by Heldt,Dora
Also by Dora Heldt:
Life after Forty
Vacation with Dad (forthcoming)
Aunt Inge’s Secret Escape (forthcoming)
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Text copyright © 2006 Deutscher Taschenbuch Verlag GmbH & Co. KG
English translation copyright © 2011 Amazon Content Services
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Inseparable was first published in 2008 by Deutscher Taschenbuch Verlag GmbH & Co. KG as Unzertrennlich. Translated from German by Jamie Lee Searle. Published in English by AmazonCrossing in 2011.
Published by AmazonCrossing
P.O. Box 400818
Las Vegas, NV 89140
ISBN: 978-1-61109-022-2
Library of Congress Control Number: 2010919356
For Rainer, and not just for the editing;
for those who are far away; and for my Sylt “family,”
without whom I wouldn’t have so much faith in myself.
Contents
Prologue
Seven months earlier: April, Hamburg
May, Hamburg
June, Hamburg
July, Berlin
September, Hamburg
October, Hamburg
November, Hamburg
November 10, Berlin-Hamburg
The Party, Hamburg
Epilogue: April, Hamburg
Acknowledgments
About the Author
About the Translator
November 10, Hamburg
Forty-four years old. It had to be a joke. Christine leaned in closer to the mirror and stared at her eyes. They were still blue. Still the same eyes she’d had at age six, age twelve, twenty, thirty. She scrunched them up slightly. That was the difference. Lines. That half circle stretching from one corner of the eye to the other, radial and unrelenting. Christine raised her eyebrows. The lines were still there. Forty-four. She took a deep breath, reached for her eye shadow, and used a makeup brush to glide silvery-gray powder over her eyelids. Silver-gray shadow gave you a luminous look. At least, that’s what the brand promised. Allegedly, it drew attention above the eyes so you didn’t notice the lines under them. After the powder came eyeliner. At least her hands hadn’t started shaking yet. Christine had been putting eyeliner on every morning for the last twenty-four years. She imagined it all forming one continuous line, and wondered whether she had drawn a line all the way around the world by now. It was more than likely. The last step was to put mascara on her lashes, two coats on each side. Most women opened their mouths while putting mascara on, which looked totally dumb, and there was no obvious reason to do so. Christine always forced herself to keep her lips closed, even when no one was watching. It was a matter of discipline. She stepped back from the mirror and looked herself over. Her hair was dyed a little too dark, which made her look pale but also made her eyes look bluer, which hopefully detracted from the lines. She couldn’t help but laugh; how silly was she? It wasn’t as if it mattered that much.
When her mother was forty-four, Christine was twenty-one; her brother Georg, eighteen; and Ines, her sister, fourteen. For her mother Charlotte’s forty-fourth birthday, her kids had given her an electric knife as a present. With three blades. Not perfume, not underwear, but a kitchen appliance. Christine silently asked for her forgiveness. Although…had it actually been such a bad choice? She would have to ask her. If she was miffed at the time, she certainly hadn’t shown it. Perhaps that’s how you get when you’re a mother. Thankful and uncritical.
That would never happen to Christine now. That ship had sailed. Forty-four, divorced, no children, no pets. Successful in her career, but privately, her life was pretty average.
After her divorce she had thrown herself into her work. She worked for a big publishing house, started at eight in the morning, left at seven in the evening, went to yoga once a week, sometimes went out to dinner with colleagues, and in her free time wrote a column for a city magazine. Everything was planned, organized, and above all, peaceful. Although sometimes it was admittedly a little dull, too. But she didn’t really mind that; she wasn’t keen on surprises. Her brother Georg said she was a control freak, and he was right: she liked to keep her life in order. She’d had enough experience of having to dance to someone else’s tune. Today was her forty-fourth birthday. By now she knew what she didn’t want.
The doorbell rang, interrupting her thoughts. At the very same moment, the door was flung open and Dorothea called her name. They had been close friends for years and now lived in apartments opposite one another. Each of them had the key to the other’s. Ringing the bell before coming in was an unwritten agreement. A sign of respect for each other’s private space, no more than that. Recently, however, the time span between ringing and coming in had become so brief that Christine wouldn’t have had time to hide away anything private. Whatever that might have been.
“I’m almost ready, Dorothea, pour yourself a glass of champagne while you wait. It’s in the fridge.”
Christine applied her lipstick then put it in her purse. Dorothea was standing in the hallway in her coat and looking at her expectantly. She’d already wished her a happy birthday when they’d had a quick coffee together here earlier that morning. A table was booked for ten people at the Italian restaurant around the corner in half an hour’s time. Christine’s brother and sister, a few colleagues and friends: the usual crowd.
Christine’s enthusiasm for birthdays was limited, at least when it came to her own. Dorothea was wearing a new skirt under her coat, green, velvet; a low-cut top to go with it; and heels to top it all off. Christine’s look was just as surprised as the one Dorothea was giving her. Dorothea reacted more quickly.
