“Look and remember. The man at the head of the table is the master of the house. On the left is his wife. That tall, sprawled-out one on the chair is Vilen Konstantinovich’s stepson. The boy has a disgusting character…” Her mother snaps impatiently.
“Such people should be punished. The blonde one is their daughter. And the brunette in the white shirt is Leon—his son from a first marriage.”
Her tone becomes stricter:
“Don’t stare into his eyes. He’s got a whole carriage and a little cart of girls like you.”
“Girls like what?” I ask, pulling my gaze away from the guy, who is focused on his phone screen.
“Bedding-less girls who were placed in the most expensive university in the country out of charity?”
“Once again: don’t be sarcastic!” my mother hisses ominously. “Thank goodness people like Vilen Konstantinovich exist. And he helped you with your studies, and got you a job. Where would you be without him right now? Scrubbing office floors?”
“Instead, I’ll scrub floors here,” I mutter. “Are we covering the table on it? Because the ladies and gentlemen seem to be getting bored.”