Name: Mila Galanis
FC: Nikola Selezinko
Age: 25, December 16
POB: London, UK
Role: New student, getting her Master's in Politics and International Studies
Interests: Leon, Joshua, Eliza, Simon, Helen - assess where there's enough.
Outfits:
1. Modern Family Christmas Party
2. NYE party
3. Christmas Party
I take the long way home
Ever since I found myself with Eliza more often than not, Mondays started to become horrid blurs of regret and headache. But, unlike her - and apparently everyone at the Law department - I didn’t have the privilege to sleep in. Instead, I made my dishevelled way through the cold drizzle to the good coffee cart, hoping Helen was around, and she’d happily postpone the lecture.
A few people stood there already, the smell of coffee tantalisingly lingering in the air, and a familiar face, cheeks flushed in the cold November air, flannel shirt sticking from his black leather jacket, and I rarely admit to myself I have issues, but damn.
“You’re late today,” he didn’t glance up from his papers right away, only once I was close enough. He couldn’t see me squinting - or glancing at him - under my sunglasses, but he looked at me.
“I didn’t realise we had an appointment.”
“We don’t,” his tone is nonchalant. “But the coffee here sells out well before eight, and you’ve already missed out on the good scones, which you rarely do.”
Admittedly, I did run to get them a few times before.
“My office is there,” he nudged towards the east wing, perfect view of the yard and the coffee cart. “I usually grab at least two before eight, but today—”
“You’re running late?”
“I grabbed four, because I was in time,” he smirked.
“You and your bloody routines,” I smirked back, pulling my phone out of the pocket to pay, when he folded the papers with this maddening calm.
“And you? Always this dramatic before caffeine, or is it just me that gets the honour?”
“It’s breakfast and a show, someone else would appreciate it,” I smiled, and he turned around, throwing the invite as he walked away.
“Go fetch your coffee, and come find your breakfast.”
The office was tidy, bookshelves top to bottom, and it smelled of booze and firewood. Something between Killian’s Angel’s Share and Replica’s Jazz Club, which was somehow on brand, and just by thinking it, I realised I was in trouble.
“Come, sit,” he says, pulling a chair from the other side of the office, and I did, taking off my jacket, then instantly regretting it, realising the silk blouse I had under won’t do it. Joshua slid two scones, set on the plate, towards me and took his place.
“You can light—”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I interrupted with a smile. I meant it, surprisingly, I didn’t just say it, biting on my lip as I took the scone apart as I usually do. “Is this why I usually don’t see you at breakfast?
“Do you usually look for me at breakfast?”
I smiled, but said nothing about it, picking some of the scone and eating it. The room fell silent, and I took the lid off the coffee cup, taking a tiny sip. Joshua sipped on his, both his scones sitting neatly on his plate.
“I love what you’ve done to the place,” I turned around, finally. Most books had nothing to do with finance or management, I loved it, and the section of old records in the corner reminded me of home. “So,…”
“So?”
“You seem to be at home here,” I concluded, perhaps a bit too early.
“Is there something strange about it?”
“No,” I shrugged. “I feel at home wherever you put me.”
He nodded, then shook his head. “But, feeling at home and being home is not the same?”
“Here, the only thing different is the weather,” I joke.
“London was always your home, then?”
If we just took time into consideration, home was Circle Line between Soho and Notting Hill, or the equivalent car route. Home was the stripped brick wall on the gallery of my mother’s loft, and the pink wallpaper on the second floor of dad’s townhouse, and a lot of different places in between.
“Among other places,” I nodded. “Mom’s family is from Saint Petersburg, and dad’s roots are in Greece, the island of Kos.”
“Home is a plural then,” he offered a joke, and I offered a smile.
“Not the worst thing that can happen,” slipped from my lips, and I took another sip of the coffee.
“And what brings you here?”
“Honestly?” I leaned back, feeling that I would be crushed under the weight of lies if I had to tell one more person how I absolutely adored this place since I’ve seen it.
“You could lie,” he offered playfully, and he didn’t even know how right he was. I could have, or should have. I didn’t, in the end.
“I came to support my mom and her new marriage, her optics showed it would be amazing to attend the same school as my step-sister which I never get to see,”
“And?”
I furrowed my brows. “And what?”
“It felt like there’s more,” he shrugged. “I mean, is this the big lie?”
