Never Trust a Callboy (11 page)

There must be something funny, because he smiles at me. But his eyes don’t smile with his mouth. I watch him like a hypnotized rabbit while he slowly approaches me. I take a step backwards. But he stands before me.

I can smell his breath, and it’s really not pleasant. I take another step backwards. But I can’t go any further. Rambo is behind me, motionless, like a rock. I am caught between them.

Sweat runs down my back, even though I’m actually cold. Blondie slides his index finger under my spaghetti strap. He pulls me closer to him, so close that my breasts touch his shirt and I feel his breath on my face. And then I feel something else, further down, and I’m almost sick.

He watches me with an amused smile, rubbing his hands along my body. His fingers dig into my skin, hurting me, but he is almost gentle at the same time as he gingerly traces a line up my thigh. Slowly, unstoppable. Until his fingers are there, where they shouldn’t be.

NO!

The word resounds in my head like a scream, but no sound comes out.

"You’d better watch that you make amends, all right sweetie. You’ve really pissed someone off." He whispers it so tenderly in my ear, as if he were my lover. "If you're not very, very good, a nice little rape will be the best thing that happens to you."

He looks down at me. That smile again. And then he lets me go, so suddenly that I stumble backwards where I am stopped by Rambo. He gives me a small nudge forward and I almost crash into Blondie, but I catch myself. My breath comes intermittently. I’m hyperventilating. My legs give way and I fall. I’m no longer aware of my surroundings as I hit the floor.

B
lood!

Confused I stare at my hand, turning to look at the front and back to see where I’m injured.

Nothing.

Weird! There must be a reason... And then I remember. The two men: Rambo, and Blondie. The threat that Blondie made. His hand, the...

With a start I jump up and run to the bathroom. I make it to the toilet just in time before I throw up. With a nasty taste in my mouth I lean over the sink to wash it out.

I hate my life!

I fumble my way back into the living room of the suite with shuffling steps, like I'm a hundred years old. I head for the bar, because if there’s one thing I need, it's alcohol. Although there is nothing to celebrate, I drink champagne. I’ve already had a few glasses, when someone knocks on the door. On command, my heart starts to race. Who is it? Have they come back again to finish what they started?

I hear a faint whimper, turn my head puzzled to see where it came from, and then realize that it came from me. Again there's a knock. A little louder this time.

Without moving, I wait.

"Tamara, are you there?"

Christian. I'd forgotten all about him. I'm not in the mood to receive a callboy. But on the other hand, it means that I will not be alone tonight. At that thought, I jump up and hurry to the door. I open it and step aside to let him in.

"Hi," He greets me with an amused smile that evaporates quickly as he looks at me. A little too late I realize that I should have taken a look in a mirror.

"What happened?" he asks. He looks at me with his eyes full of worry. Uncertain I play for time by pushing a lock of hair behind my ear. I have no idea what I should tell him, or rather, which lie to tell to deflect his interest. My eyes fall on my hand, there is still a faint trail of blood. I had forgotten that.

"I stumbled. Earlier. Excuse me for a moment." With these words I turn around and hurry into the bathroom. The sight that greets me in the mirror takes my breath away. I look like I had a fight with a hurricane. No wonder he looked so worried. I wash my face with agitated movements then yank a brush through my hair until I look halfway normal again. I conjure up a smile and go back into the living room.

"I'm sorry that I welcomed you so disheveled. I think I must have fainted, and I wasn’t entirely with it."

"Should I call a doctor?" He sounds worried.

“No. No, I'm already feeling much better. Really. It was just a stupid accident; I tripped over my own shoes, what an idiot." I try, with a shaky laugh, to give the whole matter a humorous twist. I can read on his face that I have failed miserably. Nevertheless, he takes my hand.

"Maybe it's better if you sit down." With these words he leads me to a chair and pushes me gently down on to it. Relieved I let him take the initiative. It's nice not to be alone. As long as he's here, no one will hurt me.

"No! Stop!" I strike out, defending myself against the hands that push me down. I have to go. I have to run as fast as I can.

"Tamara! Tamara, wake up!"

