Never Trust a Callboy (7 page)

It's late as I finally arrive at the Mainhatten Hotel. The brightly-lit hotel is like an oasis to me, so happy am I that I can take refuge here. From now on, I will concentrate only on the positive aspects of my money and my origins, I decide as I walk through the sliding doors and over the black marble that dominates the entrance. Shortly afterwards, I find myself travelling upwards in the lift and am released onto the twenty-sixth floor. The first thing I do when I arrive in the suite is to slip out of my shoes. My feet sink into the expensive carpet which feels as smooth and soft as moss.

Despite my depressed mood, the skyline spread out before my eyes pulls me into its spell. The city is beautiful at night. The roads are winding through the canyons like glittering ribbons, everywhere the lights of homes and street lights sparkle like jewels. For a long time I am immersed in this vision. Gradually the tension of the last few days starts to fade.

If only it could always be like this! Why can’t I turn back the clock to last week? Back then my life was all in order. I was in love with Ron and had no other worries than planning our wedding.

He should burn in hell! The ugly thought destroys my calm. I had actually planned to enjoy this evening and shake off all thoughts of Ron and his infidelity. I have to forget the dead body as well, and the fear that has accompanied me the last few days. But it's not as easy as I thought. The conversation with Reinhard has once again pushed me into an abyss of doubt and fear and confronted me with the sad realization that I have no idea what kind of person Ron is. For a moment, I think about whether I should get my trusty little helpers out of my handbag and escape into the unconscious fog of sleeping pills. But then I reject the idea. Never again! In the future a herbal tea will have to do when I can’t sleep.

And how could I have been so stupid? Why did I want to go through with a marriage, whose preparation has already made me so stressed it necessitated the use of drugs? If anything I should have been lying in bed sleepless with joy!

"Ron, you fucking son of a bitch!" I turn away from the window. He has turned my life into a rollercoaster ride. And then there’s the dead body! I'm now sure that Ron had something to do with this drama. There are too many inconsistencies, too many strange events. Even though I understand very little of what has happened in the last few days, one thing is clear in all the chaos: my ex is not the person I thought he was.

The water flows into the bath tub with a quiet murmur. Steam rises, enveloping me and obscuring the mirror image, which showed a sullen-looking woman. I enjoy the delicate fog which is making everything unreal, and which also helps make the feeling of being at sea that much stronger.

For the bathroom the Mainhatten has come up with something really extravagant. The entire room is designed so that it looks as though you are on a beach in the Caribbean. Real Palm trees bend over the huge tub which sinks into the ground. At first glance, the floor looks like a sandy beach. All body care products are displayed on either coconut husks or banana leaves.

And then the view! It is not the ocean stretching before me but rather a city which is enveloped in a sparkling coat of lights. All of Frankfurt lies at me feet. And yet I'm still tense like a too taut bowstring. In an effort to let something resembling calm enter my mind, I close my eyes and lean my head back.

But even that doesn't help. The longer I think about the events of the last few days, the more angry I get. Ron with his hypocritical posturing. His phony questioning on how I could think something so terrible of him!

Ha! I can think much more about him, and none of it is positive.

I want revenge! Why should he get away unscathed, while I have to deal not only with his infidelity, but also with the stranger, who was somehow killed in our house without my knowledge?

Maybe Ron killed the man; just as the night before this idea makes me hesitate. Yesterday I scribbled it on a sheet of paper, without consciously thinking about it. Maybe my subconscious is trying to tell me something. Maybe I know more than I think I do? Either that or I'm going crazy.

But that doesn't matter now. What’s important is that I want to get back at Ron. I'll cheat on him too, even if it is pretty much too late for that, given the fact that, as far as I'm concerned anyway, we're no longer a couple. And if he has already found the hotel receipt, which I glued to the front door, he at least has a clue that our relationship is down the drain.

Frustrated, I swipe through the bubbles with my hand. I have failed across the board. Why did I never want to admit how important success and wealth are to Ron? I know that he is enormously ambitious. That he always wanted to climb higher. What could be better for him than to marry me? Daughter of one of the most influential bankers in Germany. And not only that. My father owns the De Beer Bank, now lead by my brother. Reinhard is just my half-brother, but nevertheless, he is following my father's footsteps, not me.