“Well, no, clearly,” I plucked a bit more of the scone, adding another bite. “I’m here to escape persecution for my killing spree.”
“So, the bonding isn’t working,”
“Who knew I wouldn’t agree with someone who stands against most things I like,” I grinned, taking a proper bite into the scone. “Shit, I will have to get up early to get these.”
“Take one to go,” he says, catching a glimpse of his watch - and so did I - we were both in serious danger of actually being late, not that many would mind. I rushed to pick up my bag, throwing the sunglasses back on, following him out the door, and he managed to give me the paper bag with the remaining scone before I walked away.
“I owe you a favour,” I said as we stepped out to the courtyard.
“For the scone?”
“No, for the fact I no longer have to lie through my teeth about this place being decent.”
He said nothing, so I took my chance to get going, but not before throwing another glance at him. Maybe I could wake up a bit earlier tomorrow.
The scones were quite good.
She looks like she's been through it
The sacred road from Nogales to Magdalena de Kino is around 90 kilometers, taking you from Arizona, US, all the way to Mexico.
When I turned 19, which is basically someone else ago, dad asked me to follow him on a pilgrimage. For real.
We didn’t seek a miracle, or pray for something. He read about it, or saw it at a film festival, or something along those lines. It might have been the first time ever that Vika’s very Slavic parents genuinely appreciated this heathen man who divorced their daughter.
So, instead of our ski trip in the Dolomites, we packed for the harsh desert weather, and we went. And don’t take me wrong, I am not a religious person, not really, yet it seems like currency is the only religion known to most of people here, myself included to some extent. Yet, I still find myself surprised when the alert gives me a link to some photos taken at a club, at some party or anywhere, really, showing me at my worst.
The question always on my mind is a simple one: how am I still interesting?
The phone on the side table rang, and I tried to remember what happened on the night, because this was surely Vika, with her PR agent on the other side, looping us on an urgent call.
“Hi,” I say. What are the chances she didn’t see it?
“Hi, Matilda,” her voice is soft, but the use of the full name isn’t really giving off anything good. “I’m here with Ursula and Piper.”
As anticipated, Piper was there, the PR agent Vika has been collaborating since her first divorce, the one she caused, not the one she was part of. “Hi Ursula, hi Piper.”
“Listen,” Piper gets right into it, something I’ve learnt to appreciate over the years. “The best thing is to just put privacy sign on the socials.”
I bit my lip, feeling the little part open up, stopping immediately. “Okay,” I replied, remembering that this was not a reply. “I’ll get to that the second we hang up.”
“Good,” Piper said. “The rest is mash and peas.”
I imagined Ursula’s expression, honestly. Mash and peas was the only thing I’d eat for weeks after my parents divorced, and going forward whenever we discussed any media crisis is mash and peas. The regular, implied, known.
“Sweetie?” Vika’s talking Russian, which is another omen. “This is not about about you, we just need to lay low.”
“Alright,” I replied back, switching to English the next moment. “I’m running late, actually—”
“Of course, don’t worry,” Piper chimes in.
“See you soon, Mila,” Ursula finally spoke and the next second they were off. I did what was asked, getting the deactivation page up and running, just as so many times before. Fucking press was back at it, and while I had nothing to do with this - the photo, taken fully out of context - and now—
“Look who’s up this bright and early!”
The chirpy American accent took me out of it for a second, and before I could find my ground, she placed her book at the table, and ran to the counter to get herself a coffee. “I’m heading to Luzern this week, buy some presents for Christmas, do you want to join?”
“I actually might,” I noted, given I was packing to spend the Christmas day with everyone. “I’m spending Christmas with my entire family,” I said, possibly sounding worried.
She took a bite out of her pain au chocolate, nodding. “You sound worried.”
“What’s there to worry about,” I shrugged nonchalantly, sarcasm dripping from me, and God, I felt bad about being in a bad mood around her. I smiled.
“Don’t stop now,” Helen replied, smiling. “Our family is visiting, too.”
“Oh?”
“Not all of them, but—”
“Enough?”
“So, my mom and her new wife, her daughter and her father, with his new family, then both sets of grandparents, including my grandparents, on my mother’s and father’s side, my dad, his wife and my baby sister, and then I believe Ursula’s sister,” I took a breath at this point and a sip of water, “—and her family, along with her husband’s mother, will join us too.”
