***
Orissa waited with a serious expression for Valentina Petrovna’s response. The little girl studied the woman intently, likely comparing her in her mind to a character she’d seen in a movie. And today, Serge’s secretary was, as they say, “in character”: her brows were knitted sternly, her lips pressed into a thin line, her face as unyielding as stone. She was dressed in a brown suit, her hair pulled back into a bun so tight it seemed almost glued to her head in a thin film.
Inside, however, Valentina Petrovna was wrestling with uncertainty, unsure of how to reply. Though she was an educated, modern woman, she had no idea who Agatha Trunchbull was. Still, she knew one thing for certain: you should always be honest with children. She didn’t pretend to know everything, as some adults do when faced with kids, nor did she brush off the girl’s question. Instead, she asked sincerely:
“Who is this Trunch… Trunchbull? I’ve never heard of her!”
“Aha! If you haven’t heard of her, then you’re definitely not her!” Orissa exclaimed with genuine relief. Seeing Valentina Petrovna at first had spooked her a little. She let out a sigh and eagerly began to explain. “Miss Agatha Trunchbull! She’s this mean headmistress at a school! She grabs kids by their pigtails, swings them over her head, and tosses them into the bushes!” The girl mimed the action, showing how the wicked headmistress would swing her arms and hurl children, and everyone followed the imaginary trajectory of a child being “thrown” far down the hallway. “And she also forced a boy to eat a giant cake! This big!”
Orissa spread her arms wide to demonstrate the size of the cake. Yes, it was truly enormous.
“She… uh… lifted kids by their pigtails?” Valentina Petrovna asked slowly. “And made someone eat a cake that big?”
“Yes! Huge!” Orissa confirmed, stretching her arms even wider. “She was super scary! And really serious, just like you!”
Hearing herself described as “super scary” wasn’t pleasant for Valentina Petrovna. But, as always in any situation, she kept her composure, hiding her thoughts and feelings, and simply shook her head:
“What a dreadful woman,” she managed to say at last.
“Yeah, but don’t worry!” Orissa quickly added. “You just look like her. When I saw you, I thought it was her. But you’re nice, right? You just… well, look like that mean headmistress… You should change your clothes! Wear something different!”
“What?!” The woman glanced at her boss, who was visibly agitated but, surprisingly, didn’t interrupt this odd exchange between Orissa and his secretary.
It almost seemed as though Serge himself was curious to learn more about this Agatha Trunchbull.
“A dress always makes a woman look feminine and attractive!” Orissa declared, clearly parroting someone else’s words in a stern tone. “My teacher said that…”
“Are we going to keep listening to this nonsense for much longer?” Angela suddenly cut in. “The meeting is about to start!” She stood a little apart from the group, listening to the conversation with obvious displeasure.
“Right!” Serge snapped out of it. “Let’s move! Take Orissa to the conference room and seat her at the small table in the corner by the window.”
He strode forward briskly, Angela following behind, while Valentina Petrovna extended a hand to Orissa and said:
“Let’s make a deal,” she offered. “I won’t swing you around by your pigtails, and you won’t shout to the whole office that I’m some… Trunchbull. Agreed?”
“Agreed!” Orissa replied seriously, offering her hand in return.
They shook hands and headed toward the conference room doors together.
Serge Lozar entered the conference room with a forbidding expression. The space was expansive, bright, and distinctly formal. A gleaming long table of dark wood dominated the room, surrounded by leather chairs arranged with near-perfect precision and symmetry. Large charts, financial reports, and corporate slogans like “Accuracy, Speed, Results” adorned the walls, alongside a massive clock that ticked so loudly it seemed to remind everyone of time’s relentless march.
In one corner of the room stood a few bicycles: a large one, a medium-sized one, and a small child’s bike. They were part of a presentation for a new advertising campaign. Orissa’s eyes lit up with curiosity as she gravitated toward them, but Valentina Petrovna quickly grabbed her hand and led her to the opposite side of the room, where a small table and two couches were set up.