It takes a moment for the words to break into my consciousness.

"What... What happened?" I ask, and try to recognize something in the dark. Suddenly bright light floods into the room, burning my eyes.

"You had a bad dream," Christian responds. I look around confused. We're in the bedroom of the suite. Christian is lying next to me. While his side of the bed looks almost tidy, you'd think I’d been fighting a whole army. The cushions are all bunched together in a heap at the top of the bed, and the blanket looks like I was using it as a punching bag.

"I'm sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you up," I say and try to rearrange the pillows into what could be considered their normal form.

With a sigh, he sits himself down. "What are you afraid of?"

"Afraid? What do you mean?"

"Tamara. I have never seen anyone have a panic attack in their sleep, let alone numerous panic attacks. Not to mention your nightmares. This was not the first bad dream you've had tonight. Believe me."

"Oh. It's just that, I've recently broken up with my boyfriend, and the whole thing has really hit me hard," I tell him this in the hope that he’ll have no more questions.

"Did he hit you?"

"No! Ron would never do such a thing. I really did stumble earlier and hurt myself. Maybe I shouldn’t drink so much champagne," I add ruefully. Inwardly I squirm. I hope he believes this story. After some time he speaks again.

"So?" Still suspicious, he looks at me intently.

"I get the impression that I don't know him as well as I thought I did. He is capable of things that I would never have imagined possible."

"Come here." Christian approaches me and puts his arms around me. "As long as I'm with you, you need not be afraid," he whispers in my ear.

W
hen I wake up the next morning the bed next to me is empty. There is a note on the bedside table. "Call me if you need me." My head is pounding, and the bright sunlight that is passing through the curtain and into the room is hurting my eyes. I wish I was dead. Then at least the headache would stop. I would also be saved from the chaos that my life has become. With great effort I try to shake off these gloomy thoughts. But it’s not easy. A depression lurks in the background of my consciousness, just waiting for me to give into it.

Ibiza! If there are no free flights I’ll just have to drive there. First I have a lot of things to sort out, but then there is nothing to keep me in Germany. Now, in the daylight, my fear fades a little. They won't hurt me. I’m certain of that! I just need time. Five million can’t be transferred from one account to another in a matter of minutes. They will surely admit that! Assuming it was the money that Blondie and Rambo meant...

With a frustrated groan, I rub my eyes. At the moment, I really hate my life, and I can’t even manage to have a satisfactory night with Christian. This time there is also no memory of sex. Only this time, I know why: there was none. Yesterday I was happy that he just held me in his arms. I wasn’t capable of more. That's the advantage when you pay five hundred euros, my cynical mind adds. You can determine what does, or doesn't, happen.

At least it brought me one night free from fear, I counter. Then I realize that I have to stop talking to myself. Right now! Otherwise I’ll find myself in a psychiatric institution.

It’s all Ron’s fault, is my next thought. I'm not sure how, but somehow he's behind all this. The corpse. The cheating definitely. And then the two dark figures who threatened me yesterday.

A deep sigh accompanies this realization. I am neither a private detective nor am I particularly courageous. How the hell do I escape this mess?

I want my life back! I want my days to be free of fear again. So I will take equally drastic measures as Ron has, and then we will see. Even though my head still hurts and I suspect that it may be twice as big as usual, I grab my phone and call him. Ron's sleepy voice answers.

I bark "in the future keep me out of your problems," into the receiver.

"Tamara, is that you?"

"Of course it is! Who else would it be? Do you have so many ex-girlfriends, that you no longer recognize me on the phone?"

Silence. He has no answer to that. Moreover, he is not alone, because next to him a sleepy voice asks what’s going on.

"Make sure that I'm no longer bothered, or I’ll go to the police, and then I'll tell them everything. Everything!"

My voice has a shrill tone, I realize that I'm hysterical. But it’s hard to remain calm when fear and anger are raging inside me. I’m fighting a battle which threatens to get out of control.

"What are you talking about?" For the first time since I've known him, Ron sounds somehow weird. Panicked.

"You know exactly what I'm talking about," I say.

