Читать книгу The bride of the silver dragon - Dmitry Nazarov - Страница 13

– Margarita Alexandrovna, are you sure this is a good idea? – Zhanna, as always, is huddled somewhere behind me, while I’m scrutinizing my closet for a suitable outfit.

– What could happen? – I ask you again on the fly, because I have already decided everything, and as my sisters like to say – if Margot has decided something, it’s easier to make an excavator dance than to change her mind. Especially since I’ve already said yes – and it’s not my policy to turn back halfway.

Although, I don’t argue – it was a very strange call, and a completely incomprehensible offer to meet me for lunch. From a man – or rather, not a man – from whom I could never have expected such a thing. On the other hand – I think I understand the reason why A’Lita Shar’Maran suddenly wanted to “discuss something.

The banal curiosity of a wounded and insecure woman.

She wants to see her “rival” with her own eyes and make sure that I look much worse in those pictures-as well as in all the others, which the press is full of, and which she herself has already reviewed a million times. She wants to look at my face with her shitty moon eyes and find a million flaws that are deliberately retouched.

Well, it looks like I’m going to be the biggest disappointment of her life.

Although, what could be worse than finding out that your fiancé is messing around with morally unencumbered strippers? I have to accept the fact that there’s no way I’m going to win Natasha’s palm off the table in this story.

– This is it,” I say to myself and purr as I pull the simplest white sweater, the simplest black skinnies, and the simplest burgundy jacket off the rack.

– Are you sure? – Jeanne asks me again.

– Absolutely.

One would assume that the offended bride would come to the meeting dressed up like a Christmas tree after an eternity in the salon, with her hair and fresh manicure and smelling of something worth more than my whole life. It would have been foolish of me to even try to outdo her. But she would gladly rub my nose in it if she suspected me of trying to compete with her.

Fortunately, I wasn’t going to do that.

I have a different strategy. It’s the winningest. If you want to piss off a not very smart, jealous woman, show that you don’t need expensive trinkets to be better. Because you’re better a priori, by yourself. Even if you show up to the meeting wearing clothes from the stockade.

I send Jeanne off to see if dinner is ready for the little ones, change quickly, and put my hair in a ponytail. I do a little makeup on my eyes and lips, and tidy up my eyebrows.

I take my inexpensive, if it makes me feel good, I take it off the shelf. – “Hypnosis,” I make a few squirts behind my ears, and inhale deeply a bitter-tart cloud.

Well, Mistress Jealous Bitch, let’s see who’s who.

I expect she invites me not to a nice restaurant – what’s the word? – but to a little cafe. True, it has long had a reputation as a place of rest for the powerful, but I do not care about that either. After the wedding of Nana and, God forbid, R’Ran, I’ll never be surprised by the excessive, garish and flaunting luxury.

I arrive in a cab. Before I walk through the door, I take one last look in the mirror window. I look great, but, more importantly, my inner state absolutely matches my outer appearance. I’m not going to lash out, but if she’s suddenly very solicitous, I can bite. It hurts enough to make the moonwoman lose the desire to bother women with her cockroach disco in her head ever again in the future.

She sits in the very center of the room, and I have absolutely no doubt that this is also part of the performance. She wants to show me who is the mistress of life here, before whom I, a mere mortal, need to grovel?

By the way, I was right – she is dressed really “expensive. And the suit, and the shoes, and the watch on her hand, even the tiny stones in her ears are probably not just that, but whole lunar crystals. And I would be lying if I said it was all silent – no, it was quite in tune with each other and not even too loudly “yelling” about the fabulous riches of the hostess. Well, it would be really strange, if she did not use the services of professional stylists. Here’s just… How can I put it better. Beautifully decorated Christmas tree, of course, pleases the eye, but will look very strange in a cheap cafe. Especially in the middle of summer.

