Seductive Viennese Whirl (10 page)

She pulls a lipstick out of her handbag and smears her lips with hot pink. "Maybe this will do it."

"He called you a whore?"

"No, but it's what he thinks. I'm all right for a bit of fun. I'm all right for a quick fuck. But that's about it. He made that abundantly clear at lunch."

"So, you've had a row, so what? I'm sure you'll be able to make up in Vienna. Incidentally, shouldn't you be getting your skates on if you want to catch that plane?" Which, as it happens was exactly the wrong thing to say. I watch helplessly as her face starts to crumple. She stares at herself, at the tears that have started to trickle onto her Cher cheekbones, watch her lean back against the peach tiled wall and slide down until she hits the floor with a soft thud.

She shakes her head and rubs the heel of her hand into her eye. Eventually she manages, "He's not coming. He finished it."

"Oh." So it wasn't the most sympathetic response. I was in shock, okay?

While I'm trying to take all this in I decide I'd best try to do something about Eva's face, a Jackson Pollock of pink and black. I don't want Sparky seeing the state it's in, she'll only ask a lot of awkward questions that Eva doesn't need right now.

I find a bottle of makeup remover in Eva's handbag and when I've got off the worst of the gunk I dab on nude lip gloss and a creamy beige eye shadow. A smidgeon of mascara. A smattering of blusher. After I've wielded my magic, I don't think anyone would guess she's just been dumped.

When I've finished Eva stands up, brushes down her suit and blows herself a kiss in the mirror. "Not bad. You know what, I think I'll go to Vienna after all. Why not? Since it's all paid for it would be a shame to miss out."

"I'm not sure that's such a good idea. What'll you do on your own?"

She considers this, then hooks her arm through mine. "Good point. How about you come with me?"

"Forget it," I reply. What the hell is she thinking? As we reenter the office, Sparky looks up from her paper. Eva ignores her and goes over to her desk. She picks up the two bags. I pick up my briefcase and follow her out.

"You're coming, and that's final," she says, once we're standing in the street and she's hailing a cab.

I shrug. "No, you'll just wish I were him all weekend."

"No I won't."

"You will."

A cab pulls up.

"Well, at least let me give you a lift to the Tube," she says, forcing a smile.

But as soon as we're sitting in the taxi, she starts to cry again and in a split second I decide that maybe it isn't such a daft idea to have a freebie in Vienna. Don't ask me why. My mind's all jumbled up I guess, what with everything happening so fast, finding out that Sparky isn't a virgin and that Eva's been dumped. Nothing makes sense anymore. In any case, I end up giving the driver directions to the flat.

The taxi pulls up outside our house, I jump out and run up to our first floor flat, grab my passport and a few bits of clothing, before leaping in again. Eva's still sobbing. There's a brief cessation as she mumbles something about needing tissues. The taxi stops again and I run into Boots to get some.

It's only once we're stuck half way up the M4 to Heathrow that she finally stops crying and peers into her hand mirror to gaze at her puffy eyes and makeup smeared face. While she busies herself putting herself to rights I check my watch. Six fifteen. The flight to Vienna leaves at ten past seven. Whether we'll make it is doubtful. Maybe I'll be back at the flat before nightfall, nursing a glass of Bailey's as I lie in the bath, wondering how Eva could ever have been stupid enough to get involved with a client.

"What exactly did he say?" I venture, as the traffic starts to move forward. "I mean, what reason did he give for breaking it off?"

"Hell, what reason do they ever give?" Frankly, I'm confused. I never even knew Eva had been dumped before. "There was some bollocks about ‘It's not you, it's me.' Yadda yadda yadda." The only silver lining in all this is that the trip's been paid for by Five Minutes McManus."

"But surely you'll be glad to get rid of him, if only for his five minuteness?"

"Hell no, he would have saved me a fortune in egg timers," she says applying lip gloss, then blotting with a tissue. Leaning towards the driver she yells, "For goodness sake, can't you speed things up a bit?"

"Rush hour, love," replies the driver in a disinterested voice. "Not a lot I can do about it."

She sinks back into her seat. "When I think of what I put up with from that prat. The way he went all possessive if I even spoke to another guy." She peers into her mirror and aims an eyelash curler at her right eye. She clamps down violently. "And woe betide if I forgot his silk cami knickers at bedtime."

"What? You never said he was a cross dresser."

She peers at me like I'm an imbecile. "He wasn't. He had these special knickers he made me wear." She clamps her left eyelashes. "And what about bringing him boiled eggs in bed? What was that all about? He had a cook for christsakes! Why did he ... why did he?" And then her face freezes and her bottom lip begins to tremble.