“Holy shit,”
“You might have just pinpointed the entire day’s trajectory, yes,” I grinned, and she laughed, and she joined, thankfully not realizing I meant it.
“I’m pretty sure they are flying in privately, but I have to be there, and I have to make sure to coordinate my part of the family,”
“I’d be worried about the person preparing the food,”
“I’m not worried about anything Ursula is planning,” I nodded.
“You don’t act like you’re impressed by all this,” Helen says, and in all honesty, I’m not sure what to say this. “Or you’re not impressed by all of this?”
“Most of this world is people and perceptions, without any merit behind it.”
Helen chuckled, stirring her coffee. “So, what impresses you?”
“Ask me another time, once I’ve figured it out.”
Currently, not much.
Oh, and that pilgrimage?
No one would ever know about it; it was never published. In the world of oversharing, it was a moment shared between us. Apparently, I can do both
I promise that I'm older now
At one point between not being able to sit still and move around, I rented a car finally, remembering how to drive on the wrong side of the road, which ended up going rather well once you counter in that the car had an automatic gear shift.
And, somehow, I sat into that same car with Eliza just an hour ago, ending up at a SPA day she booked, which I wouldn’t even know how to interpret, but hell, it was nice.
The entire place very private, or very exclusive perhaps.
And, somehow, unsettling.
The robe was too white, the water at the pool was too still, even the apples seemed too crisp. Strangely, the only thing that seemed to be fitting into the picture was the one thing that came with me. Eliza was stretched across the lounge chair like Cleopatra bored of her own kingdom.
“What?”
She didn’t even open her eyes.
“Nothing,” I say.
“Stop refreshing the Sun,” she says. “Bunch of assholes, honestly.”
I put the phone aside, because she was right. And luckily, one more day and the news cycle is done.
“It was Mirror, actually, but yes, fine, will you do something to keep me entertained?”
She actually snickered, and I chuckled. Entertained, clearly.
“You’re welcome,” she concluded. “Have you booked your flight back already?”
“I’m not going back, Vika decided we’d all celebrate here,” I replied.
“Too bad, I was hoping you’d join me for the flight back,” it didn’t sound like she meant it, but it sounded like she meant it, too. Eliza finally glanced up, waving her hand softly at the woman at the front desk, who arrived a moment later. “Could you please schedule us for two hydro facials, preferably at the same time, in the same room.”
You could think what you wanted about Eliza, but she really did rich well - she used every opportunity to learn as much, like now - her German was amazing. I don’t understand it, but hell, it sounded as good as it gets - even this I got from the context alone.
“The Swiss are quite strict when it comes to taking photos of people in public spaces,” she continued once the receptionist did her bidding, leaving us alone. “In the streets, in clubs, everywhere,” she continued.
I furrowed my brows, the topic was not what I wanted to discuss, but she seemed adamant that we should. “Look—”
“Meaning it must have been someone we came with,” she interrupted. “The tabloids here are bored out of their mind, only paying attention to politicians, and even that is done with some morally corrupt decorum.”
I chuckled, and she smiled, leaning to get her cucumber water.
“Don’t worry, I just want to avoid Vika having this conversation with me at Christmas lunch,” I admit, and it got her attention; she looked at me.
“How in the hell did she get into bed with a conservative?”
I scoffed, pushing my hair back. “It’s unnerving, if I’m honest, and now I’m not sure how the timing of this fits.
“What do you mean?”
“I am doing my Master's in the middle of nowhere, on the continent, and Mirror still makes me part of the cycle. What, is it boring at home? No DUIs? No seasonal depression-induced alcoholism?”
The hint of something played at her face, but she smooths it over quickly.
“Be honest,” I say in the end.
“Your reputation was never this bad. Some poor dating choices are the worst it's got,” she is honest, and I’m not a fan, but I asked for it myself. “But it always seemed like you were into it, or even in on the joke.”
“Yeah,” I exhaled, considering that it might have seemed as if I enjoyed the attention, given that I have been in its centre since I was far too young. “She could never resist a good headline, or a bad date.”
Eliza chuckled, giving a small shrug. “Switzerland is good, then.”
Was it? It was hard for me to imagine a life here - a proper one. My place was not here. She suspected where my mind went.
“You should not get tied down to a location,” her tone shifts slightly; somehow, she seems much wiser than she wants to let on. “You might like your neck of the world, but you’re not a tree, and you can move, especially since life seems easier here.”
