Never Trust a Callboy

by Birgit Kluger

"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.

  14

  God 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.

  As though he read my thoughts he pulls his T-Shirt on, and I seize the moment to examine him undisturbed. Impressive abdominal muscles. Great body. If he is only half as good in bed as he looks, I will definitely not forget the next night with him. If I see him again. But why not? I’ve earned the right to treat myself. Moreover, I owe it to myself to have a little reminder of last night. I'll call him. The question is just when.

  While I’m deliberating with this decision Christian has already made his way to the door. I suddenly realize I haven’t given him his money yet.

  "Wait! I have to... I haven’t yet..."

  Somehow I cannot bring myself to say the word pay. It sounds so cold, as if last night was nothing more than a business deal. Which I suppose it was, but anyway.

  "Oh, Yes. Exactly."

  Christian looks as if the topic is at least as uncomfortable for him as it is for me. I’ve barely pressed the money into his hand when the door of the suite slams shut behind him.

  15

  Our house welcomes me with an uncomfortable silence as I open the door and carefully enter the hallway. A chill comes over me. The rooms are dark and cold, just like my mind. The image of the corpse flashes into my memory.

  A few days ago I felt comfortable and—most importantly—safe here, but now the house feels like a mausoleum. I have the impression that the thick walls are sucking all the oxygen out of the air. And with regard to the security... it’s obviously not as good as I thought it was.

  Agitated and without really paying attention to what I'm doing, I unfold the moving boxes that I brought with me. The simple brown boxes mark the fact that this stage of my life is over. My relationship with Ron has broken down quite decisively. And I have no home.

  First I will live in the Mainhatten, then I’ll see. I tell myself it’s a good plan. Kronberg was already feeling a little small.

  While these thoughts wander through my mind I started packing up. I begin in the bedroom. From there I'll work through the upper floor and then downstairs. It shouldn’t take too long...

  Two hours later I’m frustrated. How can it be that I need an eternity to pack up just
one room? And why do I have so many shoes? I have already packed four cartons full of winter boots, ankle boots and other cold weather footwear. Nevertheless, several rows of shoes are still waiting to be packed and taken. I will take some of them to the hotel. One box should be enough. The question is, which should I leave here? Or better said, which should I leave in a moving box in the cellar for an indefinite period of time, possibly never to be seen again.

  Thoughtfully I inspect the dress mountain which lies on the bed. The choice of shoes depends on the clothes I take. The trouble is that here I’m faced with the same problem. I can’t possibly fit it all in one suitcase, it’s impossible, and more than two pieces of luggage will not fit in my car.

  I have to sort through it. I can’t take everything. It would be ridiculous if I can’t get by for a week or two with just two or three suitcases, especially when I add what I already have at the hotel.

  Another hour passes. I've spent most of this sixty minutes debating what to take. I'm on the fast lane to going crazy. But no one can expect me to leave the house without my Escada Jeans. And then there is my beautiful D&G skirt and my T-shirts. Every item is a favorite.

  When I finally finish, the dress mountain piled up on the double bed has actually gotten bigger. How could this happen?

  Nevertheless I do manage to pack everything. By the time the last item of clothing has disappeared into a case and the rows of shoes have been significantly reduced, five suitcases sit before me. I need a taxi and a van. But it doesn't matter. If I’m allowing myself the luxury of a five star hotel, I would like to appear at least a little stylish while I’m there.

  The only thing I have to do now is to collect my important documents from Ron's home office.

  I hate this room.

  As soon as you enter it you realize immediately that this is a man’s room. Everything is hard, noble and dignified. Dark oak, a thick carpet which attenuates each step, and a lamp with a green lampshade! Honestly. Ron has seen too many Westerns. He doesn't like to admit it, but in his youth, he was a fervent fan of John Wayne.

  Fortunately, the shelf with my documents and folders is only half full. At least this should go quickly. Impatiently I stack things in a moving box, which can for the time being go in the basement, and seal it with packing tape. Then I push it towards the door. The damn thing is heavier than I expected.

  Now all I need is my passport and birth certificate. Both should be in the top drawer of Ron's desk, in a folder I had organized containing all the documents we needed for the marriage. We were somewhat premature there. But that's not so bad for Ron, after all, he has someone new now.

  The contents of the drawer are quite messy. Which is strange, because normally Ron is obsessively tidy, he even aligns all the pens on his desk in the one direction. The folder must be here somewhere, just last week I had it in my hands because I...

  A bank statement interrupts my thoughts. The balance is enormously high. Since when does Ron have so much money?

  5 million euros! A bonus payment, which recently entered his account.

  16

  Satisfied I lean back in the chair. The screen shows the message ‘Transaction successful’ for the last time. Thanks to Ron's carefully written documents I was able to not only login to all the accounts, but also carry out transfers. As expected he keeps the PIN generator, with which online payments must be authorized, in his safe.

  So I took care of a little justice and sent Ron's bonus payment to some offshore accounts. The money will then be transferred to his old savings account in a few days. He hasn’t used the savings account for fifteen years. He may even have forgotten its existence. I found the savings book a year ago with Ron's old tax records in the basement when I was looking for his tax report for him.

  Now it will come back to life, without his knowledge. Not for nothing do I come from a family of bankers.

