has the very strong flavor of you angling for a thing.”
“A thing?”
I heard his reply like a lift of questioning brows.
“A fling. A situationship. A relationship. A something.”
The backs of his fingers coasted down my arm. “Or like a husband and a wife enjoying their marriage.”
“Fin.” His name ached from me quite suddenly.
“We could just not name it and see where it goes.”
Until it burns itself out and one of us loses our heart?
I slept in his bed. In his arms, in my cave of Fin. And all those noises, all that confusion, it still chattered as I sank into oblivion.
He woke me before he left for the office this morning. He had a meeting he couldn’t miss, he said. He’ll be back before lunch. But I won’t be here, so I scribble him a note to say not to expect me back for the rest of the day.
My heart tells me I should stay far, far away, but my head knows that if I want to hang on to what’s left of my business, that’s not going to be possible.
Keep a business, lose my heart?
My body sways in time with the carriage. This morning’s mammoth trek from Fin’s swanky Knightsbridge address to Baba’s nursing home in the outer reaches of East London has included two Tubes and a train. The carriage is packed, though the motion lulls my tired soul in a song of get in, get out, get in, get out .
I pull my phone from my purse as it buzzes with a call—an unknown number. I don’t bother answering. I can’t imagine it’ll be important. Besides, I hate taking calls when I feel like people might listen in. The call rings out, and I stare at the screen, the temptation to reread that stupid article so hard to ignore.
“ No one hears good at a keyhole. ” My grandmother’s words echo in my head.
But still I type.
A little bird. The search bar autofills, and I select the first search: the latest post.
A Little Bird Told Us ...
Loved up and super casual!
Check out the footage of our new lovebirds arriving at the private terminal in City Airport last night. Fin DeWitt looking snatched as ever—we’re kind of digging the haircut now, brutal chic and cheekbones for days! Meanwhile, his new wife, Mila, was casual in black leggings and Converse. We like your thinking, Mrs. D. Comfort over style for those long-haul flights.
Why not go the whole hog and call me frumpy.
Fin declined to comment when asked about Charlotte, his reality TV star ex, but was all smiles as he and that other piece of deliciousness, Matías Romero, helped a startled Mila into the waiting limo.
They make me sound like a piece of baggage.
To be fair, the accompanying footage makes me look like a bag too. Not that I look much better this morning. I’m wearing jeans and a hoodie I pulled from Fin’s walk-in closet. The place looks like a fancy menswear store, the kind that shuns price tags and mannequins and has amazing lighting.
But I digress, because A Little Bird’s latest post includes images of Fin and Charlotte dressed for some swanky event a couple of months ago. He’s dressed like James Bond, and she’s wearing a couple of Band-Aids masquerading as a dress that my own boobs would absolutely fall out of. The caption reads:
Fin DeWitt attending the Nexus Charity Ball, his companion, social media influencer Charlotte Bancroft, cutting a stunningly svelte figure in Tom Ford .
Companion. Fin made it sound more like a chance meeting, or even a series of them.
I think about the language used to describe me. Casual. Comfort. Startled. While snatched and delicious were reserved for Fin and his friend. I know I shouldn’t pay attention—the intelligence in me says I shouldn’t believe the media, even as the woman in me studies the image like an FBI profiler. Why are they standing so close? Could his arm be behind her?
“ The betrayed will betray you, and the deceived will deceive you. ” Fin’s words from the resort suddenly come back to me. He said this is what he learned from love. Whatever it means, it must’ve put him off trying to find love again. I can’t say I blame him.
Pushing the recollection away, I scroll to the comment section while knowing I should just move on. But it’s like a grazed knee I can’t resist picking.
181 comments
Innit4theD: That ’S his new wife?!?!
Fast I know I don’t look like the women Fin usually dates. Is photographed with or whatever.
Who do these people think they are? These journalists and anonymous commenters—don’t they understand words have power? That they hurt?
I felt bad when Evie was upset, when she described her experiences. But I didn’t really get it. I do now. Boy, do I get it.
