A minute later, a night flight to Gdansk was bought. One way.

It's about one o'clock in the morning.

Martin and I are sitting on a wooden bench facing the sea, overlooking a narrow but picturesque bay full of ships, old-looking yachts and boats. On the other side of the bay, to which a wide paved bridge connects us, shine the bright red glowing letters of an advert near the roof of a low building. The lights of the waterfront are reflected in the dark water. The lifeless glow of the streetlights. The quiet noise made by the few mortals left here in the late hours pales against the beauty of this evening. The sound of the waves caresses the ear. Somewhere on another street, a street musician is playing, making a living by singing and playing guitar. But he has a good voice. Strong. Solid. It's nice to hear him in duet with the splash of the sea.

Martin met me at the airport. But I didn't stay in his flat. I went to the nearest hotel, because this time I didn't care where and in what conditions I would spend the few hours when I would come to my room just to change my clothes.

It's one o'clock in the morning and I'm sitting in the centre of an old Polish town looking out over the bay.

Just a couple of days ago, I couldn't imagine spending the night like this. Just sitting on a bench. Next to my brother.

We don't speak. Martin, my dear brother, has always understood me like no one else. Only with him can I be myself. One hundred per cent. With Misha – sixty, because she mustn't know me as I am. With my parents, maybe seventy-five. With Mariszka and Mscislav, maybe eighty. No. Seventy-nine. When I was with Fredrik, I let myself be ninety per cent me. Only Martin knew me inside and out. Only with him could I really relax, discover all sides of my multifaceted character. A break from compromising my nature for the sake of others. He didn't ask me why I'd come here. He just met me at the airport and drove me to the hotel. We made an appointment and parted ways.

We met. We sit. We don't talk. He doesn't ask anything. And it's beautiful. I couldn't lie right now. Not to him, not to myself. But I don't want anyone, not even Martin, to know what I'm hiding. It's too humiliating. My shame and my ruin.

But maybe I should try. Tell him everything? Maybe I'd carry the burden a little easier if I shared it with Martin.

– How long have you been talking to your parents? – I finally broke our cosy silence.

– A couple of days ago. Are you going to have an exhibition? – Martin leaned back on the bench and looked at me.

I had no doubt that he was already aware. As were all the Mroczeks, though. The whole clan.

– Yes. In three weeks. I want to see you at the opening. – I turned round to face him, one leg tucked under me. Good thing I was wearing jeans and sneakers.

Sneakers. That's a red flag. I don't tolerate athletic shoes or shoes without heels. But today I was so sick of what had happened in London that my soul needed a change. So I bought sneakers. In the nearest shop. For seventy zlotys. The most ordinary black sneakers with long black laces, which I hid inside.

But the sneakers weren't the worst part. Something more frightening happened: today I didn't wear a single gram of make-up. I wear make-up even when I don't go out. There are days like that – when I'm heavily engaged in my work that requires the use of photoshop. And today I looked like a teenager. Sneakers, jeans, plaid red shirt.

How come Martin doesn't make fun of me? He's probably being delicate and pretending not to notice the dissonance. And he's different from the Martin who's always sitting in the office. Used to. Now he lives in this small town, where he opened a small restaurant with Eastern European cuisine. So now he looks like an ordinary but too good-looking mortal. Grey jeans, white T-shirt with the inscription "Greetings from Gdansk", white trainers. Not different from a mortal student. The only thing that distinguished Martin and me from the mortals around us was the absence of autumn jackets or jumpers or anything to protect ourselves from the cold September night. Windless and bright. But bright not because of the moon – it was hiding behind the clouds. It was the dead light of the streetlamps.

– Where did you buy that T-shirt? – I grinned, pulling back the collar of his T-shirt.

– There's a souvenir shop next to my restaurant. Oh, you want one of these? – Martin replied with a grin.

– You got me. I've been dreaming about it all my life! – I laughed briefly. – So, will you come?

– I'm not sure. I need to check my schedule. Just a minute. – Martin pulled his iPhone out of his jeans pocket. – Has the exact opening date been announced yet?

– Tenth of October.

– Damn, I'm busy. A meeting with a Japanese entrepreneur," Martin sighed, putting the iPhone back in his pocket. – How about moving the opening date?

– I think it would be a lot easier for you to reschedule the meeting with the Japanese than it would be for me to reschedule the opening date. What do you want from him so badly? – I asked a little irritated. I needed Martin's presence at the opening of my exhibition. Like blood.

– I want to open a chain of Polish restaurants.

– Where?

– Osaka and Nagoya.

– Why not Tokyo? – I asked

– A little later, if the business makes a good profit. – Martin smiled contentedly. – But for friends and family, everything is on me.

– Well, then the fact that we don't eat their food is good for you. Imagine a bunch of Mroczeks and Morgans eating you at three mouthfuls each! – I grinned. – But you've upset me, really upset me, Martin.

– I'm sorry. This meeting was planned two months ago," my brother said in an apologetic tone. – By the way, when you came here, none of the teenagers asked for your phone number? They didn't take you for one of their own?

"Well, they did!" – I thought mockingly.

– 'Ha ha, that's so funny! – I punched him lightly on the shoulder, and he was smiling with his mouth, clearly pleased with his joke. – You must have all the high school and college girls here in love with you, right?

– Well, you don't have to exaggerate. Not all of them. But I do get a lot of eye contact. – Martin blinked his eyes, mimicking those unfortunate ones. – I've never asked you before, but what's your age limit?

The age of the victim.

I hesitated, but couldn't pinpoint an exact figure.

– What's yours? – I asked instead of answering.

– Twenty-six.

– That sharp?

– It's just right-still young, but almost aged.

– And before you drink the wine, you ask, "Don't take it as an impudence, my good man, but would you be so kind as to tell me your age? – I asked ironically.

– Very rarely. But it happens. I've only been wrong a couple of times, but only by a year or two.

– Who do you prefer to drink with?

– I'm not sexist. If wine is worthy of consideration, what's the point? But you didn't answer.

– Honestly, I don't even know. I don't ask their age unless they tell me. But I don't deal with high school and college kids. So somewhere around twenty-five… Or, hell, it's entirely possible that I've drank wine with students too, if they were deliberately deceiving me. But that wasn't my fault anymore. – I shrugged and crossed my arms over my chest. – You know who's sponsoring my exhibition? Brandon.

– Oh, my gods! I give him a big thank you for that and all the blessings! – Martin clapped his hands theatrically. He liked to fool around. – But seriously, I hear he's a devoted philanthropist. As devoted as he is to fucking mortal women.

– Let him have them, it's his choice. Or are you jealous of him? – I was joking.

– Oh yes, I'm full of envy! How can I live now, knowing that in my years I have never once fondled a mortal girl? – Martin sighed playfully. – My whole life is going down the drain! I'll hook up with someone tonight, I promise.