Killing Eve: Bloodline (7)

The seventh episode of a new Killing Eve adventure, published exclusively on Substack

            Balice wakes with a feeling of unfocused dread. She opens one eye, and sees dingy net curtains, and beyond them, an unfamiliar street. She feels the warm weight of an arm draped across her shoulder. Cautiously extricating herself she turns, and stares, frowning, at the sleeping figure beside her. The woman's features - the broad features and wide-set eyes, the dark hair streaked with blonde - are at once familiar and those of a stranger.

            I really should stop doing this. Never mind the security aspect - the Office would go ballistic if they suspected - it's terrible for my self-esteem. Would I know a honey trap if I encountered one? I think so. But the world thinks I'm happily married to Charlie. The world apart from Villanelle, that is. And now, I suppose, Polastri. Which is one more reason, apart from the fact that she's a bitch and a traitor, for wanting to have her disposed of. I could say the same of Villanelle, of course, but she's got her hooks into me too deep for that. She'll get bored of Polastri soon enough. I get the mumsy-nerdy thing, sort of, but that's not enough to hold on to a tooth-and-claw predator like Villanelle. Whereas I...

            Last night's beginning to come back to me. The gym, the pool, the chlorined air. The woman's shining shoulders and arms, her silent tumble-turns. I watched her until I was sure I'd been clocked, then made my way to the changing room. I didn't have long to wait. We showered together, dressed together, and left together, all without a word being exchanged. My power!

            Outside, away from the scrutiny of the other club members, we laughed, and she took my hand. So delicious, knowing without a shadow of doubt that it's going to happen. A terrible restaurant meal God knows where - pickled vegetables, spiced meat, ghastly folk music - was followed by an Uber, a dusty bottle of Rakia Grappa 'from my home town', and then, with our heads spinning and our hearts beating... What the fuck is her name?

            Grey eyes regard her unblinkingly. 'Dobroye utro.'

            'Er... good morning to you, too.'

            'Last night. You ask me speak Russian when we do sex.'

            'Really.' Balice looks at her in alarm. 'Are you Russian?'

            'I'm Bulgarian, I say many times. I hate Russians.'

            'I'm sorry. I can't think what...'

            'You ask me say 'I love you', in Russian.'

            'Oh, God.'

            'You drunk, I think. And now you not remember my name.'

            Balice looks surreptitiously about her. On the wall, amongst posters of unrecognisable pop stars and sports personalities, is a blown-up press photo of the young woman next to her, dressed in a black-belted judo uniform. The caption identifies her as Bilyana Ilieva of the Targovishte Tigers.

            'Bilyana,' Balice says.

            'Bili.'

            'Where are we, Bili?' Balice has a Cabinet Office meeting at 9 am, and according to her phone it's already 7:45.

            'Hillingdon.'  

            'Fuck. Fuck.' Balice stares wildly out of the window. 'I need a car.'

            'I need also, but I don't got one.'

            'Are we near a tube?'

            'Three kilometre.'

            Balice covers her face with her hands.

            'Take bus outside Topps Tiles. Twenty five minutes Uxbridge.'

            There's nothing else for it. Balice texts her deputy. It grieves her to send the obnoxious, oleaginous Cecil Phipps to Downing Street in her place, but it has to be done.

            'You OK?' Bili asks.

            'I suppose. Do you have a spare toothbrush?'

            Somehow, an hour later, they're still in bed. 'Forget Russian girl,' Bili whispers. 'Is bitch.'

            'It's her girlfriend that's the real bitch,' Balice replies, running a hand over Bili's muscled abdomen.

            'You want I fuck her up? Maybe kick hard in pussy?'

            'It's a thought, certainly.'

            'OK, soon I make you breakfast. You like makaroni?'

            'Er...'

            'But first we play game.'

            'Game?'

            'Like last night we play your game - Ya lyublyu tebya, Balitse, mwah, mwah, mwah - Now we play my game.'

            'Um... Okaaay.'

            'So.' Bili arranges herself artistically beneath the sheet, and closes her eyes in feigned sleep. 'I innocent young Bulgarian girl. Virgin. You Emily Blunt.'