katyavinogradov

[katyavinogradov]

Silk sheets brushed against freshly waxed legs, sunlight pouring through the chiffon curtains blowing gently in the wind. Usually, when the sun was just rising, her floor-to-ceiling windows towered high, the sky painted different colours every single day. However, this morning, the smell of burnt coffee awoke her, cramming its way up her nose. The clambering sound of metal in the kitchen was jarring, as she squinted away the sleep that had found a home in the corner of her eyes.

It only took a moment to orient herself before she remembered exactly where she was.

Pushing thin sheets off her toned, naked body, she was quick to collect her clothes that were littered around the room in various places. She never stayed over; it was against the damn rules. Aware that whatever sound was coming from the kitchen was a man preparing her breakfast. And she...no, didn't want to stay. A check of her watch told her it was seven a.m, which meant Jason would have to leave for work soon.

The excuse was enough, she thought, yanking last night’s dress up her slender frame, trying to detangle her white blonde hair in any way that she could. A smudge of black mascara lay embedded beneath her lower lid, a reminder of how she’d ended up here. Again. 

Katya had plans later, important ones, and that meant she needed to get home and begin the routine of scrubbing off the night before from her body. Slowly, step by step, as light as a mouse, she tiptoed down the stairs. But her luck had run out.

"Oh, you're up," Jason called, two plates in hand, causing her to jump with a squeal.

Just like a fucking mouse. “Fucking hell, Pizda.” Katya muttered under her breath. The smell had her stomach rumbling. She was hungry. Famished even. But there were some rules she just wasn't meant to break. Not to live the lifestyle that she had. She forced a smile, trying to ignore the pang of hunger that was currently waging war on her stomach. “I didn’t want to disturb you. I have, you know, busy day ahead,” edging closer to the door. It didn’t take her long to see the disappointment pooling in those doe-like orbs. 

Jason’s eyes searched hers, almost as if he was begging for a different answer. Not today, my friend. “I made breakfast. Thought we could enjoy it together before we both head out.”

“I appreciate it, really. But I have to go. Early meeting,” the lie rolled off her tongue so smoothly, it should’ve almost been sickening, inching towards the exit again.

“Alright. Okay, yeah. Maybe next time.” Jason said with a shrug of his shoulders.

“Maybe,” she echoed, knowing full well there wouldn’t be a next time. Not if she could help it.

Katya Vinogradov slipped out the door in South Kensington to the usual manic London streets, the cool morning air slapping her face with a whip. British weather was never one to assume: it was as bipolar as half the people in this damn city. It didn’t take long for her Uber to arrive before she was heading home. 

The city streets blurred into a piece of art that transfixed her gaze.

It’d be the same routine as always: shower, workout, lunch, promo on her Instagram—there was a new nightclub opening up downtown. Owned by the other place she worked at from time to time, kind of. But the promo did good for her business, and for that, she was thankful. Much to her father’s chagrin. He wanted complete control over the content she posted, and for the most part, he could veto anything if he truly wished to do so.

The joys of being a Russian Diplomat’s daughter. 

The arrival home had her relaxing a fraction. Not long before, she was downing coffee and smoking a cigarette out the window as she tapped away. Three calls, five appointments pencilled in for the week and she was napping: this was how her days went. Leisurly. Not always this relaxed, of course, but none the less.

Anything to stay in England, anything not to go back to Russia.

Some time later, makeup perfected, dress in place and her hair swept back: she was ready to go. In all honesty, she'd been so busy all day she hadn't allowed herself much time to think about what was to occur within the next hour. To be in a room of people who'd seen her at her strongest, and wondered, if they knew what she did now, how they'd react. But it was a tightly kept secret, only her clients and her intermin manager knew anything about her said business. And it'd stay that way.

Black stillettos echoed against smooth pavement, pushing out of the car, eyes slowly trcing up at the front of the Grove. Beautiful, as it always was: she came here more than she would ever feel the need t tell them. Especially Xavier. The itch for a smoke tugged, however, she swallowed it down.

