Galina sits on the edge of her seat until I’m done cooking.
I sit across from her, and we eat in silence. Only then does the tension disappear from her shoulders.
She really is frightened of Valerian.
I should be too.
But I’m blinded most of the time by how attractive he is.
Galina takes my empty plate, sorting the dishes before I have a chance to do them myself.
I change into my bikini, heading outside to enjoy another day of relaxation. I have lots of pages left to read in my book. And sunrays to soak up.
This makes a change to writing every day.
Before I came here, I was always writing. And always inside. Igor used to tell me to go outside. No way. My laptop was old, prone to heating. Looking back, he could have bought me a new one with all that money. He had a preppy apartment. Nice clothes. What was a new laptop for the woman he loved?
Yeah, he never loved me.
But I can’t be too mad. I don’t think I ever loved him, either.
I wet my finger, turning over the next page in my book. I’m reading something about Vogue. An autobiography. I don’tknow exactly. But it’s nice being the reader for a change, instead of the highly-caffeinated writer trying to drag herself from one deadline to the next.
I spend another few hours soaking up the sun.
In the afternoon, I take a shower at my own leisure, treating my skin toveryexpensive skincare. One particular product catches my eye. The smallest one. I wrote a column on this once. Four hundred bucks. That’s what it retails at.
Bonkers.I unscrew the lid, squeezing the dropper.
I smooth the serum over my face. It’s definitely worth the money. It smells amazing. Makes the skin feel restored.
I screw the cap back on, narrowing my eyes.
Why the fuck does Valerian have this stuff in his house? Is it from Igor’s mother?
She died, right? Why is he still holding onto all of this stuff years later?
I stare at my reflection in the mirror, watching the disappointment come into fruition on my face. There’s one very simple answer to that question—he’s still holding onto her.
I wonder how she died. Valerian never told me at the dinner table. He must not like to talk about her. Igor was the same.
Maybe it was a real tragedy for both of them. Maybe that’s why they drifted.
Mothers tend to be the glue keeping the family together.
I slot the skincare products into their designated containers where I found them, and head downstairs in my bath robe.
I enter the drawing room. I need a new book to read. And Valerian has quite a selection. I slot the Vogue autobiography back into the shelf. Maybe Igor’s mother bought that.
Come to think of it, I don’t even know if her and Valerian were married.
I glide my finger over book spines, figuring out what to read next. Lots of archived Vogue magazines have been shoved to the side. Huh. Looks like Igor’s mother was into fashion. I bet we would have gotten along.
I hear measured footsteps clacking down the polished hallway. This will be Valerian. I can tell from the way he walks.
“Afternoon, Joy.” His face lightens up a touch when he sees me. “I was starting to think you’d escaped.”
I crop my eyebrow up at him. “You know I’d never do that.”