“But is it?”
“I am heading home in a few days, for a few days,” she added. “I’ll send you a few links to the articles that will come out, just because I’m there.”
“You’re depressing me,” I admit.
“Deal with it,” Eliza smirks. “Now, let’s go, I’m in desperate need of that facial, and I won’t even mention how much you need it.”
I know you're performing, but it's working for me
My arrival in Luzern two days in a row was not a discovery, it seems, but a welcome distraction of constantly refreshing emails with small shifts in communication strategies between Piper and Vika, Ursula comfortably nestled in the copy of each and every email.
Coat, scarf, hair pushed under a hat, and a pair of sunglasses - the uniform is back, - and I’m walking near the lake, glittering cold, some tourists clumped with cameras, when I noticed him, paying the vendor for the roasted chestnuts he held in his hand.
He looked like he belonged, or worse.
It wasn’t part of my plan, but how could I miss the chance to say hi?
“You don’t strike me as a weekend tourist,” he said once I caught his eye, still standing, looking at the lake. “And you definitely don’t look like someone who’d wait in line to get chestnuts.”
He holds out a bag, a smile on his face. I took one, and it was still very hot.
“Chestnuts at a frozen lake, very poetic,” I bit half off, steam escaping it. Far too hot, my eyes water a tiny bit, but he is not focused on me, thankfully.
“Don’t sound so cynical, it’s a seasonal ritual,”
“This is your first year here,” I offered.
“I’d thought you knew how rituals all had to start somewhere,” he replied. “Frozen lakes and hot chestnuts will be my seasonal ritual,”
“Or a distraction,” I joked, for whatever reason. Not wanting the conversation to stop, most likely. “People like to pretend that things such as burnt fingers mean something.”
“Sometimes they do,” Leon nodded, removing the charred part from another chestnut, offering me another. “Wait a second, I think we will need a bit more.”
I turned, ready to go and pay, but her lifted his hand, offering another soft smile and a subtle shake of the head. So, I do as I’m told. I stand, I wait. He is back a moment later, but not too late. He puts all the chestnuts together, and I pick another.
“Sometimes people hold hot things to feel that warmth,”
Side-eye I had in store was needed here, because that was rather dramatic. “Come on, Leon, are we still talking about chestnuts?”
He shrugged, with an amused smile curling his lips, before his eyes trailed back to the lake. “It depends. Did you want me to?”
I chuckled. “You are too cheerful for a man buying roasted chestnuts alone.”
“Maybe I was hoping to share them,” he added. I scoffed lightly, almost like a knee-jerk reaction.
“With me?” My brows went up. “That wasn’t your plan.”
“Well, neither was yours, but you came over anyway.”
I paused for a second, trying to decide what I could say. “Yeah, I did. Good call.”
“Let’s walk,” he said, and it sounded like an invitation, not an order, which was good. I really dislike it when it sounds like orders, and we were along the way. I put my glasses away, enjoying the overly bright sun touching the ice, snow, and the nature around, taking another chestnut from the bag once we reached a good overlook point. It burned the tip of my tongue, but I didn’t flinch. If there’s one thing I refuse to give an audience, it’s the win.
Leon, of course, caught it anyway.
“You bite too soon,” he said, watching me instead of the lake. “Most people wait.”
I blew on the chestnut, arching a brow. “Maybe I just miscalculated how fresh of the fire it was.”
He tilted his head like I’d given him the opening he wanted. “And?”
“It’s hot,” I said flatly. “Congratulations, professor, your data is accurate.”
His laugh came easy, light. I hated how it sounded good in the cold air. “No, it means you don’t like waiting, even when you should.”
“Or maybe,” I smirked, eating the rest of the still hot chestnut, “I just don’t take advice from men with nut-stained gloves.”
He grinned, wide and unpolished, and for a second I thought he might actually say something clever back. Instead, he stepped closer, just enough that the smell of roasted chestnuts and his cologne blurred into the cold.
“Want another?” he asked, voice softer now.
The question was nothing, harmless. But the way he said it, the way his eyes held mine like he was testing something - *that* was dangerous.
I didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. The silence between us stretched. He was close enough now that if I leaned forward even slightly, his mouth would be on mine.
I knew it.
He knew it.
And for a half-second, the world outside the lakefront didn’t exist.