“Come on, it’s your birthday, do you really have to wear jeans and a gray roll-neck sweater?”
“Firstly, I’m cold. Secondly, the pullover is new and was expensive; thirdly, we’re only going to the Italian place; and fourthly, I don’t understand why you’re so dolled up. But if it makes you feel better I’ll put a blouse on and freeze my butt off for you.”
Dorothea rolled her eyes. “So, first of all, it’s cold in here because you’ve got all the windows open; secondly, you can’t tell the pullover’s new because it looks exactly like the other three you already have; thirdly, we have a small change of plans when it comes to the Italian place; and fourthly, I’m dolled up because it’s your birthday, sweetie.”
Christine stared at Dorothea. “What do you mean, a small change of plans?”
Dorothea ran her hands through her dark locks in front of the big mirror.
“I mean, we’re not going to the Italian place anymore. Now don’t get all worked up, just relax.”
She looked at Christine, who was looking bewildered, in the mirror. There was a good chance she would get worked up. And she did.
“Have you gone mad? I’ve booked the table, preordered the food, everyone will be there at eight, and you want me to just blow that all off? Are you crazy?”
Dorothea looked at herself in the mirror, calm as a cucumber, and wiped a little smudge of mascara away from the corner of her eye.
“It’s fine,” she said. “I canceled the reservation already and planned something even better. So put something chic on and let’s get going. I’m driving.”
Christine was lost for words. She couldn’t stand birthdays, and she hated surprises just as much as she did people changing existing plans. Dorothea knew that
. And despite that she was doing something like this on the spur of the moment. Christine tried to stop herself from getting annoyed and took a deep breath.
“OK, fine, I’ll go and put a blouse on. But you know I find this kind of thing silly.”
She disappeared into the bedroom. Dorothea watched her go, feeling a prick of doubt. It’ll be fun, she told herself.
Ten minutes later they were sitting in Dorothea’s Mini. Christine had changed her sweater for a black blouse and had a black blazer on over the top. She tried to get Dorothea to spill the beans on where they were driving to and what was going on, asking whether she had managed to get in touch with everyone about the change of plans.
Dorothea just smiled, waving her questions aside.
“Just wait and see. Everything will be great. And besides, it’s boring going to the same old Italian restaurant all the time.”
Christine concentrated on the street signs and tried to figure out where Dorothea was driving them. After a while, she gave up. Her imagination ran wild. She had images of those awful, cringe-worthy male strip shows, so popular for girls’ nights out, particularly where bachelorette parties were concerned. But she wasn’t getting married the next day, it was her forty-fourth birthday; surely that couldn’t be reason to go? Or could it? Please God, no.
“Just tell me this. We’re not going to one of those weird girls’ shows with the ‘California Dreamboys’ or something, are we?”
Dorothea looked at her, amazed, and laughed loudly.
“Oh God, that wasn’t what you really wanted was it? Well, you should’ve told me—I could have organized it.” She kept on laughing. “What a shame you didn’t say something sooner.”
Christine was relieved and tried to dig deeper: “Come on, Dorothea, just give me a hint.”
“No, we’re almost there. And it’s nothing bad. Completely the opposite, in fact, so just chill out.”
The word surprise was lingering in Christine’s mind, bold and italicized. Dorothea worked in television. A thought suddenly came into her head. And a name along with it: Kai Pflaume. One of those do-gooders who bring quarrelling couples and long-lost friends back together. In front of millions of viewers. Oh God. The faces of her ex-boyfriends came into her mind in slow motion. First Bernd, her ex-husband, followed closely by Holger, Denis, and oh God, Michael. An appalling thought. Christine shook herself and looked at Dorothea. She wouldn’t do that to her, not ever. Would she? She took a deep breath but didn’t dare ask.
Dorothea turned off toward the harbor. Christine felt herself start to relax a little. It was one of her favorite parts of Hamburg. In the last few years, lots of great restaurants and clubs had opened up here. Perhaps Dorothea really had just wanted to find a different venue. But she could have just said that, if that were the case. No, there must be something else.
Dorothea drove into the restaurant parking lot of Indochine.
From outside it looked very nice, and the parking lot was full. Dorothea turned the ignition off and beamed at Christine.
“So, here we are. Good luck!”
When she saw Christine’s shocked face, she laughed and nudged her with her elbow. “Happy birthday, we’re going to have a great evening.”
Christine followed her up the stairs. As they neared the entrance, Dorothea let Christine go in front. A handsome waiter met them at the door and led them to a side room. Then, suddenly, a chorus of twenty people started singing “Happy Birthday.” Christine stood speechless before them, looking at all the faces in bewilderment, and didn’t know whether to laugh or scream.
