CHAPTER 12
Vaughn
“What the fuck, Ivan? Are you listening or not?”
I jerk my eyes from the couple at the door back to the conversation at hand. My brother’s been introducing me to Alexei and Svetlana Smirnov, siblings from Moscow who are old friends of his and investors in his new restaurant.
“Sorry!” I say, sliding my eyes to Svetlana, who is overweight and homely. “I thought I saw someone I knew.”
“You are forgiven,” she says, batting her eyes at me. “The Russian community in London is… intimate .”
I understand her meaning, and I don’t want to be unkind, but no part of me is interested in being intimate with her. I give her a tight smile and look away.
“Alexei was just saying that all the liquor at Lara’s should be Russian,” says Mikhail, his eyes telling me he thinks this is the dumbest suggestion ever. “An interesting idea, no?”
Mikhail’s new restaurant, Lara’s, a nod to his favorite fictional character, is set to open next weekend.
“Is that possible?” I ask, willing myself not to look back at the couple by the door. “Are Russian wines up to the challenge of exclusively stocking the cellar of a London restaurant?”
“My friend, Vanya, has a wonderful vineyard in Krasnodar,” says Svetlana. “I can text her right now and let you know what she has available.”
“Thank you, darling one,” says Mikhail, taking her hand and kissing it. “You are a star.”
As Alexei and Svetlana walk away, Mikhail turns toward the wall, takes a small vial from his breast pocket, places a tiny spoon under his nose and sniffs deeply. When he turns back around, his eyes are dilated and wide.
“Deliver me from those bores!” he cries.
“They’re the money behind your restaurant.”
“ I’m the money,” he tells me, his nostrils flaring. “They’re just helping a little.”
“Fine,” I say.
“She’s a cow,” he mutters. “Been trying to get me into bed for years.”
Svetlana Smirnov isn’t attractive, but she doesn’t deserve Mikhail’s meanness.
“She seemed okay.”
Mikhail scoffs. “And he’s a fucking хуесос .”
This is a pejorative word against gay people, and I’m not comfortable with it at all. Views about homosexuality in Russia tend to be a lot more conservative than they are in America, and it bothers me. A lot.
“Knock it off.”
He shrugs. “It’s just the truth. The Fatass and the Fairy. The billionaire pair who everyone wants to work with, and no one wants to fuck. Everyone knows.”
“Stop it. You’re high as a kite and being a dick.”
“Kite high? Not yet,” he insists, “but I wouldn’t mind a drink to help things along.”
A waitress walks by just at the right moment with a tray of vodka shots and champagne flutes. We do a shot, down a flute, then take another.
“So…what was so captivating by the exit?” asks Mikhail. “Besides escaping the Smirnovs?”
I thought I saw Sasha.
“Nothing.”
Now that I know she’s in London, she’s omnipresent. I see her in the tube station, at every restaurant, walking on the street, hailing a cab. She’s everywhere…and nowhere. I need to get a grip.
“What do you think of this exhibit?” asks Mikhail, gesturing loosely to the photographs of rich children in adult surroundings. “You know, Nina and Galina were two of Skladmann’s original subjects. We should find them…”
He wanders into the next room, and I follow.
“Do you miss them?” I ask him. “We barely ever see them.”
“My sisters?” He shrugs. “Not so much. We were closer as kids.”
He stops in front of a picture of a young girl in a bright yellow dress. The photo captures her jumping in midair from a mini stage—a home stage, perhaps, built for a small child, who likes to perform—with velvet curtains and professional lights. The way she’s been photographed makes her look like a marionette without strings. It’s captivating, but troubling, too.
“And us?” I ask. “Were we close as kids?”
“You followed me around, and I called you ‘squirt.’” He turns to me, his smile soft. “You loved your big brother.”
I don’t remember loving Mikhail, but something deep inside of me knows that his words are true. I loved him. I loved him best of all.
He grabs me around the neck and kisses my forehead with a loud smack. “Stop this sentimental shit!”
The next photo is of two little girls in a rowboat. Though the rowboat appears rough-hewn, the little girls, with their blonde hair and patrician faces, look rich. I glance at their small hands, which are clasped together. This isn’t a photo of my half sisters, but it could be.