I pull her close, and she lies on my shoulder all the way to the airport. Despite all her protestations, I know she did love him. She probably still does. Her pride's hurt too, of course. She'd thought he was going to propose in Vienna.

With minutes to spare we jump out of the cab. Now here we are, she in four inch Manolos, me in old Nikes, racing towards the terminal where the flight's about to leave. But we're in luck. From the way the bloke behind the desk eyes her cleavage, we've bagged the only straight steward in the history of airline travel. After a bit of mock resistance he allows us onto the plane, and even agrees to swap my name with McManus' on the ticket.

Once we've scrambled on, things calm down a notch. Eva's sitting by the aisle humming tunelessly along to the soft rock on her earphones while I gulp down the G&Ts. Leaning back in my business class seat, I slip into a doze.

I'm awoken by the sound of a piercing alarm. Eva's no longer beside me, so I crane my neck back to look up the row. A stewardess is banging on the door of the toilet. My heart thuds in my chest. Surely she hasn't done anything stupid? I try to think of ways one could top oneself in a six by four cubicle involving sick bags, miniature bars of soap and tiny bottles of complementary perfume, but my mind goes blank. What about the toiletry bags they put on our seats, hadn't they contained razor blades? Oh God!

At that moment the door opens and Eva comes out, a little tipsy, fag in hand. Smoke billows out of the cubicle, making the stewardess cough.

"What's happening?" says Eva. "Are we about to crash?"

"Smoking is not allowed on the plane," replies the stewardess. "Extinguish that cigarette immediately."

"Don't get your knickers in a twist," she says, popping the cigarette into her half drunk vodka and tonic.

When she's settled back in her seat, I say, "I don't get it. You don't even smoke."

"I know, but I always carry a pack of Camels with me in case Mark runs out. Just now I was thinking about him, and suddenly I got the urge."

"Try to stop thinking about him and start thinking about the trip. It'll be a lot of fun, I'll bet," I say briskly, patting her arm and sinking back in my seat. Eva's humming has increased in volume, making sleep impossible. It would be mean to tell her to shut up, since she's in the midst of an emotional crisis, so instead I tackle the plastic food in front of me and pretty soon we're descending and I'm surprised to find my stomach's all tingly with excitement.

As the plane hovers over the twinkling city, I'm thinking about Vienna and wracking my brain to find any facts about it that might be lurking. All I can recall is a bizarre pop song called ‘Rock Me Amadeus' by Falco, the only popstar ever to come out of Austria, and alas, now deceased. Vienna. I think some more. An image pops up in my head of a coloured blur, women in long dresses being spun around by their partners in a glittering ballroom. The image fades into a chorus of people in period costume singing opera in an open air square. Fireworks are popping over their heads. Then I remember that the images are from an ad for Vienna that recently aired on TV.

That's all I know of Vienna, basically nothing, so once we hit Schwechat airport I buy a city guide and skim read it as we taxi towards the Marriott Hotel on the Parkring.

The foyer of the Marriott is all chrome, moss green sofas and fake palms. There's a huge dome of frosted glass overhead, making me feel like an ant trapped inside a gigantic greenhouse.

While Eva is upstairs getting changed, I navigate my way through the clusters of guests, all chattering away in different languages. When I reach the end wall, which has water cascading down it, I sink down into a sofa and order a G&T. Lulled by the squawking of the guests and the splash of water on plastic rocks, I notice that my face is reflected in the mirrors lining the walls. My brown curly hair is slightly frizzed and my face is as round and pale as the moon, but I am too comfortable sitting here to go up and put on makeup or style my hair. I will have to do.

Then there's a rustle behind me and I think, oh, here she comes. All over the foyer there's a sudden suspension of conversation. Sure enough, I turn around to see Eva, draped in a Versace pink slash necked dress, a white belt studded with rhinestones around her waist, her long legs ending in very pointed black kitten heels. Her dark shoulder length razor cut hair swings about her face, her glistening mouth drawn into a sullen pout. As she sits down her eyes, like splinters of bright blue glass, glitter with mischief.

"Don't tell me you've been up to something?" I say, feeling weary. "You haven't just phoned McManus and given him a piece of your mind, have you?"

"No, nothing that daft, but I've been thinking. I've a good mind to tell the press about that toenail business." An old woman in Aberdeen had found a human toenail clipping in one of McManus' pies, but the company had paid her to keep the story under wraps.

"What's the point? The best thing you can 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."

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 her chest and eyeing Pacino as she fiddles with the gold chains around her neck.