Page 18 of Oops Baby for the Mafia Boss

Not even a spam caller that could sustain the lie that it could be Markov for a few extra moments. He couldn’t contact me anyway. Mortlake work is unofficial, well paid but with no guarantees, including no contracts and HR documents.

I said I would phone her, but there she is, calling me. Like a bad hair day, there’s no escaping her.

“Hi Mum!” My false chirpiness could con the most hardened of London pigeons.

“I don’t understand why you can’t come home. There are jobs here.”

This is where I normally say that I enjoy my job here in London.

But my stomach twists. Possibly there are as many jobs in my hometown as I currently have here. None.

“I just want my baby bird back in the nest,” she adds, and although I know it’s a lie, and she wants to be able to complain to me and not have to cook for herself, there’s a painful tug of inevitability.

Perhaps this is fate. I came to London to lose my V-card and start a new life. I achieved the loss of my virginity, but there’s nothing for me here if I don’t have a job.

“You could come home. Your room is here, and I won’t charge.”

Oh, that’s a wonderful reminder. My rent is due today.

I swallow. This is not subtle, universe.

I haven’t got spare money to pay my rent given I won’t be going to Mortlake to collect the little I’m due for this month, I’m unemployed with no reference, and the one person who wants me is my mother.

Tears prickle behind my eyes.

I’ve failed at being an adult. I’ve failed at a brave new life in London. I’ve failed spectacularly at being the sort of girl that sophisticated, attractive, powerful men like Markov Lunacharski are interested in.

For more than a quick fuck, anyway.

In short, I guess caring for my emotionally needy mother is all I’m good for.

“Okay.” My tone is resigned. I’m defeated.

A tear trickles down my cheek, but you wouldn’t realise because the rain has my face dripping. This isn’t the nice sort of wet, either. It’s cold, bedraggled, and chafing. “I’ll come home.”

“Could you pick up some milk on the way?”

I don’t know why I expected anything else. I look up at the grey sky and the colour is an echo of Markov’s eyes as he looked down at me. That feels like a lifetime ago.

“Sure. I’ll see you later.”

Within a few hours, I’ve cleared out of my rented room, and I’m on a bus with my pathetically small suitcase.

It’s only once I’m sitting watching London slip away that I let myself think about what happened with Markov this morning. It has a hazy, dreamy feeling. It feels like something that didn’t really happen, although a slight soreness between my legs and the dampness of my knickers assures me that yes, it definitely did.

A stupid, spontaneous, wonderful, best moment of my life event, before the total implosion. When I was in his arms and joined with him, I felt good. Loved. Important.

It was perfect, even if remembering it is bittersweet because he walked out without a second glance.

Probably Markov does that all the time. Has sex that is. Maybe he has sex with loads of women every day.

Needles stab behind my eyes again and my heart attempts to wither like an apple left too long in a fruit bowl.

I can’t help the first tear, and I blink it away furiously. I stare intently at my lap, then the back of the seat in front of me. It seems somehow representative of the way my life has suddenly shrunk.

I should have… What should I have done to make today turn out differently? I guess I could have stopped Markov as he walked out, but maybe he would have fired me for being clingy?

If only my mother hadn’t called.