“I wish I’d been there,” I tell him. “I wish I’d—”
“Shhhh. Don’t talk about it,” he tells me, reaching into his pocket for the vial and taking another deep, discreet sniff. “You’re here. We’re together again. All that sad shit is in the past now.”
As we move to the next photo, I look to my right and realize that the couple I’d noticed at the entrance is approaching from the opposite direction. And for once, what I thought I saw, what I hoped I saw, is what I actually see.
Sasha.
My heart races.
Holy shit, it wasn’t an illusion or wishful thinking.
It’s her.
She’s wearing a little black dress with a scooped neckline that manages to show off her cleavage and her long, lean legs at the same time. Jesus, she’s beautiful. She’s grown up. She’s blossomed. She’s rounder and more womanly. She isn’t a girl anymore.
And that’s just about when I notice the guy beside her. He’s holding her hand and keeps leaning close to her to ear. She giggles, grinning at him. I’d like to punch his fucking lights out. Not that I’ve hit anyone in a long time, but I’d like to pummel this clown until his face is chopped meat.
But for all that he’s short— Ha! Not much taller than Sasha, in fact —he’s stocky and compact. His blazer strains over his back like there’s a wall of muscle contained inside. If I had to place a bet, I’d say he’s a dancer, and small or not, he’s likely pretty strong.
They’re about to slide to the next photograph of a girl in her early teens, dressed in a white nightgown, sitting on a bear skin rug. It’s suggestive without being vulgar, but it still makes me uncomfortable, like I’d be doing something dirty if I stared at her for too long.
There’s about ten feet of space between us now. At this point, saying hello is unavoidable. My rivers tilt toward you…
“Mikhail,” I say, grabbing my brother’s arm and turning him to face me. “Listen.”
“Wha—what’s up?”
“Remember the ballet dancer I mentioned? The one from D.C.? She’s coming our way.”
“The one with the solid gold pussy?” he asks with a snort.
His nose is bright red, and there’s a bit of white dust under his left nostril.
“Don’t say shit like that. And wipe your nose.”
He reaches up to swipe beneath it with the side of his index finger, then licks the finger.
My voice is low, close to his ear. “I never ask you for anything, Mikhail, but I’m asking you to be appropriate. Please.”
“Fuck you, little brother. I know how to behave,” he says, looking to his right where Sasha and her fucking companion have finally noticed us.
She blinks at me, her eyes registering surprise. Roses bloom on her cheeks. Her lips part. My heart clutches in response, beating so fast, I wonder if the whole room can hear it.
“Vaughn,” she says softly.
“ Ivan ,” I say, offering her my hand. “Hello, Sasha.”
She slides her hand away from the guy beside her to shake mine. It’s the first time I’ve touched her in over five years, and my whole body thrums from the contact. Every cell leans forward, like a magnet seeking ore, longing for more, longing for the whole world to fade away until it’s just me and Sasha, facing each other, holding hands.
“Ahem. Introduce me, little brother! Who’s this ангел с небес ?”
Angel from heaven . Too true.
I pull my hand away, turning to Mikhail, who misses my warning look while he licks his lips and grins at Sasha.
“Mikhail, this is Sasha Collins, from Maryland. We met when she danced with the national ballet in Washington. Sasha, this is my brother, Mikhail Stepanov.”
While Mikhail takes Sasha’s hand to kiss it, the guy beside her gasps softly. I slide my eyes to him, cold and narrow, and look down at him.
“You are?” I ask, my voice haughty.
“Igor Kozlov.” His eyes are wide. “You’re…the Stepanov brothers.”
He bows slightly, awkwardly, before offering me his hand, which I glance at with disdain. He pulls his hand back, looking sheepish. I wait a beat before offering mine, which he takes, not unlike a starving dog taking a treat, pumping it twice with enthusiasm.
“Sasha!” he says. “I had no idea you knew the Stepanov brothers.”
Sasha pulls her hand away from Mikhail and steps back, so she’s shoulder to shoulder with Igor, the fucking lap dog.