I just go to her table, say hello politely, and, without waiting for an invitation, take a chair across from her. We both politely maintain silence while the waiter takes our order, two sugar-free americanos. That’s all I’ve been drinking lately, but if it’s been a particularly hard day, I “spoil myself with a sweet tooth” and add a little nonfat, drinkable cream. Once Aurora even joked that I drink Americano and cream with such a blissful expression on my face that no man of flesh and blood can compete with it. Truth! Why the need for all that love, sleepless nights and pillowcase tears when there is good coffee, sweet cream, and a mouthful of other, important and more rewarding worries?

– I know all about your liaison with K’raig,” A’lta goes on the attack abruptly, without introduction.

– What was our relationship? – I ask him, quietly. I pretend I don’t know about the pictures. I pretend I know nothing of the pictures. I suppose he’ll think he’s in control just for the time being, and then he’ll turn up his nose and fall quietly on the nail-board I’d carefully prepared. – If you’re referring to our lawsuit with the building, I assure you it’s not news to the news-watching public for a month.

– I mean your intimate connection. – She curves her mutilated and deformed lips so much from the many pricks that I almost force myself to restrain my squeamishness.

God, who told women that men like kissing two pomaded slugs? Statistically speaking, just the opposite!

– There is no intimate connection between us. – I still keep a businesslike tone, but I allow myself a slight hint of irony. – I’m sorry to disappoint you, but he and I are not about Mexican passions. But I think there was another name in the news…

A’Leta pulls an envelope out of her bag, tosses it on the table.

I know what’s in it, so I win this round, too. When I go through the pictures, not a muscle in my face trembles, I’m in control of every emotion. If I allow myself a moment’s levity, it’s not because the moon man and I were allegedly caught in the act, but because in one of the pictures, K’raig has his fingers crossed on his knee – and the cuff of his snow-white shirt is set just above the proper height. And his swarthy skin, covered with fine blond hair, is adorned by the steel strap of a luxury chronometer, and his fingers are long and… sure? Is that even an appropriate word for fingers?

In general, men’s wrists and fingers have always been my only weakness. And, I have to admit, Mr. Future Senator has excellent hands. Though I judge them only from an aesthetic point of view.

– Mr. Shad’Farr paid me a purely businesslike visit,” I folded the scans carefully back into the envelope and laid them quietly on the edge of A’Letha’s desk. – We had a little talk, and he left my house in the same pristine condition as he’d arrived. No one has tampered with his manhood, I assure you. But in case you checked and there was something out of place, it certainly wasn’t my doing.

It may seem that I am speaking too snide to her. Or even rude. Or anything but polite. But let’s be honest – how else am I supposed to talk to her? Even supposing it were as absurd as an affair between me and Moondoor-it stings in my side just thinking about it! – I’m sorry, why don’t you clear things up with your man, but instead run around like an avenging angel through his “safe havens”? It’s high time women understood the immutable truth that if a man goes “left”, there are only two people to blame – him and her. Mistress – it’s just litmus test, revealing the problems. A symptom indicating that the relationship needs to be treated, not the mistress’ head. In my opinion, though, the only cure for an already fait accompli is a suitcase, a doorstep, and “Fuck you…”

All these attempts to intimidate, to show importance and significance, phrases like “You’re just a toilet, where he pours the negative” and whatever else hysterical women say – this is humiliation. Not the mistress – she doesn’t give a damn, she’s not the one who’s doing the debriefing. It is a humiliation of myself in front of a woman who is already in a stronger position.

But who am I to straighten out an important moonwoman?

– Do you think I’m blind, Marguerite? – A’ltu is hurt by my calmness. Perhaps, in her mind, I should have begun repenting after those pictures, washing my tears and begging forgiveness for trespassing on Shad’Far’s untouchable testicles. – Do you often have men come to you after midnight?

– Even if they were new every day, why would I discuss it with you? – Though her innuendo was disgusting. – I don’t understand the purpose of our conversation at all.

There is a pause in our pique as the waiter places the cups on the table and once again asks if we would like dessert. “No,” we say together, so the guy quickly retreats, realizing that this is not a case where his efforts will be appreciated.

– Marguerite, let’s be frank. – A’Lita makes a face like she’s going to get more dirt, and for a split second it makes me nervous – what if she has dirt on me and Shea? But no, her hands are on the table. – You’re a decent age, aren’t you? How old? Forty? A little older?