Each year, in springtime, there’s a day when you suddenly notice that winter has gone. Christine had already felt it that morning when she rode off to the publishing house on her bike. The air was different, hardly anyone was wearing a hat, and the faces of the people she passed by looked cheerful. There was a springlike mood at work, too; even the eternally grumpy Mr. Schlüter seemed to give Christine a smile as she came in. The window was wide open in her office, and a bunch of tulips stood on Gabi’s desk.
Christine had been working for the publishing house for almost three years now, the same one she had previously worked for as a traveling rep. Gabi had told her back then that there was a vacancy in-house. Christine, who had had enough of the endless journeys and all the nights in hotel rooms, had applied immediately. She got the job, not least because Gabi, who had been there for ten years, knew the personnel manager well and had given Christine a glowing recommendation.
They had shared an office ever since. Gabi was a great colleague. They had similar working habits: both drank coffee, kept private chatter down to a minimum, and had settled into a friendly way of sharing the space.
Gabi looked up as Christine came in the door.
“Good morning! Well, we did it! This horrible winter is finally over. Or what did the groundhog say?”
“What are you implying: that I can feel the seasons turning in my old bones or something?”
Gabi laughed. “Well, my granddad could; he could even predict the wind speed.”
“Charming, thanks.” Christine sat down at her desk and started to look through the mail. On top was a note: Call Ruth!
Ruth was the editor of the city magazine Kult, which was published by the imprint Christine worked for. Ruth was as loud and in-your-face as Gabi was reserved and quiet. The two of them had done an apprenticeship together in the publishing house and had been friends ever since—despite being like apples and oranges.
Two years ago Ruth and Christine had had a debate at the Christmas party about whether there was any point to regular columns. Christine liked them; she always bought Zeit just to read Harald Martenstein. But Ruth thought they were unnecessary and outdated. So they had made a bet. Christine would write a column about single women over New Year’s, and Ruth would print it in Kult. If there were more than five letters sent in by readers about it, Ruth would have to make stuffed cabbage roulade for Christine. It seemed there were masses of single women who were at a loss over New Year’s, or in any case, a large number of them had written in. So Ruth had to keep her side of the bet.
Christine referred to it as the biggest mess that was ever made in her kitchen. But she polished off three roulades with schnapps to wash it all down and had been writing a monthly column ever since. Ruth set the subject matter. And never made roulade again.
Christine dialed and heard Ruth’s voice after two rings.
“Hi, Ruth, I had a message to call you.”
“Oh, Christine, wonderful. So, I’ve decided on the topic for the May edition. Not a very original one, perhaps, but it’s all about the target audience at the end of the day. I’d like you to write something about first love. After all, it’s spring now. And on the topic of spring, given the weather today I think we should kick off the Alster season tonight. Five o’clock at Prüsse? It is Friday after all.”
“That sounds good. I’ll ask Gabi if she wants to come. Gabi? Prüsse? OK, she’s nodding energetically and working quicker already. See you later!”
The café on the Außenalster Lake was one of the most popular meeting places in the area for after-work drinks. Luckily though, it wasn’t such a cult destination that it got too packed with people.
Ruth was already sat at a table on the small wooden terrace as Christine and Gabi walked over the footbridge. She looked up as she heard their steps, pushed her reading glasses up into her hair, and laid her notes aside. Then she stood up and flung her arms out theatrically to distribute the obligatory girlish kisses. Her voice jumped an octave higher.
“Hello, darlings! How wonderful to see you.”
Christine cringed inwardly. She really liked Ruth and found her really funny, at least when they were alone. But when she was in company, she fulfilled all the clichés it was possible to have about women. She was in her early thirties, somewhere between slim and skinny; her shoulder-length hair was highlighted with blond streaks and usually held in place by sunglasses. Since last winter she�
��d needed reading glasses, but Christine suspected they weren’t actually prescription but just plain glass, their main function being to keep her hair in place until sunglasses season came around again. As Ruth hugged and kissed Gabi, Christine quickly sat down, managing to skip the heartrending greeting.
That’s just how girls are, she thought, making an effort to smile at Ruth. After all, she was delightful really.
After their orders had been taken, Ruth settled back down and pulled notes back toward her. She looked at the others.
“I’m in the midst of hectic planning. My best friend is getting married next month, I’m maid of honor, of course, and I want to organize something really special for her. So I’m wracking my brains trying to think of ideas. Any thoughts?”
Christine’s response didn’t exactly answer her question. “You don’t even need a maid of honor nowadays.”
“Yes, but it’s symbolic. You bring your best friend to the altar. After sharing so much, it’s about being there on the most wonderful day of her life.”
Christine wrinkled her forehead. “You can’t be serious! You read too many glossy magazines. The most wonderful day in a woman’s…”
She was interrupted by her cell phone ringing. As she pulled it out of her jacket pocket, she tried to finish off her sentence.
“…in a woman’s life, that’s nonsense. Yes, hello? Luise, you can come join us. I’m with Ruth and Gabi; we’re talking about weddings, and I’m explaining to Ruth how you make paper flowers for the door wreaths.”