Once inside, it became a whirlwind of conversation, old faces reinvoking memories of a past that felt oh so long ago. When had they last all been in a room together? Well, almost all. As adults, their schedules had never aligned as they had when they'd been members of The Rose.

The moment she walked inside, her phone buzzed, once, then twice...thrice. Annoyingly so, because her phone was meant to be diverted. There was momentary panic, had one of her clients seen her here? Katya pushed it down, especially when he friends came into sight.

One second it was calm, and the next -- it was what it always had been. Hugs, laughter, family. It'd been so long since that lonely had been chased away, not numbed by alcohol to feel something. The way Katya smiled, though, told a story of a girl who was enjoying her socialite lifestyle. The photos she posted on her instagram did exactly what she needed them to, and showed her life.

Her digital one.

"It's good to see you."

By the time the conversation had began to quiten, excitment relaxing somewhat, she found her way to the bathroom. In all honesty, it was a moment of peace. Until she felt Xavier's presence. Watched him, observed, turning, watching, a small smile tugging on the corner of her lip, a difference to a usually stoic and harsh expression she wore.

In, out. She didn't dawdle, ever. However, her exit had her running back in to the man who'd been on her mind since she arrived. Like seeing a ghost, except this one didn't haunt her. It was a comfort, like an old dream. A moment alone, to talk, before the rest came gallivanting in as they always did. She peaked a glance to where the rest had congrigated and nodded.

"I think that's the best idea you've had thus far, Penaud." knocking her head towards the doors. "I haven't had chance to question you myself, yet." the russian twang always heavier when she was playful. Although dialled up when she needed to work.

She didn't wait for a response, as she turned on her heel, with a flash of a smile over her shoulder. Just as she would've done in the halls of The Rose all those years ago. "Quick, we might be late to class." something they might've said to each other once upon a time, when their worst fears was scoring bad on a test they'd crammed for. Oh to be twenty again.

Katya soon took down the steps, a smoke already between her fingers as the flame came to life, the end burning from orange to red. The clamour of a smaller group of middle aged couples coming huddled together as they joked and boistered. When they'd been young adults, they had always been the loudest, but always the most fun to be around.

"Your cigarettes look like they're about to fall apart. Want one of these? I thought you were rich, what's with the homeless boy act -- this is pathetic. Crushed cigarettes, Ridikulos" the final word slipping out from her mother tongue, but a smile crept in, unable to stop it. "You look good, Xavier."

The rugby pitch stretched out like a battlefield under the waning afternoon sun, its green expanse dotted with the moving forms of high school players engaged in the rough dance of the game. Xavier stood at the sidelines, his frame sturdy but subtly bowed by the years and the burdens he carried. His eyes, sharp yet softened by time, tracked every pass, every tackle, his body subtly tensed as if ready to spring into action, even though his playing days were far behind him.

His fingers, traced the familiar contours of scar tissue around his knee. It was an unconscious habit, a physical manifestation of the memories that flickered behind his eyes. The scar was a memento of a different time, a different life—seventeen minutes into his professional debut, a cruel twist of fate had ended his career. An ACL tear, they called it in English. A simple term for something that shattered dreams and left scars, both seen and unseen.

On the bench beside him, a well-worn copy of the Epic of Gilgamesh lay open, its pages creased and edges yellowed. He had been reading it during setup, lost in the familiar yet ancient world. The epic resonated with him; the ancient battles, the war cries, the honour—these were themes that had initially drawn him to the game, much like the tales that had captivated him in childhood. After setting aside the sticks used in duels with his sister, he discovered in rugby a new outlet for his adventurous spirit.

"Hold the line, boys! Keep pushing!" Xavier's voice, still laced with his French accent, boomed across the field. He was not just a coach but a mentor, a warrior still fighting, albeit through his players. The sounds of the game—the thud of bodies colliding, the scrape of cleats against turf—were a symphony of strength and strategy. He called out plays, his mind a tactical map, his body almost moving with the players as if the game were an extension of himself.

As his assistant blew the final whistle, signalling the end of practice, Xavier called the boys to hit the showers and instructed Marcus to ensure they did. He then gathered his belongings and embarked on the familiar forty-minute drive back to London. The journey was a mix of movement and reflection, the car's engine humming softly as he changed gears and let his thoughts wander. The day's physical and emotional efforts culminated in a persistent ache in his knee, a reminder of the injury that had been his constant companion for nearly a decade now.