"No, I have no idea, Tamara. But one thing is certain, it would be better if you stopped taking those tablets. They don’t agree with you."

I interrupt him impatiently.

"I’m coming to your office this afternoon. We have to plan the sale of the house. I just need a Power of Attorney for the agents. And then I'm out of your life. Forever."

"Tamara, I..."

Without waiting for an answer, I hang up. I don't want to hear more lies and evasions.

A few hours later I enter the business premises where Ron can always be found, even on a Sunday. For years now he’s driven into work for a few hours every weekend. Allegedly, because that’s the only time the office is quiet and he can work on important documents.

Ron works in the Westend, the part of Frankfurt where the wealthy live. There, in an old mansion, are the premises of the private bank of which he is Managing Director. The building exudes an old world charm with its high ceilings, shiny parquet and the hint of money, which seems to float though the rooms.

"Good afternoon, Miss Hartwig," the doorman who is always on duty at the weekends greets me. With a nod and a smile I hurry past him. I’d like to get our meeting over with as quickly as possible so I can disappear out of Ron’s life. Forever.

With a sluggish feeling in my stomach I enter his office and am astonished when he walks around his desk, his hand outstretched towards me then draws me in and kisses me on the cheek.

"I’m glad you're here," he says. Has he lost his mind? After everything that's happened, this empty phrase is all he can think to say? Ron just smiles as though this greeting was the most normal thing in the world.

"Won’t you sit?" He points to the leather chair standing before his desk.

"Yes, of course," I answer. "You look well," I add, playing along with his game. Why should I be the only one who wonders about the behavior of the other?

"Would you like a drink? A cup of coffee, or a water?" parries Ron managing to make me feel for a second like just another customer of the bank who wants a loan.

“No. No thanks. I don't want anything. I won’t keep you from your work."

"You’re not. I have time. You are, after all, still the most important thing in my life." Ron leans forward over his desk. He smiles at me, an unspoken request in his eyes. But before he can speak, I do: "you have to sign this agreement, so that the estate agent can be active on our behalf. Also, I've prepared a Power of Attorney so that you can complete the purchase agreement during my absence. But only if I have signaled my agreement before the broker." With these words I pass him the document, without waiting for his comments.

"If that's what you want," says Ron and speed reads the agreement, then he nods. "Seems fine to me." He signs and hands the papers back to me. "But I was hoping we could talk about something other than the end of our relationship."

"I don't know what you could possibly want to talk about."

"Tamara." Ron gets up, walks around his desk and drops onto his knee next to my chair. "Honey, I know it's asking a lot. But can you not forgive this mistake? Of course I don't expect you to marry me now. We can postpone the wedding. But that doesn't mean that it all has to be over!"

Ron looks at me imploringly, and I realize I’m wavering in my resolve. His expression is so honest, so contrite. If he had not cheated on me with somebody else, I would probably risk it; give him a chance; trust in his love again; but I back away from him, stand up and take a few steps to the side to gain distance.

"No!" I shake my head. "It’s not going to happen Ron. I can’t have a relationship that isn’t based on trust." My words are true, even if they reflect only half the truth. A feeling of sorrow overwhelms me. I was so hoping that Ron would be different. I believed so deeply that he was the right one.

"Are you really ready to give everything up, because of one tiny hiccup?"

"Ron. This tiny hiccup happened four weeks before our wedding! How could you? How could you do this to me and believe I would forgive you?"

"I... I don't know why I did it." Ron runs his fingers through his hair and stands up. "I’ve been very stressed lately. And then the wedding, the bickering with your mother. I don't know what was wrong with me." Ron spreads his arms in a helpless gesture. "But I had hoped you might love me enough that you’d be willing to give me a second chance!"

“No. I can't do that. I'm sorry."

Disappointment spreads across Ron's face. And something else: anger maybe. But before I can be sure he conjures up a half-hearted smile.

"That's such a shame, I regret my behavior. You have to believe me."

Instead of answering, I just nod, because I don't trust my voice. I’m angry with Ron, he’s evil for betraying my trust and destroying our relationship, but still I can't stop the feeling of sadness which takes possession of me.