“What are you looking at? Like me?”

“That was my favorite windowsill. You desecrated it with your presence.”

I grinned to myself, putting on a mask of impenetrable equanimity, and jumped to the floor, ignoring his displeased gaze. Yeah, I wouldn't have been in the mood either if I'd had to spend the night on lacquered parquet instead of a soft bed. It was his own fault, his choice to fall asleep in my weak but thoughtless arms.

“I'm starving.”

Cirkul Jr's sleep-dampened face twitched, he shook his shoulders, chasing away the irritation.

“Me too.”

“So what are we waiting for?” I leaned forward and looked up at the guy, trying to get him to make the slightest movement towards the food.

But Grant decided otherwise, he pulled his phone out of his pocket, gave a voice command, a couple of beeps, and on the other end of the line was a cheerful, “Grant, it's so good to hear from you. Has anything happened? When are you coming to see me at the residence? I've missed you...”

The young man hastily stopped the flow of words, “Midi, I already have. I've arrived here. Didn't my father tell you?”

A second of confusion, then a muffled voice from the loudspeaker squeezed out, “Mr Cirkul didn't say anything like that to me... I didn't think you'd come so soon, my sister was ill so I went to visit her.”

“Oh, I see. So when can we expect you?”

Rustling and indistinct sounds on the other end of the wire, the unknown Midi returned to the conversation, “Not for another three days. But I'll try to get there as soon as possible.”

“Good.”

“I have to go. Call the guard station if you need anything. See you soon.”

The young man's black eyebrows furrowed a little, but he didn't give up. “Guard post.”

We stood in the middle of the corridor, hungry and angry (well, at least I was), listening to the long beeps until a soft ‘beep’ signalled the end of the call. Grant froze with the phone to his ear, representing a sculpture of the world's most miserable-looking guy.

My stomach exploded with a rumbling sound that must have been heard by the squirrels in the pine tree at the end of the garden.

“Where's the kitchen?”

This idiot seemed to have finally remembered that he had me, realised something in his head and dragged me towards the stairs.

The kitchen was clean and empty. I opened the nearest cupboards, reached the fridge – the gut of the big friend was filled with disappointment: thirty bottles of water and one dried lemon.

“There's nothing here.”

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“I can see it myself,” Grant said above my ear.

I turned round, clutched his shirt collar, and with a threat, for I was really hungry, said, “Call your father.”

Even though I considered Rizor an enemy, getting food support from him didn't seem so shameful now.

Cirkul unhooked me from him, stepped back a few steps.

“No.”

“But we have nothing to eat!”

“We'll find something.”

He leaned over the lower cupboards, opened the door, rummaged among the dishes, and with a triumphant cry pulled out a pile of crouton. In a nearby pan he found some ring-shaped cracknel.

My first thought was, ‘I'm certainly not going to eat this. Only the god of dry bread knows when these things lost their right to be eaten.’ But I had to accept it – sad as it was to admit, hunger can drive people to crazy behaviour.

Our first breakfast together with Grant Cirkul was a perfect idyll of crunching and munching. We picked early cucumbers and tomatoes in the greenhouse, found mouldy cheese in a wine crate and, after making breadcrumb sandwiches, dignifiedly (choked) ate them in the empty dining room furnished with aristocratic asceticism and drank bottled water.

We took turns going to the toilet and shower. First, the son of the enemy of all people tied me with a chain to the door handle, and then he calmly left to take water procedures for two hours. I was furious, twitching and trying to break free because listening to smug chants and songs in an unknown language from a man who not only sang the national anthem in the shower, but also revealed to the world that he didn't have a musical bone in his body, was worse than being blown up by a bomb and dying.

Finally, I was allowed into the bathroom. I stared at the collar in the mirror for a long time, trying to pick it up with my fingernails, but it stuck to my skin, itching and scratching.

But I had a blast with the shampoos and gels, my imagination ran wild, so the smoothie of foam and sea salt added to the conditioner smelled of sea and cucumber lotion. The expensive shaving cream was mercilessly poured down the sink and I squeezed toothpaste into the tube instead. I had less cosmetics at home than this guy had body balms! This beauty seemed to be a sissy as he had three foams for his heels: softening, moisturising and velvety.

“If you're not out in a minute, you're in trouble,” came the threatening voice from behind the door for the third time.

I chuckled, pleased with my small victory, “You weren't in the bathroom for three minutes either.”

“Come out,” he rammed on the door. “Or I'll get you out myself.”

“Don't you dare! I'm going to take a dump. There's an indescribable odour coming…”

To prove my point, I sprinkled on a delicious and insanely expensive air freshener and jogged across the rather large bathroom, the chain whipping behind me, jingling on the tiles.

“I'm tired of standing here.”

“So sit down! The floor is not cold. How do you think I felt squatting on the floor listening to your solo concert? You're lucky I didn't sing in the shower like someone else did 40 minutes ago.”

“Siri, please.”

It was the first time Circul had ever said such a polite word to me, so pity took over and I sighed, chastising myself for being soft-hearted.

“Okay. I'm nearly finished.”

My dress wouldn't fasten the second time, the zip was broken, so I grabbed a towel, wrapped myself in it and strode out into the bedroom with my head held high.

“You took too long,” he said reproachfully. Then he stopped half-heartedly and ran his eyes over my body.

“Then let's make a pact not to spend more than fifteen minutes in the bathroom... and yes, I need to get dressed. Are there any women's clothes in this house?”

“Remind me about the bathroom when we write up the rules for living together,” he said as he turned away. “And yes, you'll be wearing my clothes for a while.”

An oversized white T-shirt landed on my head, and then another, and another. The towel fell out of my hair and cold goose bumps immediately ran down the back of my head. I glared angrily at the guy rummaging through the depths of the wardrobe.

“Will you also give me your underwear?”

Grant turned around and looked at me dumbfounded, his cheeks slightly flushed, but to his credit the guy quickly found something to say.

“You need clothes after all. Take my shorts for now,” he said, holding out a pair of beige bermudas without looking at me.

And I suddenly realised I had found a new fetish – Circul's embarrassed son.