After seating Orissa, she pulled a blank sheet of paper from the stack she was holding and handed the girl a pen.
“Draw, but stay quiet,” she whispered before hurrying to her place near the boss.
The girl nodded, puffing out her lips but not protesting. She was a clever child; she knew when arguing was pointless.
Meanwhile, Serge took his seat at the table and greeted everyone. He tried to pull himself together and focus his thoughts, though a meeting was the last thing on his mind right now. Still, years of experience and habit took over. He started the session, irritably noting how his surprised employees kept sneaking glances at the little girl. Everyone was utterly baffled by her presence. But if the boss allowed her to be here, then it must be necessary.
Around the table, everyone put on a serious face. Valentina Petrovna settled at her laptop, setting up the online connection with the branch offices. Angela took a seat to Serge’s right, her expression clearly displeased.
Gathered at the table were department heads, marketers, designers, and a few representatives from the finance team. All the men and women were dressed formally: dark suits, crisp blouses, no bright colors or unnecessary details. They sat upright, intently reviewing documents, quietly discussing matters among themselves, and glancing at laptops and tablets.
The atmosphere, to be honest, was tense and anticipatory. Only one little girl in the corner seemed unconcerned, diligently scribbling something on her paper.
“Alright,” Serge began, “today we’re discussing the new advertising campaign. Our bicycles are excellent, that’s obvious. But we need to convey that to the customer. We want everyone who sees the ad to feel compelled to buy our bike.”
“We’ve developed a concept,” chimed in the head of the PR department, a young marketer who was visibly nervous. His face was blotchy with red patches, and his hands fidgeted with the papers on the table. “Uh… the slogan is: ‘A Bicycle is a Way of Life!’ I suggest we review a video clip: a man in a business suit rides a bike to work, conveniently, without traffic jams…”
“And you, Mr. Stephen, how do you get to work?” Serge interrupted irritably. “On a bicycle?”
“N-no,” the man stammered, visibly rattled. “By car.”
“Care to tell me what percentage of people in our city ride bicycles to work?” Serge raised a sarcastic eyebrow. “Or in the country as a whole?”
“I… I haven’t looked into that information,” the man mumbled, his face no longer just blotchy but entirely flushed, almost beet-red.
“Well, you should have!” Serge barked. “I looked into it once! According to some data, only three percent of Ukrainians use bicycles to commute to work*. Compare that to Germany, for instance. In Berlin, about thirteen percent of all commuters are cyclists**! Are you, Stephen, trying to create an ad for people who don’t ride bikes? We’ll pour money into this, and it’ll be a complete waste! Were you hired by our competitors to drive our company into bankruptcy?!”
Serge was on a roll. All the pent-up frustration from the morning poured out onto the PR director in the form of biting sarcasm, sharp jabs, and even threats of dismissal…
________________
*In Kyiv, the use of bicycles for commuting remains low. According to 2019 data, only 3% of Ukrainians used bicycles to get to work. In subsequent years, this percentage has dropped even further.
**In Germany, bicycles are a popular mode of transportation. In some cities, like Berlin, the share of cyclists among all commuters is around 13%.
***
Orissa sat in the vast conference room, barely listening as her dad tore into one of his subordinates. She knew adults could argue, even yell, but those were grown-up problems. As long as it didn’t involve her behavior, the girl remained unfazed. Instead, her attention was irresistibly drawn to the little bicycle in the corner next to two larger ones. It was pink, vibrant, and decorated with butterflies.
It had a bell she could ring. And there were small baskets in the front and back where she could put toys or other things. As she doodled on her paper, Orissa couldn’t help but yearn to ride that bike. She wanted it so badly!
She’d never had a bright, beautiful bicycle of her own. Her mom always said bikes were too expensive, and when she grew up, she could buy whichever one she wanted. For now, they could only rent one, or Orissa could ask her friends at the playground to let her ride theirs. But that wasn’t the same—it was someone else’s bike! She wanted her own...
