face.
Chapter 13
Bollywood here we go
After I've worked my way through a mountain of pastries and a gallon of coffee Eva finally emerges in the hotel foyer, where I'm breakfasting, and sits down opposite, her hair all mussed up like it was after her night of passion with Carlos. Before I can ask her if the crazy hair is down to doing the Male Model last night, she pops a grape in her mouth, raises an eyebrow and says, "I feel like shit. How about you?"
"Dreadful. It feels like someone's playing the bongos inside my head. And I have absolutely no idea how we got home last night. Maybe you could enlighten me."
She shakes her head and looks at me blankly. "‘Fraid not. But at least we got back. That's all that matters, right?"
"I suppose so." I slurp my coffee. "I noticed that you and Male Model hit it off." She nods.
"I just thought, what with your hair all sticking up, that you and he might have …"
"What?" Her eyes twinkle with mischief.
"You've done the dirty deed, haven't you? Where is he?" I glance around at the guests having breakfast. "Or is he still in your room?"
"Not to my knowledge." She beams. "I didn't sleep with him. I think I'd remember that. And my hair's this way because I forgot to pack my hair mousse, that's all." She pops another grape in her mouth. "Anyhow, I don't know why you keep calling him Male Model. For starters, he's not tall enough to be a model, and his ears stick out just a tad, and his front teeth cross over," she says, chewing thoughtfully.
"Okay, the Count, whatever. What's the difference? Since they didn't get a shag, I doubt we'll be hearing from them again," I say, vigorously dunking an almond croissant into my cup and splashing coffee all over the tablecloth. I'm having a sudden flustered recollection of how uncomfortably aroused the Marquis made me feel, swiftly followed by a shudder of cold dread as an image skitters across my aching brain of that moment when I came home unexpectedly and interrupted Ben fucking his secretary on our bed. What that should have to do with the Marquis, I have absolutely no idea, apart from that maybe, just maybe I need to do what you've been telling me to do all along. That until I flush Ben out of my head my emotions will continue to be frozen, lost in deepest Antarctica. Would the Marquis have been able to thaw them, do you think? Well, shit, I'll never know now.
Eva snaps me back to the present. "Actually, the Count called my room half an hour ago and asked if we'd like to meet them later at some cake shop called Demel's."
My ears perk up at the mention of cake. "What did you tell him?"
"What do you think? If you want to skulk around the hotel like an old spinster with a dried up old hymen between her legs, you go right ahead. But I'm here to have a good time." As she talks her eyes fill with tears. I can tell she's thinking about McManus and is wishing he were here. At the same time she hates herself for thinking it.
"Well, okay, I'll come along. I don't want those two taking you for a ride. You're very vulnerable right now."
"There's nothing wrong with the Count. It's the other one that's all twisted."
I shrug. Maybe she's right. Maybe the Count is a decent guy. What do I know about men? I misjudged Ben didn't I?
"Right then, let's go," I say briskly. "If I don't get away from these pastries, I'm likely to explode."
This time I remember to take the city guide. We turn left outside the hotel and saunter along the Ringstrasse, which encompasses the First District, where, I read, all the well heeled people reside. It's a clear sunny day, with a gentle breeze, which makes me feel, despite my throbbing head, glad to be alive. Carrying a tiny Louis Vuitton handbag, Eva teeters behind me in spiked red heels that wrap around her perfect ankles with red laces.
"I'm not sure how far you're going to get in those," I say.
She scrunches up her nose. "Why can't we take a taxi? I mean how far are we going for chissakes?"
"You can't get to know a
Chapter 13
Bollywood here we go
After I've worked my way through a mountain of pastries and a gallon of coffee Eva finally emerges in the hotel foyer, where I'm breakfasting, and sits down opposite, her hair all mussed up like it was after her night of passion with Carlos. Before I can ask her if the crazy hair is down to doing the Male Model last night, she pops a grape in her mouth, raises an eyebrow and says, "I feel like shit. How about you?"
"Dreadful. It feels like someone's playing the bongos inside my head. And I have absolutely no idea how we got home last night. Maybe you could enlighten me."
She shakes her head and looks at me blankly. "‘Fraid not. But at least we got back. That's all that matters, right?"
"I suppose so." I slurp my coffee. "I noticed that you and Male Model hit it off." She nods.
"I just thought, what with your hair all sticking up, that you and he might have …"
"What?" Her eyes twinkle with mischief.
"You've done the dirty deed, haven't you? Where is he?" I glance around at the guests having breakfast. "Or is he still in your room?"
"Not to my knowledge." She beams. "I didn't sleep with him. I think I'd remember that. And my hair's this way because I forgot to pack my hair mousse, that's all." She pops another grape in her mouth. "Anyhow, I don't know why you keep calling him Male Model. For starters, he's not tall enough to be a model, and his ears stick out just a tad, and his front teeth cross over," she says, chewing thoughtfully.
"Okay, the Count, whatever. What's the difference? Since they didn't get a shag, I doubt we'll be hearing from them again," I say, vigorously dunking an almond croissant into my cup and splashing coffee all over the tablecloth. I'm having a sudden flustered recollection of how uncomfortably aroused the Marquis made me feel, swiftly followed by a shudder of cold dread as an image skitters across my aching brain of that moment when I came home unexpectedly and interrupted Ben fucking his secretary on our bed. What that should have to do with the Marquis, I have absolutely no idea, apart from that maybe, just maybe I need to do what you've been telling me to do all along. That until I flush Ben out of my head my emotions will continue to be frozen, lost in deepest Antarctica. Would the Marquis have been able to thaw them, do you think? Well, shit, I'll never know now.
Eva snaps me back to the present. "Actually, the Count called my room half an hour ago and asked if we'd like to meet them later at some cake shop called Demel's."
My ears perk up at the mention of cake. "What did you tell him?"
"What do you think? If you want to skulk around the hotel like an old spinster with a dried up old hymen between her legs, you go right ahead. But I'm here to have a good time." As she talks her eyes fill with tears. I can tell she's thinking about McManus and is wishing he were here. At the same time she hates herself for thinking it.
"Well, okay, I'll come along. I don't want those two taking you for a ride. You're very vulnerable right now."
"There's nothing wrong with the Count. It's the other one that's all twisted."
I shrug. Maybe she's right. Maybe the Count is a decent guy. What do I know about men? I misjudged Ben didn't I?
"Right then, let's go," I say briskly. "If I don't get away from these pastries, I'm likely to explode."
This time I remember to take the city guide. We turn left outside the hotel and saunter along the Ringstrasse, which encompasses the First District, where, I read, all the well heeled people reside. It's a clear sunny day, with a gentle breeze, which makes me feel, despite my throbbing head, glad to be alive. Carrying a tiny Louis Vuitton handbag, Eva teeters behind me in spiked red heels that wrap around her perfect ankles with red laces.
"I'm not sure how far you're going to get in those," I say.
She scrunches up her nose. "Why can't we take a taxi? I mean how far are we going for chissakes?"
"You can't get to know a
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