– You’re wasting your breath,” I answered with a smile at her attempt to hurt my feminine self-esteem. – I know all about myself, and it would take more than one hurt moon woman to shake my self-esteem. Why don’t you stop pretending to be something you don’t understand and get down to business? A couple more of your nonsense and I’ll have what could be the event of the century, and I’ll feel sincere sympathy for a whole thoroughbred Lunnic. Your fiancé.

– You know perfectly well that there’s no way you can beat K’raig out of this building. Because he has the resources and the money and, if necessary, all my father’s connections. What do you have besides homeless kids and one pitying report on TV?

– You mean that report, after which your fiancé came to me with a broom and offered me a truce?

She pursed her lips. Or rather, some very small part of them.

– If you, Margarita, thought that you can solve your problem by dirty methods, I assure you – you will not succeed.

– Where can I – an orphan of Kazan without daddy’s connections – get dirty methods?

– I mean your attempt to get into bed with him,” A’Leta hissed.

– Your father?! – I made a dumbfounded face. – I’m not interested in antiques!

Lunnica is furious, and that only serves me well.

– By the way, – I take out my phone and put it on the table, as if some kind of stumbling block. – Here’s a little advice. It’s free. And I almost wish I hadn’t used it. I could have easily come to the meeting with my recorder on, and it wouldn’t even have occurred to you to ask me to show my phone, or to turn it off for the duration of our conversation. But if I had recorded you, especially your grandiloquent remarks about an all-powerful parent and the “other ways” K’raig Shad’Far could have dealt with me, believe me – it would have been enough to destroy both his political ambitions and your father’s reputation. In sixty seconds of this recording, Shad’Far’s closest rival would have done anything to make me, my orphans, and my orphanage untouchable for all eternity. But, as you can see, I did not.

A’lta suddenly flaps her eyelashes long and almost comically. As if her mind suddenly cleared from realizing what she might have done and what her tantrums might have resulted in.

– And not because I’m afraid of the possible consequences, – I continued my cautionary rant, “but because, unlike you all-powerful moonshiners, I don’t play by dirty rules. And I know that the truth is on my side, which means that no one, not rich Mr. Important Ass, not his empty-headed jealous bride, not the important father of his empty-headed bride can throw me and my children out on the street. You may find this hard to believe, disrespectful A’Lita, but there are plenty of women in the world who know how to achieve something in life on their own, not through the bunks of dubious moonshiners.

It’s like she’s trying to say something adequately reasonable, but she clearly doesn’t have the brains for it. No, I am very positive about all women and believe that each of us has every right to live our lives the way we want and to fill our lives with what we want. Some of us “pour” tons of beauty treatments into ourselves, live a life of shopping and amaze those around us with every fashionable “bow”. Someone plows in the gym and breaks the Olympic record in the pentagon. Someone gives birth to her husband’s five children, learning the hundred first recipe for steamed turkey meatballs and inspirationally knitting warm socks. Some protect the environment, go to peaceful demonstrations, and advocate for minority rights. We are all different, and that’s fine. As long as some don’t start teaching life to others.

Usually – like now – it looks ridiculous, to say the least.

– Thanks for the coffee, – I say, rising and leaving the bill on the edge of the saucer. I haven’t even touched an Americano, but politeness is like a white coat that’s easy to get dirty, but will never go out of style. – Have a nice day.

Lunnica doesn’t even try to stop me. Apparently, my words about a possible compromise have had a strong – dumbfounding! – effect. Now, on the street, why not allow myself a little giggle at her fiasco?

– Margo?! – I hear a familiar male voice in my ear, and I turn around so sharply that I almost fall right on the chest of the moon man standing almost right next to me. – “I’ve never thought I’d see you in a place like this, but it’s a place of lunar vice.

I took a step back at random, and felt myself stung where Twigson’s fingers were holding my wrists. I mean, we’re standing right in front of a huge mirrored display case, and he’s holding my hands, and it’s all right under the nose of his jealous chick. Universe, what have I ever done to you that you make fun of me like this?