Hotel Serge

The first thing she did when she entered our flat was take out a bullet from her pocket.

‘The space that used to be my workspace was now a pile of tampons, clothes, and mascara boxes. If before I felt like I didn’t have enough personal space, now it felt like I had wandered into a girls’ locker room at the gym — not the apartment I was paying rent for.’

When my girlfriend Masha and I moved in together, I decided to be honest from the start.

‘There’s something I have to tell you,’ I said, as we took an Uber one night from visiting a friend’s house party in South Kensington.

She stroked my hand and watched me, curious.

‘I really–, and I mean really, hate having other people at my place.’

Masha raised an eyebrow. ‘So what, we’re never having anyone over? Not even for dinner?’

I said, ‘Well, never say never but yeah — never.’

I used to love having people over. When someone was coming to visit, I would turn my flat into a Monica Geller-esque cosy B&B with morning avocado toasts (sprinkled with olive oil and salt) and an elaborate itinerary for those who had never been to London.

Then, last spring, my ex-wife’s friend came over.

When my ex-wife told me her friend from Ukraine was coming over for a week, I said, ‘Of course.’

I was a little nervous I’d have to actually practice my Ukrainian, which I had just recently started learning as a way to stick it to Putin and his propaganda — I am learning this…