romances played out against the backdrop of the Tsars’ palaces, but she couldn’t stop thinking about Kate and Rodney. How awful all those wedding plans would seem to their families now. Lily was relieved when it was time for her to pick up the cats from the veterinary hospital. At least that would occupy her for a while.
‘Will you be all right here until Oksana gets back?’ she asked Antonia.
‘We’re fine,’ Antonia assured her. She patted Laika’s head. ‘This little dog is lovely. She hasn’t left her mistress’s side for a moment.’
Lily had been in the waiting room of Yelchin Veterinary Hospital for only five minutes when she realised that it was the wrong place for her to be. It was six o’clock and the hospital was busy with people turning up to collect their animals after surgery. Veterinary nurses moved back and forth through a swing door, bringing out carry cages containing wide-eyed cats, or walking dogs out on leads. The sight of a poodle with bandaged legs and a cat with stitches down the side of its neck, along with the relieved expressions on their owners’ faces, made Lily’s eyes well with tears. The last time she’d been in a vet’s surgery was the day that Honey, her beloved cat, had been put to sleep. She’d lived a good life to nineteen years of age, but suddenly her kidneys began to fail and she stopped eating. She died six months after Lily’s grandmother did; Lily lost her two dearest childhood companions in one year.
The memory made her heart even heavier and she looked around for something to distract herself. There was a pile of magazines on a side table and she rifled through them. They were mostly issues of Moscow Life or Russian Vogue that she’d read at work. But then a journal caught her eye: The Relic Hunter . The subtitle read: Until all the fallen are brought home . Lily flicked through advertisements for metal detectors and pictures of German tanks being hauled from bogs and came to a feature on the lost pilots of the Battle of Britain. She was surprised to read that a number of pilots had remained buried with their aircraft until the 1980s, when they were recovered by civilian researchers, because military authorities were against excavating their crash sites. It seemed wrong to Lily that someone should make the ultimate sacrifice for their country and then be denied a proper burial because of red tape.
She looked at the photographs of the pilots that accompanied the article. They were so young, with smooth skin and eyes full of the future. Most of them weren’t more than nineteen or twenty years of age, much younger than Lily. If I’m so traumatised after witnessing a bomb attack and losing a colleague, she thought, how did they cope with battles and death every day?
‘Aphrodite and Artemis?’
Lily glanced up. A man in a blue uniform was standing near the front desk and holding a large crate. He looked expectantly at Lily, who was now the only person left in the waiting room. He had dark-blond shoulder-length hair and an athletic build. The colour of his uniform complemented his olive skin.
‘Yes,’ she said, standing up.
The man smiled. Although it was the end of the day, he was still clean-shaven and he sported fashionable sideburns. Lily had pictured Doctor Yelchin as an elderly man with a wise face and stooped back. She hadn’t anticipated someone in his mid-thirties who looked like a movie star. ‘You must be Oksana’s friend Lily?’ the vet said, placing the crate on the floor and taking a discharge form from the nurse. He had one of those deep Slavic voices that Lily found hypnotic.
‘And you must be Doctor Yelchin,’ she ventured.
The man laughed and shook his head. ‘Doctor Yelchin is my uncle. He is in the process of retiring and I’m taking over the running of the surgery for him. I’m Doctor Demidov, but please call me Luka.’
Lily blushed. Wasn’t using his first name when she’d only just met him too informal for a Russian?
‘Will you be all right here until Oksana gets back?’ she asked Antonia.
‘We’re fine,’ Antonia assured her. She patted Laika’s head. ‘This little dog is lovely. She hasn’t left her mistress’s side for a moment.’
Lily had been in the waiting room of Yelchin Veterinary Hospital for only five minutes when she realised that it was the wrong place for her to be. It was six o’clock and the hospital was busy with people turning up to collect their animals after surgery. Veterinary nurses moved back and forth through a swing door, bringing out carry cages containing wide-eyed cats, or walking dogs out on leads. The sight of a poodle with bandaged legs and a cat with stitches down the side of its neck, along with the relieved expressions on their owners’ faces, made Lily’s eyes well with tears. The last time she’d been in a vet’s surgery was the day that Honey, her beloved cat, had been put to sleep. She’d lived a good life to nineteen years of age, but suddenly her kidneys began to fail and she stopped eating. She died six months after Lily’s grandmother did; Lily lost her two dearest childhood companions in one year.
The memory made her heart even heavier and she looked around for something to distract herself. There was a pile of magazines on a side table and she rifled through them. They were mostly issues of Moscow Life or Russian Vogue that she’d read at work. But then a journal caught her eye: The Relic Hunter . The subtitle read: Until all the fallen are brought home . Lily flicked through advertisements for metal detectors and pictures of German tanks being hauled from bogs and came to a feature on the lost pilots of the Battle of Britain. She was surprised to read that a number of pilots had remained buried with their aircraft until the 1980s, when they were recovered by civilian researchers, because military authorities were against excavating their crash sites. It seemed wrong to Lily that someone should make the ultimate sacrifice for their country and then be denied a proper burial because of red tape.
She looked at the photographs of the pilots that accompanied the article. They were so young, with smooth skin and eyes full of the future. Most of them weren’t more than nineteen or twenty years of age, much younger than Lily. If I’m so traumatised after witnessing a bomb attack and losing a colleague, she thought, how did they cope with battles and death every day?
‘Aphrodite and Artemis?’
Lily glanced up. A man in a blue uniform was standing near the front desk and holding a large crate. He looked expectantly at Lily, who was now the only person left in the waiting room. He had dark-blond shoulder-length hair and an athletic build. The colour of his uniform complemented his olive skin.
‘Yes,’ she said, standing up.
The man smiled. Although it was the end of the day, he was still clean-shaven and he sported fashionable sideburns. Lily had pictured Doctor Yelchin as an elderly man with a wise face and stooped back. She hadn’t anticipated someone in his mid-thirties who looked like a movie star. ‘You must be Oksana’s friend Lily?’ the vet said, placing the crate on the floor and taking a discharge form from the nurse. He had one of those deep Slavic voices that Lily found hypnotic.
‘And you must be Doctor Yelchin,’ she ventured.
The man laughed and shook his head. ‘Doctor Yelchin is my uncle. He is in the process of retiring and I’m taking over the running of the surgery for him. I’m Doctor Demidov, but please call me Luka.’
Lily blushed. Wasn’t using his first name when she’d only just met him too informal for a Russian?
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