Her desire was so strong that, while Serge was rifling through papers looking for statistics on bicycle use in cities, she quietly tiptoed over to the little bike and climbed onto the pink wonder.
And, of course, purely by accident, it just so happened that the girl started riding! And riding it felt absolutely amazing! The conference room was so big that she pedaled almost right up to the chair where her dad was sitting, and her hand, completely on its own, pressed the bell.
“Ding-ding!” The bell chimed right in front of Serge Lozar’s nose. He gaped at the girl sitting on the tricycle, looking at him with her innocent blue eyes.
“What is this?!” he exclaimed, distracted from his papers. “Orissa, I told you to sit quietly! Don’t interrupt!” Serge’s voice boomed, causing everyone at the table to shrink into their seats. They knew that when the boss was angry, it was best to stay silent and disappear from his sight as quickly as possible. “I said don’t touch anything here!” he continued irritably.
Angela, sitting off to the side, curled her perfect lips into a disdainful smirk. She was openly amused by Serge’s frustration as he scolded this child who had mysteriously appeared in their office.
But Orissa didn’t know that when Serge was angry, you were supposed to run for cover, so she said:
“Well, I just wanted to check if this bike is really as cool as you say it is,” Orissa looked at him innocently.
“Oh, you checked… Do you even realize how much it costs?” Serge rubbed his face wearily. “Valentina Petrovna, take this child somewhere else! She’s disrupting our meeting. I asked you to sit quietly and draw. Why can’t you listen?”
The secretary, who had been standing nearby for a while, nodded and took Orissa by the hand. The girl had just climbed off the bike and now stood with her head bowed.
“But I came up with an ad idea!” she mumbled, not lifting her gaze.
Serge grimaced.
“And what exactly did you come up with?” he grumbled irritably. “People spend their whole lives thinking up great ads, and you’ve got one in two seconds?”
“Yep! I think fast! Spending your whole life on one thing is boring! Look, it’s awesome!” Orissa turned to everyone in the room, then closed her eyes and started waving her arms. “It’s about a city! A huge one, full of cars, everyone stuck in traffic, drivers arguing, kids late for school, and one girl…” She opened her eyes and pointed at herself, “that’s me, gets on this amazing bike and… bam! Disappears!”
“Disappears?” Serge echoed. “Is this an ad for a bicycle or a magic teleporter?”
“Well, not disappears, but rides so fast no one can catch her!” Orissa explained. “She zooms past traffic jams, pedestrians, dogs chasing balls, and then she’s at school! And behind her bike, there’s a trail of golden dust! All over the city!”
“Golden dust?!” Serge said, surprised. “What is this, Peter Pan on a bike?”
“No, it’s just like that! Like in a fairy tale!” Orissa rolled her eyes. “And then all the adults want a bike like that! A magical one! They get out of their cars, leave their offices, and…”
“And they all start riding our bikes,” the marketer finished, having listened intently to the girl’s words. A spark of interest gleamed in his eyes.
“Exactly!” Orissa shouted joyfully. “And one guy is so happy that he forgets about work and, instead of going to the office, rides to the park and laughs funny, like Timmy from my second-grade group! Loud! Like this!” The girl burst into loud, silly laughter, and everyone at the table couldn’t help but smile. It really was funny. “And you can ride through puddles with the bikes, because that’s so much fun!” she added dreamily, rolling her eyes.
“And the water splashes up like wings!” the marketer continued, building on Orissa’s idea. “It’s beautiful…” he muttered, jotting something down in his notebook.
Serge, too, was taken aback by the girl’s idea. And he liked it. But he didn’t show it, narrowing his eyes sternly and waving a hand.