For a moment, I lose myself in the past. I see the disappointment on my father’s face when I tell him I want to study art instead of business. Only a week later he responded by announcing that Reinhard, the son of his second wife, would become his successor. Although I would have gladly continued the family tradition, I had to free myself of my father, shake off his dominance over me. Since then I’ve used my mother's maiden name, because I wanted a visible sign. After our now cancelled wedding I was planning to start a new job as Assistant to the Managing Director in a renowned Frankfurt art gallery. A fact which has irritated my father no end and led to many sarcastic comments.

Despite these differences with my father, Ron was hoping he could perhaps lead the Bank one day by Reinhard’s side, and it would appear he had almost reached this goal. The son of a bitch!

Even Nana has more success with men than I do. I continue this dark train of thought. Nana! I thought my mother had exaggerated as usual, but after our meeting this afternoon I am convinced, she's right. Nana is in love. And even if she's not in love, she’s most definitely having more fun in bed than I am!

"If you have any sense whatsoever, you’d follow her example and enjoy yourself, instead of sinking into melancholy," I admonish myself loudly.

An idea settles in my head. An impossible, unimaginable... Before I can reconsider, I reach for the phone and dial reception. A young man answers.

"Get me a callboy. In my suite, in an hour."

"Excuse me?"

"Don’t act stupid. You do it for the men who stay here all the time. Earn your commission and send someone who is good to me. The best." With these words, I hang up and sink with a deep sigh into the foam. The sigh is joined by a moan, as I realize what I’ve just done. What was I thinking? A callboy! I must have completely lost my mind.

I spend the next few minutes wandering aimlessly in my suite. I try to tame my hair, to create some semblance of order and to decide whether I should wear something and, if so, what. Unfortunately, I'm not very good at multi-tasking, and so I stop with the pointless tasks and focus instead on the most important question: what should you wear when you receive a professional lover?

I’m still standing perplexed in front of the wardrobe, staring horrified at the wild conglomeration, as someone knocks at the door. Damn it. That was quick. Now, at least the dress question is settled. I'll open the door in a bathrobe.

My heart beats in my throat as I cross the room to let in the stranger. It isn’t beating too uncomfortably, but I would rather be relaxed and ready. As if it were an everyday occurrence, paying a man to spoil me in bed.

With a deep breath, I open the door.

"Hi, I'm Christian," the Adonis who stands before me greets me. Dark brown eyes look at me amused. He has dark blonde hair and a slim, toned figure. Everything about him is just right. A smile creeps on to my lips.

He's wearing a pair of jeans that are just a little bit shabby, it looks sexy. He’s also wearing a white T-Shirt that’s almost as white as his teeth.

"May I come in?"

Oh! I realize only now that we are still standing in the doorway with me staring at him, as if I had never seen a man before.

"I'm sorry. I was just a little surprised," I say. Somehow I’ve lost the ability to speak. He looks so good! Soon, we will end up in bed, and I have no idea what to do. Although really I don’t need to do anything at all, after all I'm paying him. But still!

"I thought you had booked someone," he remarks when I do nothing but stand still stupidly gawking at him.

“Yes. No. I mean, sure, I did." Please God, send down a lightning blast and crush me. How am I managing to come across so stupid? It is time that I stop behaving like a complete idiot. Determined, I stop my babbling, turn around and lead the way. I head towards the living room to pour us some of the champagne which is open in an ice bucket.

That’s better. I was about to be the wife of a powerful man and organize elaborate business dinners. It would have been my job to be the consummate hostess who copes with any socially tricky situation. So I can definitely manage this.

"Oops," the consummate hostess stumbles and almost smashes her face into the bar, classy. Luckily, Christian caught me.

"You alright?"

“Yes. I just tripped. This stupid carpet." As if I hadn’t spoken, he pushes me gently to the side. Pours us two glasses of Champagne, passes me one and lifts his glass to toast. I get goose bumps, but not from the cold. Breathe deeply, I tell myself.
.

