do is get over him as quickly as possible. If you go to the papers you'll blow your job. Is that what you want?"
"You're right, as usual. But I'm never going to be able to work with him again," she says shaking her head.
"Balls. By the end of this weekend you'll have forgotten all about McManus." I'm not sure I believe that myself, but what good is a friend if she can't make up a little white lie once in a while?
She stretches like a cat, tosses back her hair and purrs, "Let's get out of here."
Chapter 12
Royal flushed
Foolishly forgetting the city guide, we leave the hotel with no idea where we are headed. At some point though, we cross the Donaukanal, a dreary stretch of river under a bruised looking sky. We still haven't found a decent looking watering hole and the sky's beginning to spit needles of rain, which soon escalates to a downpour. There's nothing for it but to duck into a bar a few paces ahead, called Bricks. We go down some stairs until we're face to face with a woman in a white suit and white top hat, red cupid bow lips, blue false eyelashes and a heart of red jewels glued to her cheek.
"Wilkommen," she says theatrically, handing me a glass of champagne. For a moment I think she's going to burst into a rendition of, "Wilkommen, bien venue, welcome, to Cabaret ..." just like in the film. Instead, she says, "You are here for the Vernissage?"
I nod, not having a clue what she means, but grateful that we're out of the rain, and that I'm drinking a free glass of bubbly.
In the dim light I can make out that the walls and domed ceiling are exposed brick, no doubt the inspiration for the none too imaginative name of the place. Crystal chandeliers of pink glass hang from the ceiling, illuminated by bulbs shaped like red tongues of fire. Chains of glass drops in blue and purple hang down, and tinkle as Eva's head brushes against them.
Once we're settled in a booth I scan the clientele. The first thing that hits me is that Bricks is low on talent. The guys have long lank hair, wear baggy shorts and look like they're unemployed or unemployable.
I turn my attention to the women. One lady, sporting a flared leopard skin pantsuit and white high heels, throws me a disdainful look. Another, clad in prim office garb with a neat blonde bob nervously adjusts her spectacles.
I nudge Eva. "Hang on. Have you seen the legs on that?" I nod at Office Lady.
"As muscly as Martina Navratilova. So?"
"It's a bloke, stupid."
"Oh crap, trust us to end up in a trannie bar. Do you think we should get out?"
"Not while it's still happy hour," I say, pointing at a notice on the wall. "Mine's a Corona."
Eva slides out of the red plastic booth and crosses the dance floor, swaying her hips to the Latin beats the DJ's pumping out. Strobe lights swirl over her as she walks to the bar. The guys' eyes swivel in her direction.
On the walls, I take in the photos of leather clad Amazons grappling with tigers. Maybe a Vernissage is some kind of an art show, I figure. My eyelids are starting to droop when I see something that immediately revives my flagging spirits.
At the entrance, the door lady is beaming her welcome at two studly specimens. One, tanned, in a black shirt and beige linen suit speckled with rain shakes his mane like a golden retriever who's just bounded out of a pond. Eventually his hair settles into a perfect look of carefully tousled gorgeousness. Male Model's companion smokes a thin cigar and wears an expensive looking narrow black suit. He has a tall, rangy frame with shades of Al Pacino around the eyes and mouth. Dark and moody, and decidedly decadent. I can't believe my luck as they head to the booth next to mine.
I'm trying to look nonchalant when to my utter surprise Pacino starts giving me the eye. At first I think I he's looking at Eva over my shoulder, but when I turn around she's not there. I try (and fail miserably) to remain unflustered beneath his gaze. Out of the corner of my eye I can see Pantsuit pushing out
"You're right, as usual. But I'm never going to be able to work with him again," she says shaking her head.
"Balls. By the end of this weekend you'll have forgotten all about McManus." I'm not sure I believe that myself, but what good is a friend if she can't make up a little white lie once in a while?
She stretches like a cat, tosses back her hair and purrs, "Let's get out of here."
Chapter 12
Royal flushed
Foolishly forgetting the city guide, we leave the hotel with no idea where we are headed. At some point though, we cross the Donaukanal, a dreary stretch of river under a bruised looking sky. We still haven't found a decent looking watering hole and the sky's beginning to spit needles of rain, which soon escalates to a downpour. There's nothing for it but to duck into a bar a few paces ahead, called Bricks. We go down some stairs until we're face to face with a woman in a white suit and white top hat, red cupid bow lips, blue false eyelashes and a heart of red jewels glued to her cheek.
"Wilkommen," she says theatrically, handing me a glass of champagne. For a moment I think she's going to burst into a rendition of, "Wilkommen, bien venue, welcome, to Cabaret ..." just like in the film. Instead, she says, "You are here for the Vernissage?"
I nod, not having a clue what she means, but grateful that we're out of the rain, and that I'm drinking a free glass of bubbly.
In the dim light I can make out that the walls and domed ceiling are exposed brick, no doubt the inspiration for the none too imaginative name of the place. Crystal chandeliers of pink glass hang from the ceiling, illuminated by bulbs shaped like red tongues of fire. Chains of glass drops in blue and purple hang down, and tinkle as Eva's head brushes against them.
Once we're settled in a booth I scan the clientele. The first thing that hits me is that Bricks is low on talent. The guys have long lank hair, wear baggy shorts and look like they're unemployed or unemployable.
I turn my attention to the women. One lady, sporting a flared leopard skin pantsuit and white high heels, throws me a disdainful look. Another, clad in prim office garb with a neat blonde bob nervously adjusts her spectacles.
I nudge Eva. "Hang on. Have you seen the legs on that?" I nod at Office Lady.
"As muscly as Martina Navratilova. So?"
"It's a bloke, stupid."
"Oh crap, trust us to end up in a trannie bar. Do you think we should get out?"
"Not while it's still happy hour," I say, pointing at a notice on the wall. "Mine's a Corona."
Eva slides out of the red plastic booth and crosses the dance floor, swaying her hips to the Latin beats the DJ's pumping out. Strobe lights swirl over her as she walks to the bar. The guys' eyes swivel in her direction.
On the walls, I take in the photos of leather clad Amazons grappling with tigers. Maybe a Vernissage is some kind of an art show, I figure. My eyelids are starting to droop when I see something that immediately revives my flagging spirits.
At the entrance, the door lady is beaming her welcome at two studly specimens. One, tanned, in a black shirt and beige linen suit speckled with rain shakes his mane like a golden retriever who's just bounded out of a pond. Eventually his hair settles into a perfect look of carefully tousled gorgeousness. Male Model's companion smokes a thin cigar and wears an expensive looking narrow black suit. He has a tall, rangy frame with shades of Al Pacino around the eyes and mouth. Dark and moody, and decidedly decadent. I can't believe my luck as they head to the booth next to mine.
I'm trying to look nonchalant when to my utter surprise Pacino starts giving me the eye. At first I think I he's looking at Eva over my shoulder, but when I turn around she's not there. I try (and fail miserably) to remain unflustered beneath his gaze. Out of the corner of my eye I can see Pantsuit pushing out
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