Seductive Viennese Whirl (16 page)

Hammering on the occupied cubicles whilst calling her name swiftly draws me to the attention of a woman mopping the floor. "I am looking for a girl. Tall and thin, with black hair." The woman looks at me like I'm insane. "She was wearing a Chanel suit in this colour." I point to the woman's lime green overall. She beams in recognition. "Ah, Chanel, ja, ja." She points at an exit at the back of the toilet. "Der Arzt hat sie abgeholt."

I race through the door and down a hallway. I open a door marked ‘Airport Hospital' just in time to see a doctor with a handlebar moustache jamming a syringe into Eva's arm.

"What the hell are you doing?" I say, rushing over.

"Your friend," he says calmly, "is sick." Eva's closed eyelids flutter and she begins to moan. Over the moaning Dr Moustache continues. "She was passed out in the toilet. She said something about stomach cramps. Do you know if she still has her appendix?"

"No I bloody well don't."

"Is there any chance she could be pregnant?"

"I suppose so. But it's more likely to be some dodgy hot dogs she ate last night."

Then a plump nurse with a brown plait hanging down her back pushes me to one side and says, "Ruhe!" and inserts a drip into Eva's wrist. Eva clamps her teeth together and hisses something I don't catch. Her eyelids fly open and her eyeballs roll back in her head. Even in that state she looks cute, rather than how anyone else would, like an extra from ‘
One Flew Over the Cookoo's Nest
.'

"Soon she will be feeling much better," murmurs Dr Moustache.

"Eva, I'll be right back," I say, but she's started muttering, "das Geister Schloss," over and over again, and doesn't hear me.

I go back into the departure lounge. It's eight o'clock, nine o'clock London time. Sparky will already be in the office, poised to probe Eva on news on her weekend with McManus. I jam my credit card into a call box and screw the cap off a vodka miniature with my teeth.

"The Canter Agency," says Sparky, as I take a swig. cough several times as my insides turn to fire. "Can I help you?"

"Spar–" I start, stopping myself myself just in time. "Sandra. This is Kate. I've got myself in a bit of a jam."

"What's up, chuck?"

"Look, you haven't told Miss Craddock that Eva and McManus were going to Vienna this weekend?"

"‘Course not. I wouldn't tell that old bag anything."

"Good. Because McManus couldn't come because, well, never mind why. Anyway, all you need to tell her is that Eva and I are stuck in Vienna."

"
You're
in Vienna?" she says, her voice going all high pitched with excitement, like I'd said I was on the moon. When she's regained her composure her nosiness gets the better of her. "So where's McManus?"

I'm not sure Eva wants me airing her dirty laundry so I say, "He was called away on urgent business. Anyhow, we're at the airport and Eva is being treated for food poisoning in the hospital. So basically, I'm at her bedside until she recovers. I've missed the flight and will definitely have to miss this morning's meeting."

"Ooh," she says, sighing heavily. "It all sounds very interesting. Nothing like that ever happens to me."

"You'll explain to Miss Craddock?"

"Of course love, leave it to me," she cackles.

I wander back into the hospital where Eva is now propped up on one arm, going through the contents of her pink handbag.

"Did we miss the flight?"

I nod and sit down beside her. "How are you feeling?"

"A bit better. The thing is, the doc's asking me for my credit card to settle to the bill but I seem to have lost it."

"Oh Eva," I sigh.

"Well, you did say you wanted me to hurry, and while I was rushing out into the hotel foyer I tripped over a pot plant and everything spilled on the floor and now I can't seem to find it."

Dr Moustache approaches the bed, looking stern. "Ah, you have decided to come back," he says. "Eva tells me she cannot find her credit card. I take it you have not misplaced yours?"

I giggle nervously. "Don't look at me. I never carry the things. And Vienna cleared me right out of cash, let me tell you. How much do you want, anyway?"

"Three hundred and fifty Euros." He thrusts the bill into my hand.

I take him to one side. "Eva's in Vienna to finalize her wedding arrangements. If you send the bill on to her fiancé, Count Alex von Pappenberg, I'm sure he would be only too happy to take care of it."

