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 language, which means it’s a Real Language. I could now understand most of it but as someone who learns a new language knows: understanding is just the first tiny step. Speaking is what decides whether people see you as an imbecile or a polyglot. So far, for me, it was the former. 

The other problem was that we didn’t have a spare bedroom. But I was working most days in the city anyway, so I didn’t see the harm.

It was the second year of Russia’s war. I took pride in knowing we could help a fellow Ukrainian sort out the papers. She might build a whole new life for herself, I thought.

Who knows what she might do for this country? For the world. 

---

Alina—not her real name—appeared on a Tuesday. She wore an oversized black leather coat, had straight blonde hair, and too much makeup. She looked as if she was preparing for a big night out. 

'I put makeup on even if I am alone at home on a Sunday,' Alina would tell me later. 

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

'Funniest thing,' she said, in Ukrainian, holding a sniper-sized bullet with her thumb and index finger. 'I picked this up on the street in Odessa. I think it still has some gun powder. And nobody said anything!' 

I replied in my rudimentary Ukrainian, 'You travel three countries and go security three time and nobody…how to say…find bullet?' 

'Yeah! Isn’t it funny?' she said. 

'Hilarious,' I replied, in Russian. Then I took the bullet from her and placed it on my bookcase to keep as a souvenir, next to my Run-For-Ukraine 20K medal and a psychology self-help book. I still have that bullet somewhere.

Alina dumped her enormous backpack on our tiny orange couch – which would serve as her bed – and looked around the living room, which was also the kitchen and the hallway. 

'Is that all?' she asked, her face crooked in disgust as if she was told she’d have to sleep on a pile of garbage for £500 per night, not at a friend’s apartment for free. 

'There’s also the bedroom,' my ex-wife said apologetically. 

'And a toilet,' I added. 

'Yeah guys,' said Alina with a sigh that could launch airplanes. 'You should really think about getting a bigger place.' 

---

You can find Alina’s type in every major city around the world. For instance, in Moscow, they used to congregate around Red Square, gazing around the big-brand stores – back in the day when they still worked in Russia – with saliva dripping from their mouth. In New York, they walk down Fifth Avenue; in London, they go to Notting Hill. 

Alinas of the world come to the Big City expecting what they saw in movies and TikTok, disappointed to find that the dishevelled Hugh Grunt doesn’t pop by for lunch and Benedict Cumberbatch is too busy being Benedict Cumberbatch to play-act Doctor Strange on Oxford Street just for them. 

They are eager to see it all and could fill out an entire book with their – as they assume – non-trivial destinations. 

Money quickly becomes the major topic for discussion. 

'You spend how much on utilities? Hell, I can get a two-bedroom apartment for that price in Bratislava! You guys are crazy to be paying this much,' Alina said to us the first night we had dinner. 

When I pointed out that it was useless comparing London to cities in Eastern Europe, she looked at me like I was the last piece of shit on the Earth. 

'We should go to the Westminster Abbey!' she said. 'Oh oh and Notting Hill. Definitely Notting Hill. I just saw the movie and I looooooooved it!…And I just have to see the Big Ben. What’s the point of coming to London if you don’t get see the Big Ben, if you know what I mean? Will anyone take photos of me? Please please I am so sick of my Instagram feed.' 

I told Alina that I’d be busy the next day with work. She seemed physically hurt by this idea. 

'Well I didn’t come all this way just to sit in an apartment,' she said. 

I suggested that she take a day and explore the city on her own and meet us for dinner afterwards. She acted as if I had just called her a whore. 

'Excuse me? You think I can get around London all by myself? I don’t even speak English!' 

Alina is the type of people you move to big cities like London to avoid.

---

Things quickly turned for the worse. The following day, I learned that Alina came for a month – instead of the initial week, as was pitched to me by my ex-wife. Because I had more free time, I was tasked with acting as Alina’s 'sponsor' – in all meanings of the word – and took her to appointments set up by the Home Office, so that she would receive her British Residence Permit card. 

