In Love with a Gentleman (2 page)

Tom glares at me angrily, then says to another girl, “Hey, Carla, how about switching seats with Lea? I’d like to sit next to each of you beautiful girls before we arrive at the casino.”

I’m only too happy to swap with Carla. We have to climb over each other to switch places. Secretly, I’m thinking,
Ah, so that’s how it is. We’re not just decorative accessories, but subject to being groped, too.
I no longer have such a high opinion of Tom.

As I drop into my new seat, I casually look toward the front. I catch the eyes of the chauffeur through the rearview mirror. I blush a bit. Did he see what happened? I stare out the window. I doubt anyone could see anything in this dark car.

About an hour later, we drive up a steep hill. The old walls of the Hohensyburg Castle soar above us. The limo swings around the castle ruins and stops in front of an ultramodern glass building. It’s lit up like a giant lantern, illuminating the whole area. I’ve never been inside a casino, and I’m tingling with excitement.

We all climb out of the limo, and the cool night air embraces us instantly. Tom exchanges a few words with the driver, who restarts the engine and pulls into the parking lot a few hundred yards away.

Inside the building, it’s warm and bright, with music playing from somewhere. An elegantly dressed staff member welcomes us and checks our IDs. A group of Tom’s friends, who arrived in their own cars, joins us. I look around. They’re Tom’s fellow students, and, because he studies medicine and I’m an English major, I don’t know any of them. Honestly, I don’t know if I want to get to know them. All too often, the best students in school are nerds, and Tom’s friends bear this out. They’re med students and look lost in a casino. They’re dressed up, but it looks like most of them are wearing their confirmation suits for the occasion. I sigh. Uh-oh, this is going to suck!
Oh well. I intend to have a good time this evening, anyway. Somehow, I’ll make this work . . .

An hour later I am sitting on a bar stool, bored to death. I didn’t realize that this isn’t a hosted party and recklessly left my wallet at home. Some partygoers flit over to the gambling tables to try their luck. I watch for a while, but it’s not that exciting if you’re not gambling yourself. Others drift into the restaurant to get a bite to eat.

I feel a bit like Cinderella, although I don’t think I look the part. No lie—in the last half hour, at least ten middle-aged men approached me, asking if they could buy me a drink. I politely refused each time, and each gentleman staggered away, shoulders drooping.

But I’m dying of thirst. Tom, our cocky host, has approved only one glass of white Italian champagne for each partygoer—no more, no less. To be honest, I feel really, really terrible. I would be the perfect model for a drugstore poster. The title would be “Lea’s Condition at the Casino.” Under the title would be a picture of me in my great outfit, an arrow pointing at my throat with the word “Thirsty.” Another arrow would point at my belly with the words “Very hungry because she hasn’t eaten dinner and was on the road for over an hour.” Two arrows would point at my earlobes with “Traumatized by very heavy and too-tight clip-on earrings.” And two more would point at my feet with “In extreme pain due to too-tight shoes with heels that are far too high.” Perhaps a final arrow would point at my heart or my head: “Tired, disappointed, just wants to go home.”

What am I doing here? What the hell possessed me to participate in this event? My father was right. If I were more sensible, I wouldn’t have put myself in this stupid situation. Whatever. Something must be done. I absolutely must get out of these damned torture-shoes. I look around. Would anyone care if I just slip them off?

I kick one shoe to the floor. Almost immediately, a middle-aged couple walks by. The woman nudges her husband and points at me, not even very discreetly. He grins. I imagine they are saying, “Look at the woman at the bar with only one shoe. Probably already tossed back one too many.” They smirk at one another.

A moment later, another gentleman, definitely on the wrong side of forty, hurries over to me. “Excuse me,” he says. “You’ve lost your shoe. May I . . . ?”

Well, this certainly wasn’t what I intended. Pulling off my shoe was supposed to improve my situation, not complicate it.

“No, thanks,” I say coolly, and jump off my stool to slip on my torture-shoe again.

I have only one choice: I’ll go outside and take off my shoes there. My feet will be a little cold, but the way my toes feel right now, cold would be a blessing. I find the exit and step out into the night. I unclip my giant earrings, throw them into my handbag, and rub my painful earlobes. Ah, I feel so much better already. Then I slip both my shoes off. My thankful feet melt immediately.
I am not going to put these shoes back on again, even if that means I have to stay out here the whole night
, I think glumly.