“Valentina Petrovna, take Orissa out of here. She’s still disrupting our work! And… uh… take this bike with you!” he pointed at the pink bicycle nearby. “I… ahem… allow the girl to ride it in the hallway while no one’s there. But be careful—don’t knock anyone over! This bike is expensive, a display model!” he wagged a finger at her.
“Yay!” Orissa instantly climbed back onto the bike and pedaled toward the hallway exit. The secretary trotted after her and opened the door for the girl to ride out.
While her idea was being discussed in the conference room, Orissa zoomed through the hallways on the bike, shouting:
“I’m a cyclist! I’m a cyclist! I’m riding a super cool bike! This is my bike! My very own bike! My dad gave it to me! Dad gave me a bike!”
It was as if the girl was rehearsing how she’d tell her friends (and maybe brag just a little, because she had something to brag about!) about her dad and the amazing bike he’d given her.
Some time later, the conference room doors opened, and Serge Lozar was the first to step out.
“Oops!” was all Orissa managed to yelp.
She crashed into him at full speed, and Serge, flailing his arms, hit the floor with a thud and a curse.
And as luck would have it, at that very moment, a woman was walking down the hallway. She was just approaching the doors when Serge, knocked over by the girl, landed at her feet.
Long, elegant legs in neat shoes with low, slender heels were right in front of his eyes. He looked up and traced the alluring legs, clad in sheer nude stockings, disappearing under a formal office skirt.
It was strikingly beautiful and sensual, damn it!
***
Serge couldn’t help but admire the legs before him. Reflexively, his hand reached out to gently stroke the smooth calf wrapped in the stocking.
“What are you doing?!” came an indignant voice. “Take your hand off me right now!”
The woman who had triggered Serge’s involuntary reaction didn’t step back, though. She remained standing, looking down at him.
Damn it! Serge suddenly remembered he was the boss, the man in charge! And really, he shouldn’t be sprawled on the floor in the hallway, especially with his subordinates crowding at the doorway, peering out curiously but not daring to step over his legs, which were blocking the exit.
He quickly scrambled to his feet and finally found himself face-to-face with the woman who had stirred such strange feelings in him. Brown eyes, full of indignation and a certain mocking glint, met his gaze.
“And who are you?” Serge asked, taking in the beauty before him.
This stranger was indeed stunning: tall, dressed in a sleek, stylish black office suit with a white blouse underneath. Her skin was strikingly pale, almost as if dusted with layers of snow-white powder. Her makeup was minimal, save for bold black eyebrows that arched like swallow wings over eyes hidden behind narrow, smoky glasses. Her hair, a black bob, fell to her shoulders, perfectly styled, each strand in place. Serge even wondered if it was plastic—it didn’t seem to move at all when she spoke. He couldn’t fathom how she achieved such perfection in her hairstyle. But what struck him most wasn’t the severity of her style or the indignation in her brown eyes—it was her lips. Bright red, like two ripe cherries. And on the corner of her lower lip, a silver piercing.
Oh, that piercing! It drew his gaze like a magnet. He couldn’t help but wonder if those lips tasted as sweet, as intoxicating, as cherries. And cherries were something Serge loved, especially, ahem, cherry dumplings.
Shaking his head to dispel the inappropriate thoughts, Serge snapped back to reality. He realized he was standing almost in the doorway, blocking the exit for his subordinates from the conference room. He stepped aside and barked sternly:
“Why are you all standing around?! Disperse! I have urgent business here!”
His subordinates began streaming out of the conference room, scurrying to their offices to avoid another sharp remark from Serge. When he turned to look at the mysterious woman again, he saw she was helping Orissa off the little bike. The girl stood beside her, studying the stranger with curiosity.
“What’s that on your lip?” the child asked bluntly.
“It’s a piercing,” the woman replied.
“Why do you have a piercing on your lip? Isn’t it hard to eat? And when you drink, doesn’t it clink against the glass? But it’s kind of cool! I want one too! Don’t people usually wear earrings in their ears? Don’t you know that? Do you have earrings in your ears?” The girl peered at the woman’s ears, partially hidden by her hair but still visible. “Wow, so many!” And indeed, the stranger had several piercings in each ear as well.
