Page 75 of Dirty Grovel

23

OLEG

Thethunkthat Prada bag makes as it hits the table sounds more like a guillotine blade slamming home.

I look up, squinting at the exquisitely dressed woman dripping in diamonds and haughtiness, her lips pursed with disapproval for the world to see.

God forbid that Oksana Pavlova appears to be satisfied, about anything, ever.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, already exhausted.

Her nose pinches. “Is that how you greet your mother?”

I rise to my feet in the only gesture I can make that doesn’t feel forced. “It is when you show up without warning.”

“Should I always inform you when I’m visiting my own house?” she snaps.

“Considering I’m the one running the place, yes. Besides, you didn’t come here for a getaway. You came here looking for me.” I arch an eyebrow. “Am I right?”

She harrumphs and crosses her arms instead of answering. “Is there a reason you’re hiding out here in Nassau?”

I don’t know exactly how much she knows, so instead of replying, I gesture to the empty seat beside me. “Would you like something to drink?”

“I’ve already ordered myself a latte,” she fires back, taking a seat and eyeing the menu on the table as though it’s just shouted a lewd innuendo at her. “Why wouldn’t you just go have lunch at Friedrich Colbert’s new place?”

“Because I’m not always in the mood to have a ten-course menu for hundreds of dollars that’ll leave me still hungry at the end of it.”

Oksana rolls her eyes and casts a disparaging look at the table next laughing happily to us—a young mother and her two noisy young boys.

“Honestly,” she sniffs, “if they don’t allow dogs in this establishment, why allow children?”

“You’ll make agreatgrandmother someday.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing, Maman. Nothing.”

Oksana clears her hands off the table as the waitress brings her latte with a smile that dies the moment she sees my mother’s sour expression.

The moment she disappears, Oksana turns to me, ignoring her beverage. “You don’t need to worry about what kind of grandmother I’ll be because clearly, I’m not going to be one any time soon.”

Something about her waspish tone has me doubling down. I’m not about to share details of my life with her if she’s going to judge every aspect of it.

Unfortunately, my family never learned that old adage that if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.

They live by the principle that, if you look hard enough, there’s always something to look down on.

“Excuse me.”

“I just sat down,” she snaps, frowning at me as I rise. “Where are you going?”

“Restroom. Or do I need your permission now to take a piss?”

“Must you be so crass?” she hisses with a long-suffering sigh. “We’re in public, for God’s sake.”

“Very well, I’ll save my crassness for when we’re in private. Now, may I go relieve myself or do I have to make a formal written request first?”

“Just go.” Her nose stays stuck high in the air as she looks away from me.

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