“I don’t really,” she tells him with a gentle smile. She turns her eyes to me and her smile disappears completely. “Vau— Ivan and I knew each other only briefly. A long time ago.”
Igor drops my hand and turns to my brother. “Igor Koslov.”
Mikhail shakes his hand, giving him a once-over before asking, “Dancer?”
“I was. Retired now. I teach at the Royal Academy of Ballet,” says Igor. He straightens his shoulders with pride when he adds: “But I danced at the Kirov.”
“So did my fucking stepmother,” says Mikhail, finishing his remaining champagne in one gulp then belching loudly. “Good for you.”
Sasha’s eyes widen in disgust, and she slips her hand back into Igor’s. I don’t know if it’s a sign of their intimacy level, but he threads their fingers together, and every muscle in my body flexes, stiffens, and rebels. It’s making me crazy to see another man touch her.
“We need more champagne,” says Mikhail, snapping at a passing waitress. “Champagne. Сейчас. Быстро, торопись .” Now. Hurry up , he adds in Russian, slapping her ass before she scurries away. He turns to Sasha and Igor and smiles. “We need to toast this moment. Sasha, you’re the first person I’ve met from Ivan’s past. It’s monumental.”
It’s clear they both understand Russian and don’t approve of the way Mikhail spoke to the server. Sasha darts shocked eyes to me, her troubled expression demanding my intervention.
I remember, a long time ago, when she stood up for me in her dressing room at the Kennedy Center. Ming’s voice echoes in my head. Creeper. And Maria-Elena’s. Brutto anatroccolo. Sasha is not the kind of person who stands by as others are mistreated . Have I become that kind of person? Shame makes my face feel hot.
“Take it easy. Slow down a little,” I mutter to my brother.
“ Заткнись нахуй. Ты выпендриваешься перед своей маленькой шлюхой-танцовщицей .” Shut the fuck up. You’re showing off for your little dancer slut.
Igor stiffens, his star-struck smile replaced by a frown. “Так говорить нельзя.” You can’t speak like that.
“ Я могу делать то, что хочу .” Mikhail scoffs at him. I can do what I like.
“Come on, Sasha. There’s another room of photos over there,” says Igor, pulling her away from us. He looks at my brother with disapproval, then glances at me briefly as they pass by. “Nice to meet you.”
I watch them turn the corner before facing my brother.
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
“What?” he asks, the picture of innocence. The waitress returns with a tray of champagne, and my brother takes two.
“I asked one thing of you. One. For you to be appropriate.”
Mikhail shrugs. “I tried.”
“You didn’t.”
“I did! But they were so vanilla.” He downs a champagne flute, then plops it on a nearby surface. “You can’t actually want to hang out with them. Dancing peasants. Ugh. Blech.”
But I do. I do want to hang out with Sasha Collins; more than anyone else on the face of the earth. I long for her. I yearn for her.
“You were an asshole,” I tell him.
I start to walk away, but Mikhail grabs my arm. “Little brother! Little brother! I didn’t know it meant so much to you.”
I want to say, It doesn’t . I mean, I pushed Sasha away with both hands when I moved to Russia. But my feelings for her never went away. And seeing her again after so long? I think they might even be stronger than ever. They lasted for five years without even a glimpse of her. That must count for something.
“Listen,” says Mikhail, putting his arm around my shoulder. “Let’s go find them. I’ll apologize and invite them to Lara’s next week. A free meal at London’s newest hot spot. That’ll fix things, no? Come on! Let’s catch them before they go.”
***
Sasha
I’m standing in front of a photograph of a little boy in a white dress shirt and striped blazer standing on the stage of a vast concert hall. His face, in the foreground, is grouchy and in focus. The three tiers of opera seating behind him are gold and fuzzy.
Wait. Are they fuzzy because the tiers are out of focus? Or because my eyes are filled with tears? I don’t know for sure. But I’m feeling furious and sad and disappointed all at once, and it’s overwhelming. Before I embarrass myself by crying, I need to find some privacy.
“Igor,” I say. “I’m going to the ladies’ room. I’ll be back in a second.”