He arrived home to a clean, modern apartment, its minimalist design starkly contrasted by his collection of medieval art and weaponry. The warmth of the space stood against the chill that had begun to seep into his bones. The cold in London felt different from the winters he remembered in France—deeper, clinging to his very marrow. Shedding his coat, he made his way to the bathroom.

In the shower, steam enveloped Xavier, yet the persistent ache in his knee persisted. He stood there, allowing the water to cascade over his body, while his thoughts drifted to the past and the friends he was about to reunite with. Would they hold it against him for not keeping in touch? He had stayed close with Adam and Jessica, but that was largely due to their proximity and shared faith. He hoped not.

Despite the season, he dressed in layers, choosing a coat more out of habit than necessity. The pain in his knee flared up again, prompting a mental note to take another pill. He swallowed it dry and then stared at his reflection in the mirror, watching as the pain dulled, allowing him to gather himself and walk out the door.

The Grove was a familiar haunt, a place that echoed with the laughter and camaraderie of old friends. Xavier arrived to find Harry and Katya mingling outside, his face lighting up at the sight of them. The customary cheek kisses were exchanged, a cultural gesture as ingrained in him as the verses of the French anthem. Then Don appeared, pulling him into a hearty embrace that made Xavier's smile grow broader.

He withdrew his attention after Don shifted his focus to Will, and it was then that Xavier noticed a woman nearby struggling to light her cigarette. He paused, offering a steady hand and a lighter, a small act that elicited a grateful smile from her. Returning to his friends, he brushed off their playful teasing about his attire. "London never agrees with me," he chuckled, his accent blending softly between French and English. "Now, let's go find the others." Assuming they were at the bar, he figured he would have been there earlier if he had arrived sooner.

Inside The Grove, warmth enveloped Xavier, a stark contrast to the cold outside. He spotted Orson and Charlotte at the bar and pulled them into hugs, their familiar presence comforting. Glancing at his watch, he expected the booth he reserved to be ready by now. "I'll get the first round," he offered, his voice reflecting the confidence of someone accustomed to such gestures.

Leaning over the bar, his rugby-honed muscles effortlessly lifted a round of ales. The weight was negligible compared to weights he'd lifted with his boys earlier, and he navigated through the bustling crowd with practiced ease, delivering the drinks to the table where Jessica and Adam had joined the group. Respecting the priest's collar, he extended a hand first, a gesture from his Catholic upbringing. He greeted Jessica warmly in their customary Burgundy manner before settling into the spare chair at the now-full booth.

The banter flowed easily, a reminder of simpler times before life's trials had weighed so heavily. It was easy to lose himself in the camaraderie, momentarily forgetting the reality of his physical limitations and the pressing need of his bladder.

"The Church pays for the next round."

Excusing himself, Xavier headed to the bathroom, the ache in his knee intensifying with each step. Inside, he relieved himself and then leaned against the sink, the pain demanding his attention. Fumbling for his pills, frustration washed over him as they slipped from his shaky hands into the sink, disappearing down the drain.

"Putain," he muttered, anger coursing through him as he hurled the empty bottle across the tiled room. There was no label to call anyone to his attention. He was going to have to to call his supplier again. With that concern on his mind, he stepped out of the bathroom and accidentally collided with Katya in the narrow hallway. His apology was swift and automatic, his hand instinctively reaching out to steady her. After ensuring she regained her balance, he ran his hand through his hair and adjusted his sleeves around his elbows, seeking any sense of composure that had recently left him.

Considering a momentary escape, a thought crossed his mind. With a hint of a smile, he pulled a cigarette packet from his pants, waving the crushed packet teasingly in front of Katya's face. "Time for a breather?" he asked, the irony not lost on him as he sought a moment of quiet, a brief escape from the weight of the pain digging into his knee.

[katyavinogradov]

Anna (2019)

“Any more lovers you want to tell us about?”

“No, just the two of you.”

[katyavinogradov]