“And who are you? Quite the curious little thing, aren’t you?” the woman asked with a low, slightly husky voice, laughing softly.
“I’m Orissa! And this is my dad. His name is Serge, and he’s really nice! He gave me this bike today, look!” The girl pointed at the bicycle standing beside her.
“First of all, I’m not your dad!” Serge snapped, suddenly feeling his irritation flare up again for some reason. “Second, I didn’t give you the bike! Valentina Petrovna, take this child away from here! And the bike too! Roll it back into the conference room! It’s a display model, very expensive!”
Valentina Petrovna immediately rushed to wheel the bicycle back into the conference room.
Tears began to well up in Orissa’s eyes. But the stranger crouched down beside her and said:
“Don’t cry. I think your dad is just joking. Since he said it’s a display model, that means it has to go to an exhibition first, and then you’ll be able to ride it.”
“Really?” Orissa’s interest piqued, and she stopped on the verge of crying. “That’s great! Then I’ll wait. What’s your name?” the little girl asked.
“Veronica.”
“Nice to meet you!” Orissa said politely. “Why do you have so many earrings? And why do you have one on your lip? Why is your hair so black? And why is your face so pale? So white… like a doll’s…”
“Probably because I’m… uh… a goth,” the woman replied reluctantly.
“A… goth? What’s that?” Orissa asked, surprised.
“I’ll tell you about it later, since we’ve already met and become friends. We’ll definitely see each other again,” Veronica promised. “But right now, your dad is telling you to go with Valentina Petrovna. And you should listen to your dad.” The woman stood up and glanced at Serge.
“Orissa, go with Valentina Petrovna. She’ll take you to my office. Wait for me there,” Serge ordered, realizing, oddly enough, that he was irritated precisely because the attention was now on the child and not on him. And, in turn, he was annoyed at himself for being irritated over such a trivial reason—over emotions that were so unlike him.
After all, this woman, Veronica, had piqued his interest immensely. He wanted to get to know her better, but since it had been so long since he’d tried to connect with anyone, he didn’t even know where to start.
Valentina Petrovna emerged from the conference room just then, took the girl by the hand, and they walked down the hallway. Veronica turned to Serge and said:
“Actually, I’m looking for Mr. Serge Vasilyevich Lozar. I need to give him some documents to sign.”
“And who are you?” he asked. “I’m Serge Lozar.”
“Oh, I’m sorry!” the woman said, surprised, a smile playing on her lips. “I didn’t think someone as important as you would just fall in the hallway at a woman’s feet and start stroking her calves.”
“That happened by accident,” Serge replied. “Orissa knocked me over, as you saw! Normally, I’m steady on my feet. Which department are you from?”
“I’m from accounting,” Veronica answered.
“I don’t seem to remember you,” Lozar said suspiciously, mentally running through the faces of his employees in the accounting department. There didn’t seem to be anyone like… uh… a goth…
“It’s my first day,” the woman explained. “I was hired yesterday. And I’m sorry, I didn’t know what my boss looked like. But now I’ll remember you.”
“And what do I look like?” Serge asked, intrigued.
“Who?” the woman didn’t quite catch the question.
“Your boss,” Serge pressed, staring at Veronica expectantly. “That is, me!”
“Do you want me to answer honestly? My first impression?” the woman smiled.
“Of course, honestly!” Serge said, indignant.
“My boss is very handsome. Someone could fall for him at first sight!” Veronica said suddenly, not breaking eye contact with Serge. “But since I have a rule—never to fall in love or have relationships at work—I’m safe from that. Here, please take these papers… Thank you.” She handed Serge a folder of documents, turned on her heel, and walked down the hallway without looking back.
Serge held the folder, watching her until she disappeared into one of the office rooms…