I didn’t understand everything Mikhail said, but I got the gist of it, something about Ivan “showing off for a whore.” And the way he touched that server on the rear end, after ordering her around. That massive belch. The powder under his nose.
Ivan’s brother is a total and complete asshole. And worse, he’s predatory. I get a very bad vibe from him—an instinctual impression that comes from deep inside, that tells me he’s a “taker,” likely without permission or consent. I’d be very glad never to see him again.
It blows my mind that this is Vaughn’s brother, and the man with whom he’s spent the last five years. Well. Blows my mind and makes sense. Meeting Mikhail gives better context to those voice mails and text messages from Vaughn all those years ago. It explains the drinking, the drugs, the women, and the rage.
But it also makes me sad. So very fucking sad.
Because once upon a time, he was Vaughn Cigno, who spoke gently, loved poetry and music, and treated people with respect and kindness. I don’t see a lot of Vaughn Cigno in Ivan Stepanov, which begs the question, Have I been grieving the loss of a ghost over these past five years? Did Vaughn— my Vaughn —ever exist at all? Even if he did, he’s long gone now. He’s chosen a different path, and that path veers sharply away from mine. And it’s not one I’d ever care to share with him.
I wash my hands and touch up my makeup, reminding myself that I’m not here to see the Stepanov brothers. I’m here with Igor, who’s been nothing but nice and who thoughtfully chose this exhibition because he thought I would like it.
When I exit the ladies’ room, I find Igor waiting for me outside. He offers me a gentle smile. “Do you want to stay?”
“The photos are wonderful,” I say, “but I would love to get out of here.”
“Let’s go,” he says, taking my arm and steering me toward the exit. In his other hand is a small brown shopping bag, and he offers it to me. “This is for you. I bought it so you can see the rest of the photos without staying.”
Inside the bag is a hardcover copy of Anna Skladmann’s Little Adults , signed by Ms. Skladmann.
“For me?” I ask him.
He shrugs like it’s nothing. “For you.”
I step forward and wrap my arms around his neck. “Thank you.”
He pulls me closer, holding me close. “You’re welcome.”
“Here they are!” booms a nearby voice in Russian. Then, in English, “Break it up, lovebirds! Get a room!” We step apart to find Mikhail and Ivan standing beside us. Mikhail is smiling at us in a way that makes me feel uneasy. Ivan looks like he’d love to murder Igor. I wish these two would just go away and leave us alone.
“What do you want?” I ask. I know my tone is rude, but Mikhail Stepanov has done nothing to deserve my civility.
“Temper, temper,” he tsks me. “Lighten up, балерина .”
Well, I guess I’d rather be called “ballet dancer,” than “slut.” When I don’t respond, he chuckles, but his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s unnerving.
“I wanted to invite you to the soft opening of my restaurant next week. To smooth things over.” He faux frowns at me and adopts a babyish voice. “But now I don’t know if I should…since you’re being so mean to me.”
Is he pouting? I think he’s pretending to pout, and no joke, it’s borderline disturbing.
“We’re very busy—” I start to say.
Mikhail waves me away and takes a step closer to Igor. “Comrade! Russian restaurant. Russian people. Russian food. Russian music. Your countrymen, Igor! Good for meeting people in London, no? You must come!”
I turn to Igor and see his face soften as Mikhail speaks. It’s a dirty trick, but of course Igor wants to meet more Russians in London. He’s chosen London as his home, but no doubt he’s homesick for his language and culture.
I glance at Ivan, who’s watching me like a hawk, then at Mikhail, who’s weaving his spell on Igor. Igor looks askance at me.
“What do you think?” he asks.
I think Mikhail Stepanov can go to hell.
“You should go,” I say with a little shrug.
“Oh, no, no, no! You can only come if you come together!” says Mikhail.
Igor’s eyes plead with me to say yes. Fuck it. He’s been so nice to me. I can’t, in good conscience, take this opportunity away from him. I cross my arms over my chest and murmur, “Sure. Fine. I’ll come.”
