Lina had made up her mind to meet a man.
For now, it was a mystery man, and as for the purpose... Well, whether it was a blessing or a curse, she hadn’t quite figured that out yet. The whole idea wasn’t even hers—it belonged to her friend Erica, a stunning brunette and trendy designer who, by the age of thirty, had already built her own hat-making studio and boutique.
The two had been inseparable since their school days. They shared a desk, got into mischief together, and swooned over boys—thankfully, never the same ones. They joined creative clubs, and later, both enrolled in the same university, the Academy of Decorative Arts and Design, though in different departments. Even with clashing schedules, they managed to see each other often enough to know every detail of each other’s lives—both the things they should and shouldn’t. After graduation, little changed, save for a rare six-month hiccup. But that blip did nothing to dent their friendship, which endured to this very day.
Lina secretly hoped that at the party Erica had practically blackmailed her into attending, nothing out of the ordinary would happen. She cherished their long-standing bond and had no desire to shake things up. Why would she? Lina was perfectly content with her life as it was.
Erica, on the other hand, clearly wasn’t. Yesterday, she’d shown up in a foul mood—behind on deadlines for her spring-summer collection for the next year. She plopped into her favorite armchair, her model-long legs stretched out, and lit a cigarette. Lina’s mom wasn’t home; she’d gone to the market, a near-ritual weekly trip that always took at least three hours. So Erica didn’t have to play the good girl—or good woman—and could smoke freely. She could also sip wine and dive into taboo topics, one of which was simply dubbed “dishing about M.” Sometimes it escalated to “trashing M” or “telling M to shove it,” but the gist remained the same.
At this particular moment, “M” referred to two specific men: Victor Victorovich Kozhukh and Igor Martich. Erica had been tangled up with the first for a whole year, though he couldn’t seem to muster the courage to divorce his wife, despite living in separate cities. The second, Igor, was Lina’s complication.
“Complication” was Erica’s word. In reality, Lina’s arrangement with Igor was straightforward—two meetups a week at his place. A shared dinner, a sleepover with breakfast included. Practically all-inclusive. For now, this setup suited Lina just fine. At the very least, no one got hurt from their dates. Free of obligations, they each lived their own lives without meddling in the other’s. They’d agreed on that after their first night together—no demands, no grudges, no jealousy, and not even fidelity, though that last one was preferred. In a way, it was almost a business arrangement.
Lately, though, Erica and Lina’s mom seemed to have teamed up in some unspoken conspiracy. Both were nagging her with not-so-subtle hints that it was time for her and Igor to settle down. After all, thirty was “already,” not “still.” The only difference was in their approaches to pushing her toward that goal.
The constant prodding was starting to wear on Lina. And marriage? She wasn’t exactly jumping at the idea. Having been married once before for a mere six months, she wasn’t eager to repeat the experience. But she couldn’t just cut off her mom and best friend simply because they wanted what they thought was best for her, could she?
Yesterday, Erica had another bout of what she called “friendly intervention.” Cursing under her breath, she ranted about the intellectual and professional shortcomings of everyone involved in the potential flop of her collection, finished her wine, and declared:
“Anyway, I’ve decided to blow off some steam and get my mind off all this negativity. No hat is worth me paying for it with wrinkles. A client slipped me an invite for two to a party at this almost exclusive club. All the big names will be there.”
“And Victor’s going with you?”
“Vic’s out of town. He doesn’t report to me, and I don’t owe him an explanation about where I’m going or who I’m with.”
“So, who are you planning to spend the evening with? The invite’s for two.”
“With you, obviously. Who else is going to drag you out into the world if not your best friend? You don’t see Igor on Saturdays, so tomorrow at seven, be ready in full glam. We’re going to scope out some ‘M.’”
“Scope out? I’ve already got one. Why would I need two? What am I supposed to do with them?”
“Oh, come on, don’t be like that! Who’s forcing you to do anything? If you don’t like anyone, just people-watch, relax, have some fun. How long are you going to spend your weekends cooped up at home?”
“Cooped up? I’ve got plenty to do. For instance, I was planning to head to the city park. All those September colors—they’re just breathtaking. I thought I’d do some watercolor sketching. What’s wrong with that kind of downtime? No worrying about what to wear, how to sit, or which fork to use. Pure relaxation.”
“You can have your kind of relaxation on Sunday. Tomorrow, we’re doing it my way. I’m in a mood, okay? Vic’s not around. Work’s a mess. Is it really that hard for you? Or should I have a little chat with Martich about wedding bells?”
“Fine, you miserable blackmailer. This is better than being your emotional punching bag over Vic. I guess.”
“And wear a shorter dress. You’ve got great legs.”
“So everyone can compare them to yours? Not exactly in my favor.”
“Only idiots would compare us. We’re way too different for that. And we don’t need idiots anyway. You never know what to expect from them.”