"I’ve never done anything like this before," I admit. Crap. Crap. Crap. Can’t I keep my mouth shut? So much for the woman of the world.

"It doesn't matter." He smiles, pulls me towards him and gives me a gentle kiss. Hmmm, he tastes like champagne.

"Relax." A shiver trickles down my back, then another. Light as a feather, his lips slip over my skin. How am I supposed to relax?

"What's your name?" The question comes up unexpectedly, because my attention was elsewhere, where he just kissed me. My breath comes faster and my body acts as if I hadn’t had sex for years.

"Tamara."

"Let's go, Tamara." With gentle pressure, he pushes me towards the bedroom.

In no time at all we are lying on the bed. Naked. At least I am, because he is still pulling his T-Shirt off over his head. God, he looks good. When was the last time I saw washboard abs up close? I can't remember.

He leans over and kisses me.

As if of their own accord my hands find their way to his belt.

"Not so fast." with a light grip he stops my fingers.

Not so fast? I'm about to explode.

He looks at me through half-closed eyes. His hands slide down over my body. His head follows them. He kisses my belly button, circling his tongue, and then he goes on. Yes!

But instead of going further, he kisses his way back upwards. No! No! With a grin, he looks at me, he knows exactly what I’m thinking. He gives me a long, detailed French kiss. God he’s driving me crazy. Can’t he go in the other direction?

Oh. Yes! I’m suddenly hot. That’s so good! And then all of a sudden I feel something cool, round. Curious, I open my eyes. Christian pulls a string of four silver balls slowly over my belly. He smiles as he sees my quizzical look.

"Trust me," he whispers.

G
od I feel terrible. With a groan, I try to move my eyelids. No chance. I must have drunk at least a bottle of champagne yesterday all by myself. Christian took only a few sips from his glass before we went into the bedroom and... What?

I have no idea what happened. If anything happened. I can’t have been so drunk that I have no memory of last night, can I? I painstakingly try to wrestle the information from my foggy head. Images emerge.

Christian leading me into the bedroom. The silver bullets. And then nothing. I paid five hundred euros for it and I can’t remember a thing! I have no idea whether or not we had sex. I get up the courage once in my life to pay for a lover, and then I have a gaping hole in my memory.

"Ow! Damn, that hurts." I made the mistake of turning my head. I’m going to be sick. I take a deep breath in an attempt to oust the nausea.

"Are you okay?"

The question hits me like a blow. Is he still here?

“Yes. No. Not really," I stutter. And then I rush to the bathroom. There my stomach empties itself of everything I've ingested recently, which is primarily champagne. How can you feel this bad and still be alive?

Now what I need is a shower. A long, hot shower. Maybe he'll be gone by the time I'm done. But then it occurs to me that I haven’t paid him. With a sigh, I lean my head back and let the hot water flow over my face.

When I come out of the bathroom, a cup of rich warm coffee is waiting for me on the bedside table. A plate with a bread roll coated in marmalade is standing next to it. The sight almost makes me throw up again.

"Better?" Christian looks at me expectantly and attempts to pass me the cup. Apparently the service goes beyond pure sex. I would prefer it if he would claim his money and go. Then I could loll around in self-pity and suffer in silence.

“Yes. Thank you for the coffee," I lie and take a sip with my eyes closed.

"I hope you enjoyed last night," he whispers in my ear, and I almost drop the cup.

"Uh. Yes. Of course. Maybe can we repeat the whole thing some time?" Maybe then I’ll remember something.

Amused, he looks at me. My rough answer has not escaped him, and I blush. It's happening again. I'm acting like an idiot who’s never been to bed with a good looking guy. To distract myself from my embarrassment I bite into the sandwich and hope that he thinks the redness in my face is the result of the hot shower.

"Call me, if you need anything. You can reach me at this number day and night."

He looks at me intently, like that piece of information is particularly important. Although, I don't imagine I'll suffer a sexual state of emergency in the middle of the night, I take the paper with his address and phone number which he’s holding out to me all the same. I hope he leaves now.