Then, predictably, Leon laughed, nervous, covering, scratching the back of his neck with the same gloved hand. “Sorry. You just—”
He stopped himself, shaking his head. “You make it hard not to…”
I cut him off with a smirk sharp enough to save us both. “Careful, professor. That sounded almost like a confession.”
His cheeks flushed, though he tried to laugh it off. “Observation. Not confession.”
“Sure.” I turned back to the glittering lake. My pulse was louder than the tourist chatter behind us. “Keep telling yourself that.”
I didn’t let him see me smile.
There's escape in escaping
Ever since I was 9, I knew I won’t do any relationships in the public arena of opinions. Watching my mother fall in and out of love with a few different men was rather strange, but what got me was watching others watch it, too. Being a semi-known celebrity seems to be worse than being someone on the A-list, because people can still touch you, reach you, find a way to really justify pushing narratives because you (in this case, Vika) feel so close.
It was a birthday party of a friend I met through our riding club, park in the Notting Hill and I was resting inside the rented bouncy castle, staring at the grey clouds dragging above me, when someone’s mother decided to shit-talk about mine. I didn’t get her point at first, to be honest, but the idea was clear by the time she finished. My mother should have stayed with my father, because of me, clearly, never getting to her then-boyfriend, because she allegedly broke a marriage by doing it.
Faced with a ton of new information, not to mention idioms, I laid still in that bouncy castle until I heard them walk away. I disliked coming over to Fiona’s place after that, and her mother didn’t like her coming at mine, so we didn’t really see each other that often, other than in the stables. To mark the death of what could have been a life-long friendship that would end in us riding through vineyards while our husbands did whatever husbands do (Vika never specified), I decided I would do all of my romance in private.
For a while, I did. Albeit, the horrible choice of partners was to blame - partly - and then it was just a preference, I believed. It was easy to navigate the world while no one actually saw you do any moves. I did some silly shit, I did some things people do while they are in love, and then, right at that mark where you believe your stupidity is gone as the suffix “teen” is gone from your age, you do something stupid.
I fell head over heels.
Me, a 20 year-old D-lister, and a son of a B-lister who was an A-lister in his mind. Musician, clearly. Nepo baby, we stick together. And it was good, I admit, to give into it - watching him jump, pulling him under - and it was, as mentioned, good. Posing at events, spending weekends brunching, at parks, doing those (orchestrated) pap walks together, scrolling through some outrageously good candid photos of stolen kisses and then, it just wasn’t making sense.
It got too pushy. Not on his side, which makes me think that maybe I wished there was some truth in the headlines he was picking out a ring, because what’s wrong with a bride who just turned 21? Vika didn’t have it bad, by any means. Headlines started to alternate between talking rings and cradles, into mention of outlines of former and new lovers, and we tested each other. Someone would speed out of our shared flat, doors got slammed so often I’m sure our neighbours would be worried during the calm days and once the W slur was thrown, I was out of the door. It felt like breathing.
Until, of course, it didn’t.
Being in that grey area of fame meant the headlines were just as grey. Blame shifted, doubts sank in well, and I didn’t have it in myself to go with grace. I made a comment - just one - that spun way out of proportion and bridges I haven’t even approached were burnt with such speed I was wondering if they were ever there.
I’m not opposed to being open, but never again out in the open.
“What’s got you thinking this hard?”
Simon approached when I wasn’t paying attention, still holding my gift for Leon in a bag that could have indicated to someone I was trying a little bit too much. I pulled it back. “Trying to find my Secret Santa,” I mussed.
“I should be doing that, too,” he says, but doesn’t move.
“Travelling home for the holidays?”
“That sounds like a question coming from someone who flew here private,” his tone was rather playful, but it was something that bothered me about the delivery. We never touched the topic - I found it irrelevant - how he got here was not my business. “Not the scholarship type, aren’t you?”
“And that sounded like someone who already knows everything, which I assume must be nice.”
Before I could handle myself, I moved away, heading out. What’s healthier than a smoke in the cold winter night?
And even there, I wasn’t alone.
“You are quite easy to find.”
I was about to finish this one, the numbness of my toes kept me stepping from one side to another, and the fact I only had to walk a bit to get inside and at least get my coat was…stupid. I smiled, still, force of habit of seeing someone I liked approach, I tend to forget how I really feel.
“I’m out of clever things to say, I’m afraid,”
“No, I might be,” he chuckled, and she smiled, in the end. “Merry Christmas!”