Pulling my hood over my head, I put my head down and join the hordes of similarly unhappy souls, blank faced and gray looking, rushing to work or getting kids to school. Regular Londoners living on the edge of poverty.
It could only be worse if it were raining. Though I suppose I could also be in the city, being jostled by finance bros far too important to pause a moment in the sunshine. Or silently cursing tourists for cluttering up the sidewalks with their suitcases while they gawk at their camera phones, not really paying attention to the things around them, just snapping images as proof of their being here.
It’s such a strange world we live in, everyone desperate to appear interesting to their peers.
I should take a leaf out of Fin’s book and not give a fuck. So that’s what I do. Fuck you, journalists! Fuck you, Charlotte! Fuck you all for trying to make me feel less than.
I denounce my insecurities forthwith!
If nothing else, my silent conversation makes me smile, when my phone rings again. It’s another private number, but as I’m almost at the tiny hole-in-the-wall coffee shop, I let it ring out. I’ve got other things to concentrate on today, and nothing is spoiling my Zen.
I order two Turkish coffees and a pistachio pastry and turn left out of the shop for Baba’s nursing home, when my heart sinks to my Converse.
“Mila?”
My feet slow, my eyes shuttering closed. All the way out here? There are nine million people living in London in an area of over six hundred square miles. I might as well be on Mars as way out here—no way this speck of East London is Fin’s normal patch.
“Hey.” I paint on a small smile as I turn. My Zen is wobbling but not yet gone.
“What are you doing here?” we both say at the same time.
“You first.” I rub my nose with the back of my hand, conscious of how quickly these tiny coffees cool and how much I don’t want to have this conversation. Especially not here—this place is about as unlike Knightsbridge as you can get. And he looks so out of place in his bespoke suit, pristine shirt, and shiny white shoes. He’s an invitation for a drive-by mugging.
Give me your wallet, watch, and shoes. Handmade Italian leather. There’s bound to be a market for them.
“I’m here with Matt.” He gestures behind him to where a 1960s concrete shopping center stands. Beige pebble-dashed concrete, abandoned shop fronts, and unimaginative graffiti. “We were on our way back to the office but stopped to look at an investment opportunity coming up. It’s a shopping mall and business center that he hopes to get our investors interested in.”
“It’s about time gentrification spread this way.”
“It’ll be more like demolition. The whole area is to undergo a regeneration package.”
I think about the block of flats I grew up in. I hope they raze it to the ground. I can’t wait to move out. Move on. Again.
“So, what are you doing here?” He glances at the coffees and the brown paper bag containing Baba’s pastry.
“I’m going to visit my grandmother,” I admit, my heart heavy as I prepare to see her, wondering what kind of a morning she’s having.
“Baba Roza.” His inflection turns his statement into a question. I nod. “She lives around here?”
“Yeah, her nursing home isn’t far away.” Vague. Keep it vague.
“Oh.” His expression flickers with something that looks like sympathy. “I didn’t know.”
“Because I didn’t tell you.” I fold my lips together against any other escapes and make a gesture with the coffee cups. “I’d better get going before these get cold.”
“Can I . . .”
My feet shuffle but don’t move, though I cringe as he starts again.
“Can I come with you. Maybe meet her?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” In fact, as I turn warily, I think it’s a terrible idea. Possibly the worst I’ve ever heard.
“We don’t have to tell her we’re married. You can just introduce me as a friend.”
“My grandmother has dementia, remember? New things, new people, confuse her. I really don’t think it would be a good idea, especially as I haven’t seen her myself this week.”
Fin slides his palm over the top of his head, and my treacherous body reacts. “Yeah, sorry.”
“Well, I’d better get going.” I lift the paper cups as though in explanation. Or excuse.
“Let me walk you there, at least.”
“Not necessary!” I sort of sing, like the backdrop is less Trainspotting and more The Sound of Music . I don’t want him anywhere near the place. The facility is far from pretty. I mean, I’m grateful for the care they provide, and the staff are great, but it’s not how I envisaged Baba ending her days.
“Come on. I’m done here. Let me just walk you to the door.”
I stifle a sigh and nod, knowing he’s not going to give in.
