Page 56 of The Oligarch's Daughter

Galkin gave Paul a bear hug. “Welcome to family,” he said.

Paul smiled. He thought he’d joined the family when he got engaged to Tatyana.

“You see the break room?” Galkin asked.

“Very impressive.”

“Impressive? You will gain twenty pounds working here, if you’re not careful. Tatyana doesn’t want husband withdad bodbefore he’s dad.” He said “dad bod” with a delighted twist, like it was a phrase he’d just learned and was happy to have a chance to use.

They both laughed, Paul probably for different reasons. He was amused to be lectured on this topic by a man with a protuberant potbelly.

“Many perks working for my firm. Best health insurance plan. Breakfast and lunch every day by private chef. But as far as company is concerned, you are not son-in-law. I show you no favor. Neither does anyone here. I suggest you do not tell people about marriage to my daughter.”

“I understand. But word will get around,” Paul said. “Gossip spreads fast.”

Galkin shrugged. “You are an employee like anyone else, new hire. You report to senior managing director, Eugene Frost.”

“Understood. Is that originally his name?”

“He was born ‘Yevgenii Morozov.’ You know what meansmoroz?”

Paul recognized the word. It meant “frost.” Frost had Anglicized his name.

“He’s Russian-born but has spent nearly all his life here. I trust him—” Galkin waved an index finger back and forth, searching for a word.

“Implicitly,” Paul suggested.

“Yes. Implicitly. Mr. Frost speaks for me. He is senior managing director,” Galkin repeated. “Usually, I am not here.”

“Okay.”

A long pause. Galkin smiled, looked at Paul for an uncomfortably long time, as if he were deciding what to say. Finally, he nodded and spoke. “I was little surprised you accepted job offer.”

“Why?”

“Because I am what sometimes calledoligarch. Oligarchs have bad image in America. All of these stereotypes in this country about Russians.Russophobia, is called.”

“I’m marrying a Russian woman, don’t forget.”

“Yes. Is true. But you were at very white-shoe firm, and we are not so white-shoe.”

“I wasn’t exactly at Goldman Sachs.”

“Please. Aquinnah? Named after Bernie Kovan’s house on Martha’s Vineyard? I call this white-shoe.”

Paul chuckled. “Okay—fair.”

Galkin clapped his hands together, signaling that the conversation was over. “Now,” he said as he steered Paul toward the door, “if only you can get my daughter to move out of shithole in East Village.”

36

At lunchtime, Paul ambled to the break room to check out the spread. A few other employees were there already. Chad Forrester, several years older than Paul, balding with short, pale-blond hair and vague eyes, said hello.

“We’re neighbors, right?” Paul said to him. “We share an admin?”

Chad nodded. “Welcome to the Island of Misfit Toys,” he said.

“Jake Larsen,” said another new colleague he’d been introduced to at the meeting. Jake was a tall guy with longish brown hair parted in the center. He gave Paul his hand. “Nice to meet you, Paul.” They shook. “Don’t listen to anything Chad tells you.” The men laughed politely.

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