I must have looked surprised, because he looked content with himself. “Wha—”
“I’m not your secret Santa,” he begun, when a few people left the balcony, snow starting again, and before he could move forward with anything, he took his coat, hanging it around my shoulders. I almost objected - and I must have looked like I will - but the smell of his cologne was there, lingering so close, it was not the time to resist kindness. “Don’t worry about it, I spent my holidays at the Baltic sea, this is spring weather.”
“And the gift? Part of the Baltic traditions?”
“Yes, the present and the coat, usually together.”
“Well, kudos for keeping the tradition alive,” I smiled, dangling the bag in front of him. “So, should I be worried the is part of your ongoing experiment?”
“Absolutely,” he grinned, and I took the moment to give him my bag.
“Well, I was your Secret Santa,” I handed him the bag like it was a ticking bomb, and admittedly, it might be horrible in the end, depending on his interpretation, but he was there, looking all cute and I blinked.
“Damn, I didn’t think you’d apply to participate,” he sounds genuinely surprised, and I just smiled with a small shrug.
“It doesn’t play well into my whole thing, but I actually love Christmas.”
His face shows nothing but surprise, and he is about to pull the paper out, but I put my hand on his. “No!”
“You’re not giving me the gift?”
“I’m definitely giving you the gift which comes with verbal instruction that says it needs to be opened in privacy.”
His expression changed to a few things at that moment and it took me far too long to figure out what could have been interpreted out of it, so I shook my head and gave the most awkward laugh of my life. “No, no-no! It’s not a dirty present—”
He laughs, a bit uncomfortable, and I laughed a bit more. “I wasn’t—”
“Okay, stop,” I raised one of my hands to cover my eyes, and the other is just there in front of him. “I’m just not sure you’d like it, so open it a bit later, okay?”
“You could have started with that,” he grinned.
“Oh, don’t I know it,” I laughed. “So, may I open yours?”
“How is that fair?”
“Life’s not fair, Leon, I thought you knew,” I smiled, but still waited for the approval. “So, you’re my official gift-giver, I should be allowed—”
“You can talk your way out of everything,” he noted.
“Oh, you wouldn’t believe how many things I had to talk my way out of,” I mused, giving him the bag to hold while I took the box out of it. It’s a nicely decorated box, with a velvet bow, which has a few ornaments placed inside. “Oh!”
Glass ornaments - something Vika would find too colourful, and my grandma would adore - one shaped as a fire place and three shaped like chestnuts. I loved it.
“It’s a small place, they sell all kinds of them—”
“I love it,” comes out too quick, and I looked up. He was still smiling, and I joined in. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he sounded like it was nothing. “So, can I open this?”
“Absolutely not, I hate having to be the disappointment,” I tried another smirk, but the truth is, I didn’t wipe the grin from my face. “Really, it’s silly—”
“I like silly,” Leon offered.
“Trust me, it will be more fun to open it later, okay?”
With some reluctance, he nodded, and before he could add something else, I heard a familiar voice behind him, calling my name. We both turned, at the sign of Joshua, who walked out, hands in pockets.
“Can’t you ever be somewhere comfortable, or is it just against your religious beliefs?”
I chuckled, as Joshua’s already annoyed face approached. He patted Leon’s back. “Sorry to interrupt,”
“Don’t worry,” Leon smiled. “Should I—?”
“Absolutely not,” Joshua interrupts. “We’re all going inside, I won’t hear anything of it.”
We did, one after another, into the warm room, into the public. I pulled Leon’s coat off my shoulders, and handed it back. “Promise not to open—”
Leon nodded. “Until later, I promise. I’m fetching myself something to drink.”
I nodded, and he left us there, with Joshua handing me a small package. “Merry Christmas,”
“Thank you,” I smile. “How horrible was it to go to Whoville?”
“Disrespectful,” he says, as I opened the box, finding a small DIY yacht model inside. “I was thinking if I crossed the line, but you’ve convinced me it’s just what was needed,”
“Are you expecting me to actually do the model?”
“Yes,” he nodded. “Consider it holiday homework,”
“Consider me absent from the class,” I joked. “Thank you,” I say, again, snatching a glass of champagne from the waitress that just passed. “So, are you heading home for the holiday?”
“Most likely no,” he replied, taking a sip off his drink. “And you?”