“ Замечательно !” crows Mikhail, turning his attention to Ivan. “You see? We’re all friends again. Happy now?”
Hmm. That’s interesting . Ivan was the one who made Mikhail invite us? Why? Why does he want me at his brother’s restaurant opening if he can’t stand me? I look at Ivan, who’s staring at me thoughtfully.
As though he can read my mind and doesn’t have a good answer, he drops my eyes and clears his throat, nudging his older brother. “Let’s leave them in peace now, huh?”
“The sooner the better,” says Mikhail, already walking away.
“Sorry about…” Ivan darts his eyes between me and Igor, then levels them on me. “He’s drunk.”
“And high,” I add.
“Yes.”
And an asshole. I let my eyes add that one.
“He’s my brother,” Ivan says simply, and I see a glimpse— just a glimpse —of Vaughn.
I feel my face soften. “I know.”
Igor steps up beside me and puts his arm around my waist. I let him, despite Ivan’s scowl.
“I guess we’ll see you next Friday,” says Igor amicably, offering Ivan his hand.
Ivan shakes it, nods curtly at me, then stalks away.
***
I work a full day at the RAB on Saturday, helping the young ballerina playing Clara perfect her entrance through the pine forest and into the fairy kingdom at the end of Act One. When I notice Igor crack open the studio door, I excuse myself to say hello.
We didn’t kiss when he dropped me off at home last night, and I didn’t invite him up. Even now, I’m not sure how I feel about him. He’s been very nice, but I can’t decide if I feel friendship for him or something more. I’m leaning toward friendship, but only time will tell.
“Hello!” he says, as I approach.
“Hey,” I say. “Thanks for last night. And the book. I love it.”
“You’re welcome. So, I was thinking…we’re both off tomorrow…would it be too forward to ask you out again? We could do a daytrip? Drive up to Cambridge?”
I tilt my head to the side, take a deep breath and let it go slowly. As lovely as Cambridge sounds…
“I’m only here for a couple of months,” I tell him gently, softening my words with a small smile, “I’m not sure it’s a good idea to get serious with anyone.”
“I get it.” His face falls, but he recovers quickly. “I just…I like being with you.”
“Then it’s a good thing we have the Stepanov restaurant opening next Friday,” I remind him.
He winces. “I feel like I should have said no instead of yes. Mikhail Stepanov wasn’t what I expected. He’s kind of a jerk.”
“You need to meet people in London,” I say. “It makes sense that you’d want to go.”
“Yeah,” he says, “but I didn’t like him.”
Me neither. I shrug. “He was drunk.”
“True. That’s true,” says Igor, brightening. “I guess we all deserve a pass when we’re drunk.” He changes topics. “I think Natalia is putting together an evening of wine and painting on Wednesday at nine. Sip and Paint or something like that. You up for it?”
“Sounds like fun.”
“I’ll let her know you’re coming,” he says, his eyes lingering on my lips for a second longer than necessary.
“I have to go,” I say, gesturing to Clara, who’s standing behind us.
“Right. Okay. Yeah,” he says, seeming to get the message that I’m not interested in anything romantic right now. “See you on Wednesday.”
***
Wednesday is fun, with Marshall joining us for Sip and Paint, too. Igor shares that the e-mailed invitation he received from Mikhail Stepanov has booked a table for four, not two. Natalia and Marshall are only too eager to join us, and I’m relieved because it’ll take some of the pressure off of Igor advancing his campaign to be my boyfriend. Plus, the more friendly faces, the better. I’m nervous to be back in a room with the Stepanov brothers, let alone a room that is totally and completely their turf.
After the way Ivan treated me five years ago, I didn’t follow him on social media or search for him on Google or anything like that. His rejection of me was painful enough without added daily reminders that he was getting on with his life in a spectacular style. But on Thursday evening, relaxing in my flat, I take out my laptop and type “Ivan Stepanov” into a Google search bar. I’m curious to see what comes up.
At first, I’m shocked by the sheer volume of photos and articles.
I knew that his mother, Irina, was a famous ballerina, of course, but I didn’t quite understand the level of wealth accumulated by his father, Sergei. Ivan’s family are billionaires.
