Masquerade [Kuskovo Estate]

[Sofia Vasilieva]

Grigori Vasiliev

After carrying it in the crook of his elbow for the best part of half an hour, Grisha finally discarded the potted plant with one of the wait staff, before continuing his meandering journey amongst the guests. He was easy company and graciously welcomed, clapping hands on the shoulders of his father’s friends, and promising dances to women who pinched his cheeks while they lamented the small boy he’d once been and admired the man he had become. It was the same every year. Grisha was never in one place for too long, and it was to the men’s lounge he retired when he decided he’d shown enough of his face. The pomp and splendour of the formal occasion was not entirely his thing, but family was family.

He wasn’t surprised when Tarik found him, and welcomed the man easily into his company. His older brother’s friend, technically – in fact Dima’s friendship with Tarik long predated Maksim’s courting of Alina, a furious blow-up at the time, but such bridges were long since mended. For Grisha’s part, he’d never had issues with any of the eclectic Marveet clan, whatever the fierce hot-and-cold interplay of his siblings. The turbulence nearly always passed him by, else he was the sole calming influence in the storm. At least until Pavel got involved and pissed on everyone’s bonfire.

The vodka was shared amiably between them, and the following transaction went with the smooth discretion of long association. Grisha didn’t intrude on another man’s high. By now he’d claimed a seat, legs propped, suit jacket discarded and shirt sleeves folded back over tattooed arms. His throat was unbuttoned. There’d never even been a bowtie.

He appraised the stranger’s approach with half a smile, appreciative and not unfriendly. There were no Volthströms on the guestlist, but Grisha was not about to point it out; nor did he particularly mind how the man found his way here. His information was a little off, but Grisha didn’t mind that either. “Welcome, welcome.” He grinned and waved a casual hand in invitation to join. Meanwhile he spared a half a glance for Tarik, but P was a journey that could not always be interrupted. The man might be seeing anything, a thousand miles away, or he might be more aware of the company. Every time was different. Grisha wouldn’t call attention to it.

“What do you have?” The curiosity was genuine. Grisha didn’t partake, or not much; there was no money in it for a dealer to become addicted to what he pedalled. Possibly Guillaume mistook him with Dima’s reputation; easy done, given the amount of time Grisha also spent at the club. But since tonight of all night’s his brother needed to behave, Grisha was not displeased to have forewarning of what might be doing the rounds.