“For a few days, but staying around,” I nodded.
“Oh, yes, Helen mentioned something, I think,” he added. “You have family here.”
“And the ones who are out of town are flying in,” I chuckled. “What a shitshow it’ll be,”
“Holidays usually are,” he gave a shrug.
“Is that why you’re avoiding them?”
“You’ve been talking too much with our resident therapist, haven’t you?”
I chuckled this time, shaking my head. “Sadly, just have a lot of experience with therapy talk.”
“And how to deflect it,” Joshua sounded playful for a second, but the remark hit the mark. I did know how to say exactly enough not to say a thing while making you think I’ve spilled my guts.
“Look, a girl has to have some talents,” I offered. Maybe even a few more than that. It takes me another drink to open up to the conversation, and the night which ends up in the cold discomfort of the terrace, with Helen, Joshua and Leon, all putting up with the snow just so I can have one more smoke before bed.
I placed the aspirational yacht on the desk, next to the open box of glistening ornaments, getting to shower and bed earlier than I would had this party been in London. But, tomorrow I was expected at the ancestral home of the Rossi family, which might as well be the Scrooge residence, who knows.
In any case, out of character, I was in bed far too early, tucked in, and restless. Then, the phone lights up.
Freudian Slippers is just about what I would have expected from you
I jumped up in the bed when the phone lit up, blue light setting the room into a coldish glow.
I don’t believe I gave you my number
I used the student directory because this just had to be addressed right away
What a blatant abuse of power, I didn’t expect that from you
I was feeling bad about it, but hearing you say it makes it worse
I’ve given you too much credit, I thought you’d recognise a joke in writing
Was the silk tie also a joke?
No, that was just a nudge, so you can finally stop embarrassing the department with your choices
See, now I know you’ve had too much to drink.
I haven’t, but I am tired - good night, merry Christmas
I admit, I lay there, propped up on my elbow a few more minutes, hoping to see the three dots move, and felt hugely annoyed when I just locked the phone, and nothing happened. I did say good night. How horrible it is that I’m expecting him to push through a boundary?
Fuck this. I’m not doing this.
Life goes easy on me, most of the time
It’s officially the strangest holiday so far, and this is coming from someone who has been having multiple Christmases for years now, and the anxiety growing in my stomach has nothing to do with the fact I am watching my father get along well with Ursula across the room, or the fact Lena is talking to my mother while simultaneously doing a puzzle with the kids, while some of the grandparents are at the balcony roasting chestnuts, and the rest is deeply involved with the game of Canasta.
Oh, there is a theme to our outfits - royal blue - so we are sure we will resemble a rather bourgeois cult on photos.
What makes it all even more interesting is that my first instinct is to go take a photo of the chestnut team to have an excuse to send something to Leon, and I just feel pathetic about it, when I know I shouldn’t.
Vika vanished to the kitchen soon after, and a few seconds later, just as I’m about to move from my decorative position at the mustard yellow ottoman, she calls out for me.
“Are you even paying attention to the bundt?”
She speaks Russian only away from the rest, but the staff around us is enough of a reason.
“I’ve made this cake more times than you have,” I didn’t dignify that with even one glance at the oven. “I have my timer set, I know when it’s ready.”
“I think it’s done,” she insisted, so I walked to the oven, out of common curtesy. “No, still a bit more.”
“Can you please prepare the glaze?”
“Sure,” I nodded, annoyed, and before I reached the pantry, she’s back at it.
“Please wear an apron, we haven’t had the photo yet,”
“Yes, what are we waiting for?”
“Dusk, apparently,” she continued prancing around the kitchen as if she was doing any of the cooking at any point. Bless her, but she did serve a mean bowl of caviar over ice and could always nail my toast the exact way I liked it. “Something about the decoration or fireplace,” she continued, but I’m deep in the butler’s pantry, dragging out the chocolate. Before I was done, she is gone and a second later, dad walked in, with a glass of wine in one hand.
I smiled at him, turning to the wine fridge to get his wine. “Having fun?”
He nodded, but he seemed like he would need a bottle to survive the day.
“We’ve decided,” he says, as Audrey walked into the room, raising her glass to be topped off, too. “We will leave the day after tomorrow.”
I was a tiny bit surprise, but happy about it. It would be bad to think both my parents were okay with this. “No New Year party, then?”