We take a right, cross a road, and weave through the car park. A few minutes later, I press the buzzer on the hospital-style doors and turn to him. “I’ll see you later, yeah?”
“Sure.”
The buzzer sounds, and Fin pulls on the handle before I can get to it.
“Thank you.” I step inside, intending to put down the coffees to sign the visitor book, when pandemonium hits.
“Shut the door!” one of the nursing assistants calls as a large and seminaked male patient makes for the outside world.
I pivot as Fin steps inside, closing it behind him, but I can’t concentrate on that as I sidestep the escaping motion machine.
“Thanks.” The nurse smiles apologetically. “The inner door lock popped.” Her attention turns to her charge. “Come on now, Harry, your son will be here to visit you shortly. Why don’t you come back inside and we’ll get you dressed, ready to see him.”
“Get me my teeth!” Harry demands. “I’m gettin’ outa this fuckin’ madhouse,” he explodes.
“Now, Harry . . .”
The man pivots, his hands landing heavily on Fin’s shoulders. “Son, have you ever been in prison?” he asks earnestly, spittle lashing his captive’s face.
Fin, God bless him, doesn’t flinch. Instead, he holds the man’s gaze without recoiling from his aged, dangling almost-nakedness. Meanwhile, I don’t know where to look. Time is not easy on the body. But this is what I mean about changing facilities. The staff are great here, but there aren’t enough of them. This door breaks regularly, and the whole place is just tired. Baba deserves better, and I want to give her that.
“I can’t say that I have,” Fin answers calmly.
“You’d be popular there,” Harry says, patting his cheek. “I’ve been in the clink,” he adds, his tone confidential. “And I’m not going back.”
“Harry,” the nurse cajoles. “He’s a former lay preacher,” she adds as a quiet aside. “He thinks this is prison, bless him.”
I give a tiny nod in understanding. But also, I see the similarities.
“Lack of inhibition and sensory issues are classic dementia symptoms,” I offer Fin’s way. Like I just read it from a piece of frightening literature, the kind they supply you with at a diagnosis.
“That’s right,” the nurse says. “Come along, Harry. Let’s go and get you dressed.” With that, she turns Harry in the opposite direction. “You don’t want all the ladies ogling, do you?”
“Dead birds don’t fall out of their nests,” he mutters in response.
“I’m sorry about that,” I mutter to Fin, then I roll my lips inward. I’m not laughing. What I want to do is cry. Dementia is so cruel, stripping people of their dignity. But I also can’t help but wonder how Oliver Deubel would’ve reacted to this situation. Something tells me it would not have ended so well.
“It’s not your fault. Is there a washroom?” he asks, pointing to his face.
My heart sinks. I suppose it looks like he’s coming in.
“I can leave,” he offers, coming out of the washroom and wiping his palm across his face. He obviously doesn’t want to, and I’m not sure why. I sometimes wish I didn’t have to come here myself. Harry’s outburst isn’t the worst I’ve seen. At least it was mildly humorous. Sometimes, a dementia patient’s outburst can be traumatic for all concerned.
The facility is understaffed and underfunded. It’s all flowery wallpaper and cheap melamine, and though they’re mostly cheerful, the staff wear the strain of their jobs on their faces without realization or intent.
“It’s okay.” He’s here now. He’s seen the place. He must’ve noticed the pervasive scent of cabbage and disinfectant already. I suppose all that remains is to see what kind of day Baba Roza is experiencing.
“This way.” I glance down at the paper espresso cups. “She’ll complain this is cold now.” If we’re lucky.
“Do you want me to go grab fresh ones?”
“It’s okay. Thanks, anyway.” And he hated the label nice . Maybe I should’ve said decent . Because he is.
I knock softly on her door, which is already open (and never locked), and find Baba sitting in her facility-issued chair, dozing.
“How long has she been in here?” Fin asks softly. He looks too big for the tiny room.
“Not so long. She’d been diagnosed more than a year ago but kept it secret. It wasn’t until she fell and had to be hospitalized that I found out. I didn’t have any choice but to put her in here.”