  It will take a while before he can access his accounts again, because I also changed all his PIN codes at the same time, and told the bank about a change of address. A grin spreads across my face when I imagine how Ron will no longer be able to login. How, because he doesn't know his new PIN, even telephone banking will no longer work. And he doesn’t know his address ... This will be a nice mess!

  "I'm sure black leather furniture and chrome are the last thing that Ron would like to have in the living room."

  My mother looks at me challengingly. I haven’t yet told her that the wedding will not take place, and that I therefore don't care how Ron wants his living room to look.

  As so often she burst in unannounced. With several of the inevitable swatches in hand.

  "Black and chrome," I answer stubbornly. Serves Ron right if he has to live with this arrangement. My mother sighs. She knows me well enough to know that she cannot change my mind this time.

  "I don't know what's going on with you," she says, shaking her head and muttering: "What a horrible idea."

  "If you don’t like it, you don’t need to come."

  “No. No. If you want to have silver curtains to go with this horrible combination, they should at least look good, even if that is practically impossible."

  "Perfect." Satisfied, I take a step back to consider the new curtains. I've rarely seen anything so atrocious, but for a house that Ron will be living in alone, they are perfect.

  "I think they look terrible." My mother stares at the shiny silver fabric cascading onto the floor with a deep frown.

  “No. It’s exactly what I want." With a smile I look at the front of the window. I can just picture it, a sofa made of black synthetic leather and a tasteless, gleaming coffee table. I shouldn’t be so vindictive, but I think he deserves it.

  "Would you like a glass of wine?" I ask, while my mother eyes the curtains, still with the same irritated expression. She knows that I never normally hang such a thing in my living room, perhaps she can sense something is wrong.

  "No, I have to drive. But a cup of tea would be nice."

  She follows me into the kitchen where I turn the kettle on and search the cabinets looking for Earl Grey.

  "What is going on with you and Ron? There's something wrong."

  My hand freezes in mid-air half way towards picking up the packet of tea. I should have guessed she’d work it out: nothing escapes her. I wanted to keep this piece of news to myself. I know I have to cancel the wedding as soon as possible, but I was hoping to have some time to process what has happened. It hurts to admit to the failure of our relationship. To admit that I fell for a man who didn’t really care for me at all.

  With a deep sigh I answer her question: "Ron was having an affair and I ... I’m cancelling the wedding."

  "Canceling the wedding? But you can’t do that!" Typical of my mum to latch on to the least important part of my statement.

  "So should I marry a man who is unfaithful even before the wedding?"

  "No, honey, I didn't mean that. But... are you sure? You may have been mistaken. What did Ron say to your allegations?"

  "He denies everything. And Yes, I'm sure."

  "Have you caught him in flagrante delicto?"

  "No, but..."

  "You see. If you haven't seen with your own eyes that he’s been led astray, you can’t be sure whether it’s true or not."

  "Mother. I found a hotel bill, which was issued to Mr. and Mrs. Krämer. For the period he was supposedly in Brussels. I also saw him in front of the hotel with this woman, and why do you think Ron is innocent?"

  "This has to be a misunderstanding. Believe me."

  Disappointed, I shake my head. “No. There is no other explanation."

  "And because of a vague hunch you want to cancel? What will people think if you call it off so shortly before the wedding? What should I say to our friends? You’re putting me in an impossible situation. This is a scandal!"

  "Yes, and...? What do I care what people think? Should I just marry Ron? Do you really think that?"

  "I think you should start to behave like a grown up, an
d to take responsibility for your actions."

  "My actions? Ron is the one that cheated, not me!" The last words come out in a roar. I can't believe that she’s taking Ron’s side. The heartless, devious, wicked liar.

  "Don’t speak to me like that Tamara. If you’re going to use that tone I won't talk to you anymore."

  The door falls shut with a loud bang as my mother leaves the House. Trembling, I sink down onto a chair. Her behavior hurts me almost more than Ron's infidelity. At least there’s a good side, I think exhausted: she didn’t come to discuss Nana's young lover with me, and given the manner in which we just parted it’ll be a while before we talk again.

  There was a noise. I wake up with a jolt, listen, then I hear it again. A key turning quietly in the lock, but it can’t open the door, because I changed the locks. Sweat runs down my body even though it's not hot. I know that Ron is also here, because I heard him when he came home this evening. By then, I had already entrenched myself in the guest room. Although I was determined never again to spend a night in this house, I stayed. After the confrontation with my mother, I didn’t have the energy to go back to the hotel.

  But now I wish I was far away. There is someone trying to enter the house. The murderer?

  I have to get up. I have to see what is going on. Although I'd rather do nothing, pull the blanket over my head and hide, or call Ron, he should deal with intruders and killers. But I don't trust him.

  Downstairs, everything is dark. Only the street lamps cast a faint light in the hallway so that I can see that the door is still closed. A look in the other direction shows that the shutters on the patio door are down. Everything looks as it should. Maybe I imagined the whole thing.

  Nevertheless I sit down on the stairs. I only need to turn my head a little to see either door. Better to play it safe.

  17

  "Are you crazy?" It’s Ron, and it's bright. Apparently I slept the rest of the night on the stairs. Lately, I find myself sleeping in the most unlikely places. I’m starting to wonder why I ever needed tablets.