“Grandparents might stay, I just cannot—” he is more silent than you’d imagine.
“Oh, don’t forget—” Audrey nudges him and he reaches into his pocket. “Here, catch!”
I caught the set of keys. “We’ve rented it, during some optimistic times, in town, not far from school, until January 5th,”
“Oh,” I nodded. “And you want me —”
“To go have some alone time,” dad says. “You seem like you need it.”
“Shit, I must really look horrible,” I joked, as we were interrupted, Ursula walking into the kitchen to check on the food, expressing to everyone her protest of seeing me prepare any food, even if it’s just two bundt cakes. Fifteen minutes later, the cakes were done, glaze was ready, and I took the opportunity to slip out into the kitchen deck, overlooking the garden.
It took dad around another fifteen to find me.
“Hiding?”
“I’m not sure I have other options,” I replied. “So, the apartment—”
“We can’t cancel, so someone might as well enjoy it,” he says. “How are you?”
I rolled my eyes, lighting up another smoke, altho I was sure the previous one is my last one. “Jesus, why’d she send you now? Because of that article?”
“Mila,” he says softly. “She is just worried there is a guy—”
“Jesus, dad!” I protested. “It was a stupid night out, we weren’t even drinking that much, and the photos—”
“I’m not saying—”
“But, you sort of are,” I interrupted. “I’m not talking about this again, it was a stupid decision to go out, and I didn’t know there would be someone sharing photos anywhere, so it happened.”
He remained silent; he didn’t put up any fight, which is what I hated even more. Instead, he just leaned in, kissing the top of my head, and luckily, the food was almost done. We make our way back to the living area - and to really double down on the good mood - they there all were, with a cake, singing happy birthday ten days after the ordeal.
Surprised, I managed a smile - no, a grin - as colour flushed to my cheeks, and I shook my head in pretend protest, hoping the whole thing is done. By the time the candles are on the cake, my grin is turning a little bit more real than not, and for a few moments, I forget how fucked up the situation actually is. For a second, I’m just a girl turning 26, blowing out candles, and wishing for something I definitely won’t share with anyone.
I say I don't want that, but what if I do?
At midnight, noise and champagne everywhere, I should have stayed in the city, order something delicious, eat it in bed, and I let myself be convinced by Eliza that this is a good idea - to come, to attend.
But, then again, I will lie if anyone asks if part of the reason why I chose to attend was not walking towards me right now, drink in hand, smile on his lips and I smile back as he approached, leaning to kiss my cheeks.
“Happy New Year,”
“May it only bring us great things,” I added, clinking my champagne against his glass. There’s a couple very aggressively making out near us, and I believe we both did our best in ignoring it, when he drank another sip of whatever he was having, nudging towards me.
“So, Mila, any resolutions?”
“To quit these, obviously,” I said, lighting another one up. The couple was still at it, and at this point I was willing to offer then the apartment. Leon’s snickering distracted me for a second, he nodded his head.
“I’ll believe it when I see it.”
I smirked, exhaling some smoke. “Is this the part where you tell me it’s because you think people are just patterns, and patterns don’t change?”
He seemed a bit offended, shaking his head then. “Absolutely not. Patterns change when something, or someone, interrupts them.”
I exhaled the smoke towards him, hoping that he was drunk enough to be flirting a bit more openly now. “Then we better hope you’re interesting enough to interrupt mine.”
It seems amusing for both, and before something else can be said, there is a loud thud coming from the back, with the couple abruptly leaving the terrace, doors shutting behind them.
“So, what’s yours, then?”
“Mine?”
“Don’t play dumb, Leon, I know you know what I’m talking about,” I added playfully.
“I find these fascinating,” he nodded, giving a tiny shrug, as he looked to the distance as if looking for the correct answer. “And telling.”
“Leon,” I gave a warning, he laughed, bringing his intention back to me.
“Okay, okay,” he gives up in the end, brows furrowed, mischief in his face. “My resolution is to get you to tell me one real thing.”
My brows darted up, smile curling my lips, and I shook my head at that, making him more amused as if it was possible. “Okay, then I’m changing mine to never give you that satisfaction.”
Leon laughed, tossing his head back for a second, before he leaned in a little bit, clinking his glass to mine. “In that case, here’s to failure.”
DONE!
Most likely full of stupid errors.
Last edited by Zaralee (30/08/2025 at 01:29)
Sophia von Adelberg