Put her in here. Like a pet in a boarding kennel. Unlike a pet, she won’t be coming home after the holidays.
I glance around the room and try to see it with his eyes. The hospital-style bed with the flowery duvet cover from home. The cream crocheted doilies she made years before. The religious icons on the walls and the framed pictures of passed loved ones.
“Your grandfather?” he asks, pointing to a black-and-white photo of my stern-looking grandfather.
“ Dedo ,” I say, using the Macedonian name for grandfather . “I never met him.”
“You look a little like him.”
“I look like my mother, but I have my father’s coloring. And his peasant DNA.”
Fin gives a tiny frown, but it’s true. No matter how much exercise I undertake or macros and calories I count, my body is always preparing for a harsh winter or a drought, hanging on to its fat cells, just in case. Yet the way he looks at me makes me feel like a goddess.
“ Zdravo! ” My grandmother comes to life like a jack-in-the-box, all arms and smiles and warmth. “My Mila!”
She lets loose a string of Macedonian I can’t even guess at.
“English, Baba, remember? I don’t understand.”
“Yes, yes. I remember. Ah!” Her eyes widen and sparkle like diamonds. “You have brought Alexander,” she announces, holding out her hands. Aleksander , it sounds like in her accent, a hard k .
“No, this is Fin. My friend.” I don’t know any Alexander. It was weird when she came up with the name, and weirder still that she keeps mentioning it.
“Come!” She makes a grabbing motion in the air, which is my cue.
Relief and love flood my system as I lean in for a kiss and she takes my face in her hands. She smells of flour and tomatoes and lavender water, the very singular scents somehow ingrained in her skin. “How are you, my love?”
But she doesn’t answer, reaching now for Fin. Those grabbing granny hands must be universal, as I find him next to me. We swap sides, and Baba takes hold of his face.
“Aleksander, you cut your lion mane!”
“I did. But it was for a good cause.” Pressing his hands over hers, he drops to one knee in front of her chair.
“For my Mila?”
“I like to think so.”
“It’s Fin, Baba,” I interject. I know I’m not supposed to correct her, but I find myself doing so anyway.
“Yes, yes. Aleksander. Like the conqueror.”
“Alexander the Great?” I screw up my face. The ancient Macedonian king from way back before baby Jesus hit the scene?
“He looked like a lion. So handsome.”
“And you know that how?” Because when we watched the movie starring Colin Farrell, she tutted and complained about his terribly dyed hair.
“Because he is here!” she says—sort of, you silly girl .
“Alexander the Great?”
“No, your husband. He looks like lion. But where has his hair gone?”
“Baba, what are you talking about?” A frisson, something uncanny, washes over my skin, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand like pins.
This is so freaky.
“You married her, huh? You married my Mila in the sunshine?”
“Yes, that’s right. Just like you told her I would.”
Like she ... oh, my days.
“You will look after her,” she says, turning his left palm in her hand.
“Always.”
She begins to study his palm, and I feel my cheeks heat with the silly, old-country-ness of it as she runs her finger along the lines. “Many, many lovers,” she says, her eyes dancing as though to say Lucky you! “But that stops now. Here.” She taps his palm. “One love, your whole life. And you will be very, very happy.”
“That’s good to know,” Fin says. “Thank you.”
“Baba.” I make a noise; frustration mixed with pain, though I don’t know why. It’s not as though she’ll remember this conversation. Or at least, not verbatim.
Or maybe it’s because Fin will.
“Money, children.” She glances my way. “Two. The girl you will call Roza.”
I don’t think so—on either front.
She lowers her head, then lifts it immediately again, as though struck by a sudden thought. “Oh! Lucky Mila. Your Aleksander will keep you very happy in the bedroom.”
“Baba! There’s no way you can see that on his palm.” But I look anyway, as though I expect to see some kind of phallic symbol.
“Your grandfather, Stefan.” She shakes her head. “I was not so lucky.”
“I think that’s enough for today.”
Baba reclines a little in her high-backed chair, her face wreathed in a smile. “I told you, darling. I saw your husband in the coffee grounds. This one,” she says with a waggle of her finger. “This one, he is a good one.”