"Well," he looks dubious. "I suppose that will have to do." I write the Count's address on the top of the bill and hand it back to Dr Moustache who says, "I will come back once the drip has gone in." Eva dozes while I watch the second hand of the clock go round and round. After three quarters of an hour Dr Moustache returns and pulls the tube out of Eva's arm.

"You are quite sure you do not wish to transfer to the hospital?" he says. "They could run some tests. You may well be suffering from something much more serious."

"She is quite sure!" I say, dragging Eva off the bed. That would only mean bigger bills and the hospital staff might not be quite so daft as to let us walk away on the promise that the bill would be settled by a Count.

"How did you get out of paying?" says Eva, as we enter the departure lounge.

"Never mind." I walk over to the ticket desk, and holding my breath pull out my credit card.

"Two tickets to London."

"When for?" asks the girl at the desk with a perky grin.

"Today."

"Certainly madam." She fiddles about on her keyboard before mentioning a figure so ridiculously high I almost start to cry when I think of all the shoes and meals and bottles of wine I could have bought instead. But what choice do I have? We have to get back today. And if we don't want to swim the Channel, this is our only option. Grimacing, I hand over my card.

"Thanks Kate, I'll pay you back. Every penny." I'm not too sure about that. She's probably spent half a year's salary in two days in Vienna. It's also doubtful whether there's any credit left on her card, because when McManus took his love away, he also took away her Amex.

Now we're hanging around the airport waiting for our flight, which leaves at midday. Eva seems to have well and truly got over her food poisoning and is tucking into a Danish while scribbling on a pad of paper. I'm chewing meditatively on bread rolls smeared with butter and strawberry jam.

"There. A letter to the Count," she says, tearing the page out with a flourish and handing it to me, all sticky with icing from the Danish. My eyes dance over her terrible loopy handwriting. Some parts are almost indecipherable, but here's a bit I did manage to make out, just to give you some idea:

Once I came to I was in a hospital bed and my insides were being twisted into pretzels. The pain was at about the level I imagine is involved in childbirth. How I wish you could have been there to hold my hand. Just having you there would have made all the pain disappear. Maybe you could have slipped under the sheets and made it all feel so much better. Mmm, don't think I've forgotten our tussle beneath the sheets and how you nibbled all the way up my ....

No, this really will not do. She looks at me expectantly. "Well, what do you think? Have I hit the right tone?"

I throw down the sheet. "Well, frankly, no. Honestly Eva, what were you thinking?"

Despite the fact that her lower lip is trembling I go on. "References to insides – inappropriate. Reference to childbirth – likely to plunge him into commitment anxiety, and wanting him there beside or inside the hospital bed, well, it's a trifle needy, don't you think?"

She leans back in her chair, folds her arms and gives a huff. "I just wrote what came into my head. It's not my fault I don't have your way with words."

"Look, how do you want to be remembered? As a foxy chick who gave him a groovy time in the sack or a victim of food poisoning with a leaky behind?"

"I suppose you think you can do better?"

I'm not one to refuse a challenge, so I pick up the pad and start to write. The words come easily. How come I'm so good at this? It's not like I've had any practice. I mean, I never exchanged love letters with Ben. For four years we lived in each other's pockets. We were never apart long enough to need to write love letters. Maybe I was scared of writing down what I felt, because, well, because I really believed I did love him. Loved his goatee beard, his scar, his olivey skin, but most of all, loved his voice, powerful yet soft, an iron fist in a velvet glove. I can still remember how, in the last year of college, before we started dating, he strummed Dire Straits's
‘Romeo and Juliet'
on his guitar. From the first chords of the song it was like the floor had opened up beneath me and I was plummeting down a bottomless shaft. His eyes held mine while he sang, "You and me babe how about it?"

I'd fallen for it. Well, wouldn't you? Now I remember another line in the song:
When you gonna realize, it was just that the time was wrong?
Seems much more appropriate somehow. Still, I have to believe he loved me once. I guess he got bored and instead of breaking it off took the coward's way out and bedded Pamela or Patrice or whatever the hell she was called. I've blanked her name out, like I've blanked out a lot of things.

