fierce smile; nice teeth, if a little crooked in a place or two. But I’m not beautiful. There’s nothing showstopping about me. My figure is not one thing or another. I’m not all petite and tiny like my old friend Suri who had guys all gaga over her because she was so small and delicate. I’m not tall and leggy, though, either, like a model.
I’m average height. Average build too, probably, and in-between a size ten to twelve. I’m curvy but not super curvy. Everything about me, I think, is okay, but kind of … normal. Average.
Konstantin is not average.
I sigh, and sick of my self-flagellation, I look around and freeze. On the bedside table is his iPad. He’s left it here. After me not having access to Wi-Fi or ways of seeing what’s going on in the outside world for a long time, he’s left this here. Did he mean to? Is he saying I’m no longer a prisoner as such? More of a guest?
I did agree to come back, didn’t I? He didn’t force me this time.
Nervous, but too curious not to, I open it and stare at the passcode protected screen. I don’t know what his number is.
Suddenly burning with curiosity to see what’s going on in the wider world, and what my friends are up to, I go hunting and searching in his drawers once more, until I find it. His passport. I go and enter the birthdate on there in the iPad, but it isn’t the right combo. What about his son, Michael? I rack my brains because we were in the club one night when he was celebrating his birthday, and I distinctly remember him saying it was that day. Then I recall, September fifth. So I try that. No go.
Crap. I could look up his wife, Yulia, to see her birthdate and try that; except I can’t because I can’t look anything up, without access to the damn tablet. Stupidly, and lazily, only half-assed now, I enter a couple of random numbers but then get locked out. A few minutes later, when it lets me try again, something possesses me to type in my own birthdate. It’s not because I expect it to work but because it’s what I do on my iPad at home, and it’s soothing somehow, familiar.
As I enter the last digit the screen unlocks.
What the hell?
He used my birthday for his passcode. Since when?
My heart is beating faster than usual. It’s a bit stalkerish, and I wonder if he’s been using it for a while? Not wanting to lose my opportunity to get online, I brush it off and focus.
Firstly, I browse The Guardian and The Times, catching up on the news I’ve missed. It’s all as depressing as ever, and I wish I hadn’t bothered. Then I log onto my Facebook account and scroll through friends’ posts. Suzy is posting about her usual stuff; clothes, makeup, funny memes. Vanessa mostly posts about dogs needing adoption, and I stare at one beautiful Golden Retriever boy who needs a home. He’s gorgeous, and in Romania, but will be ready for a home in the UK in about a month. He’s called Gulliver, and he’s beautiful. If only I could give him that home. I like the post and then because I can, I comment, Ah, beautiful. Wish I could give this boy a home.
After spending time looking at Facebook and seeing everyone is okay, I bring Google up and type in Konstantin Silvanov. I’ve looked him up before, but now I go deeper. Instead of simply looking at the first few page results, I go back, and back, and back, and then I stop. There’s a photograph of a much younger Konstantin, and he’s holding a medal, alongside another man, and they’re grinning at the camera. I can’t read the article, as it is in Russian, but it looks like a war medal.
Then I see another link, and this time it is in English. It’s about predatory business practices, and very dry, but I skim read it until I see Silvanov Asset Management. The firm is accused of predatory, if not at times illegal practices during acquisitions.
Footsteps on the landing have me snapping the tablet shut, but they pass the door. I open it again, delete all my search history and close it.
Konstantin is one complicated man.
Chapter Eight
Bohdan
The flight has only been in the air for thirty minutes, and I’m already bored. It’s a small, exclusive charter that K runs