By two o’clock in the afternoon, guests began to arrive. The apartment was filled with smells of cloying spirits and corvalol. The ladies in the velvet dresses and massive gold earrings were noisy, pulled down the autumn coats and handed over to Galina Mikhailovna cakes in plastic boxes.
“Oh, Galya, cozy!” sang Tamara, a pre-born woman with a purple tide on her hair, inspecting the living room with the customs officer’s tenacious look. “The apartment, of course, is small for such a boss as your Bogdan, but nothing, you can live.”
“This is a temporary option,” the mother-in-law immediately parried, demonstrating the recently put veneers. “Bogdanchik is already looking after the cottage outside the city. But you understand, such sums from the witch do not spend, you need to weigh everything.
Oksana, standing in the kitchen doors, barely choked on coffee. The cottage. Her husband still owes a can of fifteen thousand for last year’s purchase of cast discs, and here, it turns out, they’re looking after the cottage.
