He laughs. “Yes, Lili. I may be able to find some time.”
“Only if you’re not too tired from dismantling welfare states worldwide,” she snaps.
“I actually find it restorative. Invigorating, really, to expose people to the power and force of the free market.”
“Goodbye,” she says, hanging up, but not before she catches his laugh again, the soar of birds and a summer night, hot and humid.
The Maybach idles at her curb on Wednesday evening. Lili rolls her eyes, but gets in; the back seat is empty this time.
Nervous excitement skitters through her. She feels anxiously buoyant; she chooses to interpret it as relief from sending her draft off to Kerr, rather than anticipation of tonight’s plans.
The thin straps of her silky minidress keep slipping off her shoulders. There’s a little black thong underneath, bra forgone. She’d stared at her underwear drawer for a moment too long when she was getting dressed; it doesn’t matter what he’d like.
The sun is setting as they drive over the Williamsburg Bridge, gold syrupy light over the buzzing city. A honey-like languor, seductive and sly and winking. Off the bridge, the car takes a right turn onto Bowery, instead of continuing through the traffic-choked downtown streets.
“Excuse me?” Lili says, leaning forward towards the driver. “Sorry, but I think we’re headed to Tribeca?”
“Mr. Petrov gave an alternate address,” he volunteers. Not rude, but not exactly forthcoming.
“Where, exactly?”
“He’s instructed to keep it confidential.”
Lili settles back in her seat.
(7:27 p.m.) are you kidnapping me
(7:30 p.m.) Hardly.
She huffs.
As they keep driving uptown, her concern twists. She decisively does not like being in the dark.
(7:35 p.m.) where am i going
(7:37 p.m.) if you have another apartment, i’m rioting
(7:41 p.m.) Petrov.
(7:45 p.m.) Have you always had problems with authority?
Prewar buildings, stately and towering, the brilliant green of the park. Limestone town houses off Fifth, ornate lion’s head knockers. Briefcases, black cars, and idling doormen, women in heels trailed by young toddlers and nannies.
When the car slows to a stop in front of familiar steps at 82nd and Park, Lili is not happy.
She’s torn between folding her arms and refusing to get out, when the driver—Richard, she’d learned, when she tried to finagle further details about where they were going, and she did not appreciate that he seemed both amused by her and loyal to his employer—opens the door for her.
“Thank you,” she grumbles, glaring up at the Met’s steps.
“Hello, Lili.”
It’s Aleksandr, not his driver, who opened the door.
He looks a little tired, weariness hinting at long days of travel, but relaxed. Golden hour suits him. A few buttons of his shirt are undone underneath his black linen suit.
It’d be much easier if he didn’t look like this.
“Why are we here?” she asks, scowling.