There are many articles about the little boy kidnapped from the National Zoo in Washington D.C., but I skip those articles and refine my search to focus on the last five years. I browse through articles about Mikhail Stepanov’s various restaurant ventures and see Ivan start showing up in pictures a few years ago. There are nightclub entrances and exits, and pictures of the brothers at various birthday parties and weddings.
And women. So many women. There are pictures of Ivan and Mikhail models, actresses, and famous socialites—with rampant speculation on their dating status. But there are also photos of the brothers with a famous European “madam,” and several of her “best” girls in barely-there lingerie.
My heart clenches in my chest as I look at these pictures. I wish it didn’t hurt so much to think of Ivan with other women, but it does.
I notice a certain Instagram page, Rich Russian Kids, keeps popping up, so I click on it, scrolling through hundreds of pictures, my stomach turning over as I read the captions. In a nutshell, it’s Anna Skladmann’s rich little Russian kids all grown up.
Beautiful twenty-something women behind the wheels of Lamborghinis and Rolls Royces.
Young families on private jets, the mothers sipping champagne and the children dressed like they’re ready for a Ralph Lauren photoshoot.
Videos of attractive men in their early-thirties who’ve had audacious car accidents and are—at turns—loudly deriding or trying to bribe the police.
Ski vacations. Yachts. Prada bags. Paris. Venice. Hollywood.
I pause on a picture of Mikhail and Ivan seated side by side in the tan leather seats of a private jet, wide smiles on their faces, a glass of champagne in each of their hands. I have to translate the caption to read it, and it says , In our family, we pass our plane around the world, exploring continents. In yours, you pass a teabag around a table to share in your mugs of hot water.
I read the words once, then twice, blinking at the screen in shock as I do, my blood boiling inside. I can’t believe the temerity of such a caption. I physically recoil from the words, which are clearly aimed at poor Russian families.
It isn’t enough that the Stepanovs have more money than God, they need to make others feel shitty about how little they have in comparison. Wow. I shake my head with disgust, my mind scrambled from the ugly entitlement of the sentiment. Wow. Wow. Wow.
My grandmother, my beloved Bubbie, might have shared a single teabag with her family at some point. I remember Ivan sitting with her on the porch of our beach rental. He’d been warm and respectful to her.
But wait. That wasn’t Ivan, was it? No. It was Vaughn . And more and more, I’m realizing that Vaughn, with his ragged fingernails and minimum wage job, was a far better human being than Ivan Stepanov could ever hope to be.
Ivan would look down on her.
Ivan would make fun of her.
Ivan would see her as beneath his notice, respect, or kindness.
I slam my laptop closed, pushing it away with my foot.
Is this really who you are now?
Tears burn my eyes as I try unsuccessfully to gulp over the lump that’s lodged in my throat.
Opening the top drawer of my bedside table, I take out the little leather tome of Russian poems that Vaughn Cigno gifted me so long ago. It meant so much at the time, and despite the ending of our relationship soon after, it has been an important reminder to me that I’ll find someone special someday.
It hurts to think that that boy—who was so thoughtful and kind, protective, passionate, and hard-working—has become someone who enthusiastically makes fun of those less fortunate than he.
He’s become cruel. Like his brother.
I can’t reconcile the changes between Vaughn and Ivan.
And it breaks my heart to even try.
My phone buzzes with a new text message from Igor.
Should I pick you up tomorrow? Or do you want to meet at the restaurant?
I don’t even want to go tomorrow. But I won’t let Ivan Stepanov’s new life as an asshole ruin Igor Koslov’s chance to find friends in London’s Russian community.
Let’s meet there , I respond, because it feels less date-y, and I don’t want to lead Igor on until I have a better idea of how I feel about him.
Three dots appear, and then he thumbs-up the message.
I take the little book of poetry and shove it into the far back of the drawer, then slam it shut.
Yes, I’ll go tomorrow, but that will absolutely, positively be an end to my dealings with the Stepanov brothers. After tomorrow, I pledge to leave all thoughts and memories of Ivan Stepanov in the distant past, never to be revisited again.