Page 11 of Wicked Arrangement

“But… but we can’t afford that,” I cry helplessly. “Isn’t there something you can do? I thought the whole point of having insurance is so that emergencies like this are covered.”

“I’m sorry ma’am, you only have the basic package which does not cover you for all eventualities. If you’d like to upgrade, we can…”

“No. Thank you,” I snap, hanging up the phone before she can say anything further.

I know it’s rude of me, she’s only doing her job, but I can’t listen to it for a moment longer. I know they aren’t going to help. We’re officially broke and royally screwed. There’s no way with my credit that I can get a loan that wouldn’t have ridiculous repayments that would push me further into debt. Selling the apartment isn’t an option either. Where would we live?

I pace the hallway, frantically trying to come up with a solution or think of anyone who could help, but I keep coming back to the same inevitable conclusion. I’m fucked.

If only I had a fairy godmother, or some rich relative I never knew about that could swoop in and save the day.

And then it occurs to me. Light a light switch being turned on.

I do know someone who could help us. Someone filthy rich, that owes me a favor. Admittedly this is a big favor to ask. But I’m desperate.

Shit. Where did I put his card? Why didn’t I get a new phone yet or fix mine, or even save the goddamn number on Gran’s phone?

I rush back into Gran’s room, grabbing my purse and frantically scrabbling through it, waving away Abigail’s concerns over my behavior. After the last hospital visit, I dumped all the contents of the small purse I had on me that day, into my big, day-to-day one. I just pray that the card is in here. To my relief, I find it. I slip out of the room again and hurriedly key in the number.

After a few rings, he answers. “Yaroslav Volkov speaking, who is this?” he asks politely but a little suspiciously—unsurprising since he won’t have my number saved.

“Hello, Mr. Volkov, I’m not sure if you remember me. Kimberly Walsh, Kimmy. We met when—” I start, the words coming out in a rush.

“I remember you,” he states neutrally, cutting me off.

“Right, yes well. Um, you said that if I needed help to call…” I state awkwardly, clutching the phone in my hand like a lifeline. I don’t know how to ask for such a big favor, how to even formulate the words.

“I did. I assume you calling means that a favor is already required?” he asks smoothly, his voice has a strangely calming effect on me.

“Yes. Sorry, but I didn’t know what else to do. My grandmother is in hospital, she had to have emergency surgery and the insurance won’t cover it all and so I was hoping I could get a loan from you… it’s a lot but I promise to pay back every cent. I’m a hard worker, I could work to pay it off…” I ramble.

Again, he politely but firmly cuts me off. “Which hospital is she at?”

“King Memorial Hospital,” I reply.

“I will send someone to you now,” he replies.

“Thank you,” I reply gratefully.

I’m about to launch into another speech about paying him back, when I realize he’s gone. He hung up. I don’t know if that’s a bad thing or something he does normally. He doesn’t exactly strike me as one for pleasantries and idle chit-chat.

With nothing left to do but wait, I head back into Gran’s room and try not to think about the monumental debt I’m in and the fact I just promised a stranger I’d repay him with money or time that I don’t have if he’d help. I try to relax and enjoy Abigail and Gran’s company, but I feel so on edge that every time someone walks past the door, I flinch like a cat on a hot tin roof wondering if it’s Yaroslav’s man.

After an hour has passed, I start to feel anxious that perhaps he isn’t going to help after all. I go outside to grab a coffee, anything to keep busy and distract me. Just as I’m beginning to contemplate calling Yaroslav again to beg for mercy, one of the young receptionists on duty approaches me.

“Miss Walsh, there’s a man at reception asking for you. He says he’s not family… I didn’t want to let him visit without checking with you first…” he states, his voice trailing off.

I’m grateful that he didn’t give them our room number, I’d rather not have to explain everything to Gran and Abigail, and they’d definitely have questions if a strange man appeared and told them our bill had been paid.

“Thank you, is he in reception? I’ll speak with him there.”

“Yes, if you follow me, I can take you to him,” he replies gratefully, relieved to have done the right thing.

At the reception, the big brawny man from the other day who was with Yaroslav while he spoke with the police is waiting. I feel a surprising stab of disappointment that it isn’t Yaroslav himself who came. Though he is no doubt a busy man so I should hardly be surprised.

“Miss Walsh,” he says with a polite nod, like Yaroslav he has a Russian accent.

Though he is a similar height and build, albeit a bit brawnier than Yaroslav, he has none of his boss’s good looks. His dark brown hair is cut short in a buzz cut and his face reminds me of a boxer whose nose has been broken one too many times. I wonder if he is a bodyguard, he certainly looks like one.

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