"Well, have you finished?" says Eva.

I realize I've been staring into space, chewing at the end of my pen. "Just getting my thoughts in order," I say and start writing. I keep going until it's time to board the plane.

"There," I say, as we're taking off. "Learn from the master. That's a love letter. Intriguing, playful, enigmatic, with a touch of—"

"Oh shut up and hand it over," says Eva, grabbing it out of my hands.

Ms Eva Black

The Airport Cafe

Schwechat Airport

Austria

12 August 2011

Dear Alex,

Whew, what an exhausting weekend. First off, just want to say that I was sorely pissed to wake up and not find you next to me. I'd hoped to find some apologetic little note under the silver salver, begging me to forgive you for rushing off, but instead found a clue for a game that seemed to be asking me to twist my mind into knots (if you'd wanted me to twist my body into knots I'd have been more than obliging - well, you know that). In my hung over state, figuring out the puzzlers wasn't an attractive option. Thank God I had Kate to help me or I would have never solved them. Incidentally, she says your friend the Marquis must have had a hand in thinking out those clues because she doesn't think you're that off the wall. Is she right?

So imagine my disappointment when, after a ride on that weirdo ghost train, I was handed a balloon by a gorilla. I'd so wanted to see you. What a let down. It's almost like you didn't want to meet up with me, which is quite an insult! Seriously though, the note mentioned you have problems with your sister, and I can quite understand that family loyalties take precedence over decadent games with yours truly. You must let me know how Anya's getting on. I remember what I was like at that age. You think you can handle things yourself, but you can't. You might have to take control of the situation and get her to see a specialist, even if you have to drag her kicking and screaming.

I'm recovering from a bit of a health scare. Nothing to be alarmed about, but I had a spot of food poisoning this morning. Some hot dogs at the Prater, if you must know. I still feel just terrible, but that may also be the aftermath of our excesses. I guess I've rather overdone it this weekend on both the drink and the sex front. Not that I'm complaining about the latter. Still, Kate and I missed our flight and we'll be late back at the office. No doubt, our tyrant of a boss, the Haddock, will start cracking the whip as soon as we're through the door.

What else? I told you a bit about my job. All pretty boring really, lots of yawninducing meetings with clients, but hey, a girl's gotta make a living somehow. The part I love is when I'm asked to cast a male model for a campaign. I get a real kick out of getting male lovelies to parade in front of me in their swimwear. Sometimes I gently squeeze their bums, as if testing a ripe peach. Once I've chosen the guy, I sometimes get to smear suntan oil onto his smooth, tan chest before the shoot. Those are the days I really don't mind getting out of bed to go to work. Looking at men posing under those bright lights is just so fucking intimate and makes me so hot that I do occasionally suggest to the model he stay behind to discuss a little business. Once the rest of the crew has packed up we waste no time in getting naked and getting straight down to business. Our studio has these big windows and I get a huge kick, knowing the people in the building opposite are watching me having a business meeting that, after much fierce debate, concludes in a very satisfactory outcome for both parties.

Whew, I feel a bit hot just writing all that. Don't even know why I told you. I guess I hoped it would make you hot too, only do know that I was thinking of you all the time I wrote it. Because I do like you a lot, and if you want me too, I could put all those boy toys to the back of my mind and concentrate on you exclusively. I could do a lot of things for you exclusively. Don't make me blush. You know what I'm talking about. Remember the fun we had with that bottle of champagne. I know it's corny as hell to lick bubbly off eachother, but wasn't it rather divine? (Eva filled me in. Well, I needed some detail if I was to write to my lover, didn't I?)

So anyway, do drop me a line if you like. Or if not, remember me fondly.

Love,

Eva

Not bad, hmm? I wrote it as if I were a ballsy chick, with a butt to die for and men queuing up around the block. In short, I pretended I was Eva. I even got this crazy high from writing it, which lasted all the way back into London. I - get this - practically bounced back into the office, waving at the Haddock who was cowering in her office. Eva was quite pleased with it too, although she pointed out that she'd never shagged any of the models, nor tested their bums for ripeness.