'I am not really planning on living in this shithole,' said Alina on the third day, as we walked to our meeting with the local council. 'But it would be nice to have an EU residence permit.'

'Actually,' I said, 'Britain is not in the EU anymore.' 

She looked at me like I was trying to make a bad joke. When she realized I was serious, she shook her head in desperation and said, 'Blyat.' (Damn). 

We crossed the road towards Ravenscourt Park and Alina sat down on the pavement to take a photo of a squirrel eating a chestnut. People with strollers had to zigzag around her to pass through. 

After 30 minutes of a squirrel photoshoot, we kept walking and Alina said, 'Why do you speak Russian to me? C’mon, practice some Ukrainian. You’ll need it soon.' 

'I embarassment when I conversation,' I replied, in my basic Ukrainian. 

She laughed and said that I sound like Borat if Borat grew up in Moscow. So I switched back to Russian. Hearing her speak was a good enough practice for me, I decided. 

That evening, we were having dinner when Alina, had too much wine, when she said, 'I just so hope we nuke Moscow as soon as possible. What’s taking so long?' 

I coughed but said nothing. 

Quick disclaimer. I have many Ukrainian friends and, unlike most Russians I know, I am rarely offended when I hear their anger. It is justified. It’s hard to blame people who are repeatedly attacked, murdered, and raped by the Russian military. It’s hard to play favours and separate the good from the bad, I get it, I really do. The main – though not the only – reason I decided to learn Ukrainian and the country’s history was to show some solidarity and empathy towards my Ukrainian-born friends. My patio had a large Ukrainian flag hanging over the side. My sister had framed a TIME issue with Zelensky, which hung above the mirror in the living room. New neighbours that moved upstairs from Dnipro, became my good friends, and I love them dearly. Since the war started, I wrote a dozen pro-Ukrainian articles for major UK and international media, which would put me in prison if I ever came back to Moscow. Most of my Russian friends mock me for being 'too Ukrainian' and most of my Ukrainian friends laugh that I am more Ukrainian than they are. I was also married to a Ukrainian. 

All of this is to say: that it’s hard – if not impossible – to accuse me of any sort of pro-Russian sentiment. 

Alina put a forkful of pasta in her mouth. After she washed it down with wine, she continued, 'Every day I wake up and wish that we just burn those fuckers. I want to see their kids die. I want to see all 144 million Russians burn in hell.' 

'Um,' I said, carefully choosing my words, 'Can we please just maybe not talk about it? You know my position, it’s just that…um, I have some family in Russia and I am not really feeling it when you talk that way in my house.' 

Alina dropped her fork and stared at me in shock, as if I had just confessed to be a serial killer. 

When I felt like she might punch me, she said, 'Now you’re showing your true colours.' 

---

During those five horrible weeks, Alina’s typical day started at 12 PM. I would come back from a run and already have a couple of work calls, and wanted to get breakfast. But because she occupied the only communal space we had in the flat, it was hard not to feel like I was intruding on her privacy every time I wanted a glass of water. 

'I have so much work to do,' Alina moaned every morning. I would clean up, place the dishes in the dishwasher, then go to a nearby cafe. When I came back, several hours later, Alina would be sitting at the same place I left her, scrolling TikTok. 

'Don’t you have work to do?' I asked her once. 

'Yeah…,' she said. And that was it.  

Alina worked as a PA to a CEO at an IT company. Or so she said. That’s a lot of acronyms to describe a job where her main duties involved checking her boss’s emails. A chimp could do that. But throughout the entire five weeks that she stayed with us, I haven’t seen her work – not once. Also, never mind that she didn’t pay rent, she never contributed to the groceries – not once. 

Every time the three of us went out, I paid. Which I am happy to do for my family, but Alina wasn’t family. Bringing up the topic of 'Why should I pay for all of us?' was out of the question because it would have made me look cheap. Where I come from, the culture is still rooted in the Medieval Ages, where the unspoken understanding is that all men are The Providers and women are just supposed to be beautiful. Like houseplants. 

