Hello, Privet! #1: Hello/Привет

Chapter 37

SOPHIE

Tonight I'm reading a book I had brought with me (well, it's my mother's) and skipping dinner.

We did not discuss our dinner plans as Henry usually assumes that we will all have dinner together, like a happy family, complete with two bickering children in tow, Anton and me. But Henry is busy tonight. His son's family traveled from Mountain View to see him and they're having dinner. His son's a network engineer for a tech startup. Henry offered to include me and Anton but I wouldn't dream of tagging along and taking up his time with his family; Jane also asked me to come along with the ATP people to dinner, but they would be with the tennis players, and if Anton ever finds out I am hanging out with other people and didn't ask him to go, he would be furious. Anton's just like a child that way.

I've managed to avoid him all day after the sock incident. Or maybe he's also avoiding me, because usually, he would find ways to make my life hell with his silly demands. I can't imagine what goes on in his head sometimes—to blow up over a little thing like that. Seriously, there are just too many headcases in this profession.

As I'm settling down to my book, a knock comes at the door. I ignore it. They will go away if I don't answer. But of course, they don't. So, I trudge towards the door and open it gingerly, to find Anton standing there, all dressed up in one of the suits I picked up for him, sans tie. Maybe he's going out on official tennis business that I didn't know about?

"Yes?" I ask.

"We're going out to dinner."

"Oh. Cool." I raise an eyebrow when he doesn't leave.

"No, we are going out to dinner," he repeats.

Okay, maybe he wants to tell me who he's going out with, as if I cared which quasi-celebrity or model he's dating. But I put on my interested face anyway, I say, "Okay, who are you going out to dinner with?"

"You."

I must admit I did not expect that, so the only thing I can answer is a rather insipid, "Me?" I blink, trying to compose myself. "What about Marieke Baumgarten?" The last time I checked my Google Alerts, he was supposedly 'canoodling' with Marieke, who happens to be one of the models in the GQ photo shoot.

"Who is she?" he asks, confused.

I roll my eyes. But then, he's probably telling the truth. So many women are linked to him every couple of days that I've lost count. If Anton smiles at a girl, or opens the door for her, or really, just blinks in her general direction, these so-called journalists just assume he must be sleeping with her. It's insane. "You want me to go with you?" I say blankly, not moving a muscle.

"Please." He looks me up and down. I am wearing thick wool socks and wearing my gym clothes from high school, a ratty gray T-shirt and blue flannel shorts. The print on the shirt is faded and says in front, 'Weston Academy.' "What you are wearing now is okay. Let's go."

"But I'm reading." I am incredulous, then show him my book. Then I realize, I haven't let him inside my room at all. I step backwards and gesture for him to come in and close the door behind him.

He sits on the sofa and looks up at me. "Oh, what is it?"

"Sick," I tell him.

"Shto?"

I show him the cover. "The Untold Story of America's Health Care Crisis."

"Oh."

"It's about—how people can't afford medical treatment because it's too expensive," I explain. "America is the only developed country in the world not to provide health care for its citizens. It's very useful to know about this stuff," I say, reminding him of our argument when we were looking at the Malevich paintings at the Norton Simon.