Vlad is at Le Bristol, he’s rocked up for breakfast five minutes after service finished and is clicking his fingers at the waitress. He leans back and stretches, his black cashmere turtleneck straining to expose his diamond Hublot.
He orders a double espresso, an egg white omelette with chives, orange juice, salmon teriyaki, and a side of sautéed spinach. His toast is too well done. He sends it back.
Olga hasn’t called in four days. He decides to fly Ulrike to Paris that afternoon. Olga was old anyway; she hasn’t looked as hot since she started uni and doesn’t seem as impressed with him anymore.
He calls Ulrike, and, holding the phone high, puts her on speaker; ‘Eeey babe, you wanna come party wiz us? Ye Egor and me. Bring zat girl Tatty yaaah? Ze hot one yaah?’
Egor rolls in, grabbing a waitress by the arm as he strides through the now-closed dining room. ‘I get a coffee, yiezz? Menu?’ he continues.
Neighbouring diners look over askance, their view of Epicure’s gardens shattered by Ulrike’s Moscow drawl. The English couple next to him get up hastily and ask for the remains to be sent up to their room. This pleases Vlad immensely. The guy doesn’t want his girlfriend’s eye turned.
Being so successful, Vlad gets this a lot. People leave when he places his Maserati keys down, when they see his Jacob & Co bracelet clanking against his Richard Mille. Yobaniya, when they see the jailbait on his arm they lose their shit.
Egor is pissing him off. He’s feigning indifference to the girls’ visit, raising his eyes only slightly from his paper with too vague a nod of acknowledgement. Vlad goes out for a smoke. Everyone’s jealous of him. He will take the girls out alone, maybe Tatiana will come too and Egor doesn’t deserve to bask in his riches.
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