Once, I walked into the living room in the middle of the day to pour myself some coffee when Alina began changing right in front of me. 

'Uh,' I said, startled, diverting my gaze away, 'Sorry. I didn’t know you were…' 

'It’s fine,' she said. 'Just look the other way. I have nothing to hide. My body is my greatest asset.' 

I wanted to joke that that’s the motto of prostitutes or porn actresses but remembering our recent falling out, decided against it. I was on thin ice.

When I later told about it to my ex-wife, she became furious. 'You liked it, didn’t you? Didn’t you?' 

After two weeks of Alina at our place, I’ve had enough. I bought a one-way ticket to Rotterdam, to visit my sister hoping that when I returned, Alina would be gone. 

She wasn’t. 

---

When I came back, two weeks later, I found Alina lying on the couch, scrolling TikTok. Nothing had changed.

Except that the place that used to be my workdesk was now a pile of tampons, Alina’s clothes, and mascara boxes. The smell of perfume in the room made my eyes water. 

If before I felt like I didn’t have enough personal space, now I just had an eerie feeling of living inside a girl’s changing room at the school gym. 

'She has to leave,' I told my ex-wife the first day I was back. 'I can’t do this anymore. I hate her.' 

'I think you like her. Don’t think I notice how you look at her?' 

'No,' I replied. 'I really really hate her.' 

Things became weird shortly afterwards. There’s a moment in living with someone else, especially if there are more than two people in the house when a certain weight appears in the air. Everyone can feel it and yet everyone keeps pretending it’s not there.

'I feel like you have something going on in your relationship,' Alina said to us one evening. 'And it affects me. It’s hard for me to be around you guys.' 

I wanted to hit her with a stick. My teeth clenched, I replied, 'We’re just not used to having people around so much.' 

'If you want me to leave so much, why wouldn’t you just tell me?' 

'Yes,’ I said. ‘I want you to leave. Please leave.' 

'What did I do to you? Why are you being so horrible to me?' 

That night, my ex-wife told me I needed to learn to behave and that she was ashamed of me. I considered buying another ticket to Rotterdam. 

But in a few days, something miraculous happened. Either out of spite or desperation, Alina bought a ticket for home. 

---

On the way to Liverpool Street Station, I was in an incredibly great mood. But Alina wasn’t finished just yet. As we were riding in the Tube, she said, 'You know guys, I don’t know how you can live like this. London is horrible.' 

Once we reached the station, Alina didn’t have money for the airport train. 

'Didn’t you receive a paycheck like yesterday?' I asked. 

'I spent it all on souvenirs!' she replied. 'And I–

But before she could finish, I was already en-route to the ticket office to buy her a one-way ticket to Stansted. It was the best thirty pounds I’ve spent that spring. 

As we boarded her on the train, Alina burst into tears. I experienced a strange feeling of doing something wrong. Here we were, in safe London, and this poor girl was about to travel 36 hours back to a war zone. I suddenly felt guilty for the way I treated her. Perhaps I should have been more understanding, I thought. 

But then Alina said, 'You know, I thought that my salary wasn’t enough but I must say, I was surprised that I could actually afford London!' 

My guilt disappeared as if switched off by a remote. 

I said goodbye and before Alina had a chance to respond, I quickly walked to the platform exit. 

---

Of course, I was only half-serious when eighteen months later I told my girlfriend Masha I wouldn’t want anyone to stay in our flat. We still have visitors and I love being a host, though I tend to be very picky about it. If you want to stay at Hotel Serge, it’s easy: just fill out a few forms and send me your tax records and, ideally, a recommendation letter from all of your friends. 

But in that moment, as I walked to the platform exit, watching people rush the opposite way to catch a train that would take them to holidays, honeymoons, business trips, or unknown journeys, I promised myself I would never host anyone again. And with that realisation, for the first time in more than a month, I felt something resembling peace. 

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