I can still hear the music from the casino; it’s muffled, as if somebody turned down the volume knob on a radio. Inside, it smells of people, perfume, food, and alcohol. But out here, it’s beautiful. The air smells earthy and autumnal. I throw my head back. Dry leaves rustle in the treetops, and stars twinkle in the black night sky.

After a while, I begin to pace back and forth. My feet are freezing cold, and if I stop, it feels like they will freeze solid. My aching feet bring me to the parking lot. Maybe I can wait in the limo until we go home? Hopefully the chauffeur is waiting until Tom and his troops decide they want to go back to Münster.

I’m in luck! I find the stretch limo and see that the light’s on inside. Maybe the chauffeur will let me sit in the backseat for a little while. I wouldn’t have to stay there the whole time—just long enough to warm up a bit.

I look through the window. He has taken off his hat and laid it on the passenger seat, revealing a shock of short blonde hair. He’s balancing his open laptop on his knees and is focused on the screen, completely oblivious to my presence. I drum on the passenger-side window with my freshly manicured nails.

He winces and looks up. When he sees me, he immediately presses a button and the window rolls down. “Yes?” he asks. “What can I do for you, miss?”

I rub my cold upper arms and look at him pleadingly. Lisa was right. The dress is definitely too skimpy for September. “Excuse me, sir. Would it be too much to ask to sit in the car?”

He rolls up the window again, reaches for the door handle, and pushes open the front passenger door. “No problem,” he says. “Come on in, miss.”

I breathe a sigh of relief. Actually, what I really want is to sprawl out on the backseat, but it doesn’t really matter. I drop gratefully into the passenger seat and close the door.

The chauffeur sees I’m barefoot and carrying my shoes in my hand. “Miss, if you’re Cinderella, then you’re a very prudent Cinderella,” he says, grinning. “After all, you didn’t lose your shoe.”

I look at my shoes and smile. “True,” I say, “but I wasn’t running away. I made a very deliberate retreat.”

“What, you didn’t dance with your prince?” he asks.

I sputter indignantly. “Ha! As if there was anyone even remotely resembling a prince in there—only a great big bunch of toads.”

The chauffeur apparently finds this very amusing, because he laughs loudly.

I examine his profile. He’s very handsome when he laughs; he has beautiful teeth and nice laugh lines at the corners of his eyes. Without his cap, he looks young, and I realize he’s not much older than I am.

My stomach rumbles audibly. “Excuse me, sir,” I say, embarrassed. “I’m starving.”

The chauffeur laughs again, but I don’t laugh along. My empty stomach is making it very hard for me to be cheerful. “You don’t happen to have anything in here, do you? Maybe some crackers or a piece of candy?” I ask.

“I’m sorry, miss,” he says, shrugging. “I had a sandwich, but I already ate it a while ago.”

“Some water maybe?” I know I sound like a cranky toddler, but in the face of starvation and dehydration, I waive all dignity.

The chauffeur furrows his brow. “Miss, are you saying they didn’t give you anything to eat or drink in such a swanky place?”

I nod and admit that I’d assumed Tom was paying for the food and drink and left my wallet at home.

The chauffeur shakes his head in disbelief. “Well, isn’t that something. Nice host! How dare he show off with a limo, then leave his guests high and dry.”

I nod vigorously. I see it exactly the same way.

The chauffeur looks at the clock on the dashboard. He seems to be thinking. Then he says, “Let me make a suggestion. It’s only ten thirty. I don’t think they’ll need my services before twelve thirty. If you promise not to say anything, we can drive into town and see if we can find a place to eat.”

A glimmer of hope warms my heart. I smile broadly. “There’s only one problem,” I say.

“And that is?”

“I don’t have a cent to my name.”

He waves it off. “It’s okay. I’ll loan you the money, and we’ll settle up in Münster. Buckle up, let’s get going.”

The heating system kicks in almost as soon as the car starts. It’s toasty warm. I wiggle my toes appreciatively and lean back on the softly cushioned seat. I suddenly think to myself,
Actually, you could be a little less trusting
. The seemingly helpful driver could be a rapist, driving deep into the forest to attack me. But when I turn and examine the man, I realize my concerns are probably unfounded. He certainly looks like a nice guy.

