Page 39 of Charmingly Obsessed
T hank God, Hippolyt arrives without flowers. That is a small mercy in this increasingly surreal evening.
I try to take in his appearance, to paste on a polite, welcoming smile that doesn’t feel like a rictus of sheer terror.
Hippolyte is… a type. Definitely a dedicated gym-goer, and clearly proud of the results, judging by the way his trendy, form-fitting turtleneck clings to every defined pectoral and bulging bicep.
And that haircut – the meticulously sculpted, slightly aggressive style that every barber seems to be recommending to every man under forty these days. Standard Issue Hot Guy.
But his eyes, I’ll give him that, are a warm, unintrusive shade of cognac.
And he even manages to look a little shy, a little endearingly awkward, when Serafima Pylypivna, in full matchmaking battle-armour, halts his alpha-male stride at the living room entrance, determined to regale forgetful, ungrateful me with a detailed, fifteen-minute PowerPoint presentation (verbal, thankfully) on his many stellar achievements: his successful career in…
something vaguely real estate, his glorious victory in a regional high school academic decathlon sometime during the Mesozoic Era, and the truly astonishing fact that he was once, apparently, invited to audition for a low-budget, independent film about… Spartans.
Clearly, a man of hidden depths. And questionable taste in turtlenecks.
When Nadya from Apartment 15 finally arrives – a whirlwind of vibrant energy, her flame-gold hair already adorned with a ridiculously festive tinsel crown, despite it being late October – I’m already at a certain… stage .
The stage where the Corvalol Serafima pressed on me earlier has kicked in, leaving me in a slightly buzzed, strangely detached state.
The sharp edges of anxiety have been mercifully dulled, replaced by a sort of hazy, floating calm. Corvalol has never, ever had this kind of… pleasant effect on me before. Usually, it just makes me want to take a very long nap. In a coffin.
Once we’ve all politely sampled Serafima’s Olivie salad, I’ll need to sneak off to the kitchen and surreptitiously check the label on that little brown bottle. Because I suspect my dear, meddling landlady might have… enhanced my usual dosage. With something a little more… festive.
The sharp, insistent trill of the doorbell cuts through our strained conversation, creating a sudden tension in everyone but Serafima Pylypivna. She simply raises a perfectly sculpted silver eyebrow.
“Well, who in the blazes of Hades could that be at this hour?” she calls out, invoking the higher, and presumably more infernal, powers. Then she shoots me a look. A sharp, suspicious, all-knowing glance that makes my stomach clench.
I don’t wait for an invitation.
I practically fly to the door, yanking it open.
And there he is. Mykola. My husband. Looking devastatingly, unfairly handsome, even with the faint, purplish bruising still visible around his nose.
He’s holding a couple of paper bags from some ridiculously expensive gourmet deli, the kind that probably charges extra for breathing their artisanal air.
The bags end up clutched precariously in one of his hands as his other arm snakes around my waist, hauling me against him.
He cups my face, his thumbs stroking my cheekbones, and then his mouth is on mine. A deep, hungry kiss that tastes of cool night air, expensive cologne, and him. Only him.
“Hello, Diana,” he says, his voice a low rumble against my lips, as if we’re meeting for the very first time and and the chaos of the last day never happened.
“Hi,” I whisper back. “I’m… I’m so glad you… you came.”
Kolya doesn’t take his eyes off me. And I can’t tear mine away from his. He kisses me again – slowly this time, lingeringly, – and his long, dark eyelashes flutter against my skin like silk. I sigh into his mouth, a soft, helpless, utterly schoolgirl sound.
God, we are going to be completely, insufferably unbearable for everyone around us in the very near future. If we even have a near future.
“Hope there aren’t too many… uninvited guests. The store was wiped clean of almost everything I actually planned to buy. Had to improvise.”
“It’s fine.”
He plays the part of the humble, slightly apologetic, uninvited guest to perfection as he steps into the living room… and then he sees the enormous bouquet of white roses still lurking in the corner.
His gaze shifts to Hippolyt, who is currently pontificating to a captive Serafima about the architectural merits of pre-revolutionary dacha construction.
The golden-haired curvy beauty, Nadya, has conveniently vanished somewhere. Probably to refill her champagne flute. Or escape Hippolyt’s lecture.
“Kolya, come on,” I whisper, pulling him toward the kitchen. “Let me introduce you to Nadya. She’s lovely.”
He doesn’t move, just stands there radiating a possessive disapproval that makes the air crackle. He offers Hippolyt only a brief, almost imperceptible nod.
Hippolyt, bless his oblivious heart, beams and extends a beefy hand. Frez’s handshake is a model of glacial civility that tells me everything I need to know.
