I noticed it when we had dinner with his parents. First impressions, I thought he was a mama’s boy, but it’s his father he aspires to.
“Roman is a private person,” Yelena says.
Part of me wants to poke the bear and dig further. It’s not worth it, though. She can’t slap me across the table but maybe the fear is still in the back of my mind.
She’s glaring more than normal today which doesn’t help. Her lips drawn into a full-blown scowl versus their usual haughty pout. But commotion behind me causes her angry expression to widen into one of surprise. Her spine straightens, her face wiped blank.
Not caring about manners, I turn my neck and spot a woman walking forward.
One glance, tells me she’s the life of the party. She doesn’t walk in her heels. She glides. Yelena wears nice outfits. This woman owns everything on her. The striped button-down, tucked into black pants. It’s put together but not fussy. Thick, gorgeous, long brown hair with caramel highlights is curled lightly down her back. She drops her purse onto a chair when she arrives at her table. The other woman doesn’t even have time to stand up before she smacks both cheeks with a kiss. Her lips are red, her smile taking over her whole face. And it brightens—I mean literally illuminates—as she starts to giggle with this friend, the affectionis so real.
I keep watching the hair sway when something nags at my mind.
“Is that Gia Akatov?” I blurt. There’s a resemblance to Lennie, though, if that’s her mother I have no idea where her awkwardness came from.
“Yes.” Yelena’s lips press into a firm line.
Now I understand why Marissa constantly shit-talked Gia Akatov. She’s everything she wanted to be. And based on her reaction, Yelena shares a similar sentiment.
“Do you know her well?” I ask, curious. Lennie and her sisters appeared around the same ages as the Zimin brothers and they were at the party.
“The Akatovs are a friend of the family,” she replies tightly. More like their partners in crime, but okay.
Salads are placed in front of us and she stabs at her lettuce with more force than usual. Normally, she’s overly dainty, reminding me of one of those creepy porcelain dolls from the olden days.
If I wasn’t here, I’m guessing she’d order a bottle of wine. But considering she just lowkey accused me of alcoholism, she remains calm, steadfastly focusing on her food. I, on the other hand, glance over every so often. I’m not the only one. Gia isn’t loud but she’s not shy. There’s giggling. Animated talking. She and her friend drink a lot of wine.
She’s friendly with everyone. The waiter who’s normally moody with us, smiles when he talks to Gia. I swear I overhear her asking how his mother is doing. She must be a regular because she’ll stop mid-conversation and wave at other servers when they pass by. It’s endearing, how she doesn’t find any of them beneath her, unlike Yelena who makes it known they’re here to do her bidding.
“She kind of reminds me of Irina.” The thought is out before I think better of it.
Yelena’s fork clatters to her plate. She leans back, crossingher arms, tossing her head back so hair falls out of her face. “You think so little of Irina?”
“No.” But I’d love to know what Irina thinks of her daughter-in-law. I have a feeling she’d like Gia more than this cold, stiff woman in front of me.
Needing a moment away from Yelena’s dark cloud of misery, I excuse myself and head to the restroom.
The bathroom is made out of gilded gold. It’s huge, with stalls that run floor to ceiling for genuine privacy. I sit on the toilet for an obscene amount of time, not caring if Yelena makes a comment about my bowel movements.
I’m washing my hands at the row of marble sinks when the door swings open. I keep my head down and prepare for a group of women who will fluff up their hair and talk about their upcoming vacations.
Instead, Gia enters.
She goes straight to the sink, washing her hands. Water continues to run over mine because I’m too awkward to move in her presence.
But she isn’t. Turning off the sink, she grabs a towel and dries her hands. She throws it in the hamper and then smooths a hair back. She reapplies her lipstick, her thumb brushing her bottom lip.
“Can I fix your hair for you?”
I stare at her. She’s speaking to me. She doesn’t wait for my response, though. Her hands are soft against my hair. Olga always twists it uncomfortably into a chignon but the bobby pins, no matter how many are jammed into my scalp, never stay.
“You need to use texture spray,” she says, gentle hands combing through my hair. She unpins everything, her fingers working quickly. There’s speed and precision to her movements. To all of them, I realize. Even when she washed herhands and fixed her makeup. She constantly moves, going from one thing to the next.
I watch her through the mirror. Her face is calm, her eyes focused on her work. Instead of a bun, she finger combs my thin locks down my back and then twists the sides, pinning them so they frame my face.
It looks better and I’m not saying that because I’m biased against everything Olga does. My scalp doesn’t hurt as much and the hair isn’t falling out. It’s demure and mature, even though I’d assume it’d come across as childish.
Gia is one of those women that knows how to style things. I can only imagine what her home is like. Warm perfume fills my nose, the notes almost masculine. It wouldn’t surprise me if she’s wearing her husband’s cologne.
