Hello, Privet! #1: Hello/Привет

Chapter 17

SOPHIE

As I'm unpacking my stuff, I'm thinking, there is only one thing I could do now. I would just have to work harder. It's that simple. But I'm still mad at him. He didn't have to yell at me like I am the stupidest person on earth. And really, how dare he criticize my clothes and my hair? It's not like his hair is any better. His hair's a mess too—I mean, he wears it in that man bun. I'd have expected a little more sympathy.

I get into the shower, thinking: Damn you, Anton Alexandrovich Akhmerov. I'll show you. You will be so impressed with my tennis knowledge that you will ask me for advice how to play the game. I will know everything about you and your opponents and you can bet I will never make a mistake, and I will think three steps ahead of you and you can't say anything bad about me.

After my shower, I dress in a white long-sleeved shirt and a sensible pencil skirt and black heels, which even he would not find objectionable, and then I very carefully pull my unruly hair and control it in a bun. I even put on some eyeliner and eye shadow and some lipstick. A little makeup always makes me look slightly older.

When I'm done, I go up to Anton's room and knock on his door briskly. He is listening to his loud music again, some more gangsta rap that sounds like Russian.

Finally, the door opens and the first thing I notice is that Anton's standing on the other side in nothing but a white towel. I avert my gaze quickly.

I quickly look up to his face. He's staring at me.

Say something.

I swallow hard and then march past him.

I ask as casually as I can, "How did the press launch go?"

If he is acknowledging the changes in my clothing, he doesn't say it. Instead, he gestures to the food on the table I had sent up for him. "I cannot eat this—" He makes a face, as if it was so disgusting that he is unable to continue.

I glance at the tray. A bowl of muesli, two bananas, toast, eggs and bacon. "What's wrong with it?"

"They tell you I do not eat pork?"

"Oh. Sorry." I find some tissues in my purse and pluck out all the bacon, and then not knowing where to put them, hide them away in my creel bag, on top of my mother's hardcover edition of The Botany of Desire. It's going to smell like bacon. "There. No more bacon."

He stares at me. "Shto?" he asks when I don't leave. "What?" he asks rather rudely.

"You have a match tomorrow, 4:00 p.m. against Neils Viljoen, and the car will be here at around three in the afternoon. You will be interviewed in the press room before your match—" I survey the room. "You know what? Why don't you have brunch at the restaurant, while the maid cleans up here? You have to do a segment for the Tennis Channel this evening. They have this TV spot where you describe the things inside your bag."

"What?"

"They want to know what's in your bag. We'll do that at the courts after practice."

"Why would anyone want to know about the things in my bag?"

"People actually care about these things. You would be surprised." I check my notebook again. "It's one way for them to get to know you better, I guess?"

He shrugs. "Okay."

"But we'll put some things inside, like your energy drink from Japan, an extra Nike shirt, and your iPhone and maybe a book?" I take out The Botany of Desire.