In the kitchen, I turn to him at once, gripping his forearms. “Kolya, I’m begging you, please. Behave. Hippolyt himself isn’t even fully aware of why Serafima invited him. And she had to take Corvalol today. Her heart was acting up earlier.”
A small, white lie. But a necessary one.
“And for her, tonight is genuinely New Year’s Eve. We’re going to try and gently nudge him in Nadya’s direction. She needs a husband.”
“What about me, huh? I’m the one behaving here.” He says slowly, his gaze sweeping around Serafima’s cluttered, charmingly chaotic kitchen as if he’s deep in thought, assessing structural integrity or perhaps planning a hostile takeover of her spice rack.
But I can see the way his cheek twitches, just slightly, from the inside. A sure sign he’s suppressing a snarl.
“What role do I play in this romantic subterfuge, sunshine? Am I doing anything? Or just observing? Because whatever you say, you know. By the way, is he the one who brought the flowers?”
He reaches for a delicate, antique teacup perched precariously on the top shelf, then pulls a dusty, unlabeled bottle of some dark, herbal-looking liqueur from the very bottom cabinet – the same cabinet Serafima Pylypivna had vehemently insisted was permanently sealed shut due to a family curse involving a poltergeist and a missing set of silver spoons.
“It was just a polite gesture,” I say, defensively stacking a pile of mismatched floral tea towels back into a neat, if slightly wobbly, pile. “The flowers. He’s impeccably well-mannered. A perfect gentleman.”
“Really?” He finally lifts his gaze to me, and since there’s a definite, dangerous glint of amusement – and something else, something possessive – in his eyes, I actually relax. A little.
Mykola is, at heart, a good-natured man. Mostly. Nothing to worry about. Probably.
Now, who is not always good-natured? Serafima Pylypivna.
At this very moment, Serafima is extravagantly feeding her corpulent dachshund Aza paper-thin salami slices from the charcuterie board. The little dog, a furry sausage with legs, scurries in ecstatic circles, yapping as it leaps onto Mykola’s impeccably tailored trouser leg.
This entire circus act begins just as I strategically seat my husband between myself and our formidable hostess, which prompts a theatrical arch of her perfectly sculpted silver brow.
Nadya reappears with a refilled champagne flute and tinsel in her hair, murmuring with genuine concern, “She’s going to get an upset stomach.”
“Nonsense, my dear! Aza is practically omnivorous! She’d gnaw on human bones if given half a chance.
And enjoy every morsel! So, Mykola,” she turns her full, formidable attention to Kolya, her eyes gleaming with predatory interest, “are you planning on staying the night? With Diana, of course. Or perhaps you have… other arrangements ?”
Hippolyt, the unsuspecting Spartan-wannabe, is clearly unprepared for such… bloodthirsty dinner party conversation. Also, he apparently doesn’t drink. At all. Whereas suddenly… all of us, even Nadya, seem to really want to celebrate. Extensively.
Serafima Pylypivna doubles down on her efforts to simultaneously charm and interrogate him.
And, unfortunately, Hippolyt, clearly misinterpreting the social cues, or perhaps just emboldened by champagne he isn’t actually drinking, follows her lead.
He starts asking me about my work. My art. My… aspirations.
Thank God I’m married. Even if it’s a sham.
These polite getting-to-know-you interrogations are unbearable at the best of times.
Especially since my hesitant, rambling, overly modest pronouncements about my current “freelance design projects” make it sound like I don’t even know where I actually work myself. Or if I even do work.
“A true talent,” Kolya declares suddenly, his voice a rich, authoritative baritone that cuts through Hippolyt’s earnest questioning, “shouldn’t have to work. A true talent,” he fixes me with a look of intense and utterly public adoration that makes my cheeks flame, “should simply… create.”
Great. Now I sound like a freeloading, kept slacker. Thanks, husband.
Poor Hippolyt nearly blushes crimson when Serafima changes the subject. Whether sensing his discomfort or simply bored with my angst, she deftly guides the conversation back to his triumphs in the thrilling world of mid-level real estate.
“Didn’t that ‘Italian Quarter’ luxury condo project of yours… rather spectacularly collapse? Last year, wasn’t it?” Kolya inquires, his tone one of unnerving, almost clinical neutrality.
With a casual nudge, he pushes the cake he’d presented so proudly toward the center of the table.
Hippolyt gets flustered and starts rambling about lawsuits, giving Mykola a predatory opening. He immediately unleashes a barrage of nineteen or twenty highly specific follow-up questions. Who’s counting anyway?