I decide to make small talk to lighten up the atmosphere. “How long have you worked as a chauffeur?” I ask.

“Since tonight at seven thirty,” he answers.

I hesitate a bit. “What? You’re completely new to this job?”

He shakes his head. “No, not really. I drive occasionally, mostly on the weekends. I’m a student and earn a little money part-time.”

I’m surprised. So, that’s it! I thought I was supposed to play the role of fine lady from a genteel background, but it turns out that we’re both just students. Maybe we’ve even passed each other on campus. Who knows?

“So, if you don’t mind my asking, sir, what are you studying?”

He gives me a sideways glance. “I propose we stop being so formal, but only if that’s okay with you . . . miss. If we had met in the cafeteria, we wouldn’t talk to each other like that.”

“Okay, that’s a good idea,” I reply. “Well, what are you studying?”

“I’m in my senior year of studying information technology. And you?”

“I’m studying English and history.”

“So you want to be a teacher?”

“I hope so—if it works out. But information technology sounds very exciting, too. What will you do with it?”

He shrugs. “We’ll see. First, I’ve got to complete my degree. It’s a lot of fun.”

“Was that what you were doing on your laptop?”

“Yes, I have an assignment due tomorrow.”

“Oh boy, I’m keeping you from your work. That’s not good,” I say. I suddenly feel bad.

“True, but I don’t have the opportunity to meet Cinderella every day. Sometimes a person needs to be flexible.” He smiles.

We stop in front of an Italian restaurant. Little lanterns light up the window ledges. It looks like they’re still open. The chauffeur turns off the motor and pulls the parking brake.

“By the way,” he says, “my name is Jens.”

“And I’m Lea.”

“Well, let’s go in, Lea, and see if we can find something to eat.”

Jens gets out, and before I can find the door handle, he appears by my window and opens the passenger door.

“Thank you! Such great service.”

“Force of habit,” he replies.

As I move to get out of the car, I realize that I’m barefoot.

“Crap, I have to put these things back on.”

“Oh nonsense!” says Jens. “I don’t think anyone will notice you don’t have any shoes on.”

I place my feet on the pebble-covered ground. “Ouch, I’m getting a free foot massage here.”

“Wait a minute,” Jens says. “I need to change, then I’ll help you to the door.”

He slips out of his uniform jacket and throws it past me onto the driver’s seat. Then he grabs a gray sweater out from under my seat and pulls it over his white shirt. He looks like a normal guy now. I realize he’s quite burly and not very tall. Well, it’s a good thing I’m not wearing my heels, or I would tower over him. He offers me his arm. I gratefully accept and cling to him with both hands as we walk into the restaurant. He feels strong and stable through the sweater.

The restaurant is busy, which I interpret as a good sign. The food must be good. The people here aren’t dressed as glamorously as those at the casino, but it’s a good-looking crowd. And it smells delicious—like tomatoes, pizza crust, and garlic. I’m dizzy with hunger.

The waiter leads us to a two-person table in the corner. Of course, Jens was right; no one notices that I don’t have any shoes on. Still, it feels a bit odd to stroll inside a restaurant in stocking feet.

“Something to drink?” The waiter whips out his order pad and looks at me questioningly. I’m relieved he’s taking our orders right away.

“Oh, yes,” I say. “Please bring me a large pilsner!”

Jens looks at me and smiles. “That bad, huh?”

“Worse than bad,” I reply.

He orders a cola for himself.

I’m so hungry I’d like to get everything on the menu, but I order the tortellini in a cream gorgonzola sauce. My mouth starts to water even as I’m ordering. Jens orders a pizza.

A few minutes later, the waiter places our drinks in front of us, and I don’t hesitate before taking a long, deep gulp of my beer. Divine! I feel like a burning house that’s finally been extinguished.

Jens watches me with an amused look on his face. “The only thing that’s missing is steam rising out of your throat,” he says.

I put down the glass and catch my breath. “You have no idea how thankful I am. You’ve saved my life. If I had to wait any longer for a drink, I guarantee you I would have died of dehydration. They could have taken me right to the morgue.”

“I can’t believe that a pretty girl like you couldn’t get a drink at the casino,” he says.

I can feel my face darken. “Men aren’t content to see me drinking by myself. I would have to talk with them—and who knows what else.”