Love Is Pink!

“Qu’est-ce que je peux faire pour vous, Madame?”


My smile turned to a grimace. “I don’t understand your gibberish. Does anyone in this establishment speak a normal language? Is there no one here who’s educated and can speak German?”

“Mais, Madame,” replied the little bimbo as a man in a dark suit approached and carefully but firmly pushed her aside. She exhaled and turned to the couple, who’d stepped forward. Naturally, they stooped to her level and spoke French with her. How typically Swiss. A people with no semblance of character!

The woman in the couple, that classless daughter of an Alpine hillbilly, edged her way up and placed her bag on the counter right next to mine. Unbelievable!

“What can I do for you, Madame?” the concierge asked me. His accent was heavy, but at least he made an effort to be understood. It was a start.

“I’m checking out,” I said, impatiently tapping my platinum card on the shiny counter.

“Very well, Madame. What was your room number?”

“Room?” I said, infuriated. “Do I look like someone who stays in a room?

“I had the penthouse suite, 1B!”

“Of course, Madame. How could I forget?” The concierge stepped over to a laptop and began tapping away at the keyboard. A moment later, he returned with a reverent facial expression. If he thought this would help him get a tip from me, he was mistaken!

He extended an envelope. “We have changed your flight, Madame. Inside is the confirmation for your checkin. And the suite has already been paid for, Madame.”

“Paid?” I said. Blood shot straight to my head. Now the Swiss couple would think I was the type of woman who was supported by her lover. I bit my lip and slid my credit card back into its sleeve. I took my time opening my Prada bag and stowing the wallet inside before taking the envelope from the concierge and placing it in a compartment in the purse.

In the meantime, I’d regained my composure. “When my taxi gets here,” I said, “have your bellhop bring my baggage outside.” I gestured to the two inordinately large, mauve-colored wheeled suitcases, which contained the minimum of what I needed for a seven-day vacation in the French Alps.

Or, what I would have needed. Unfortunately, the vacation had lasted barely a day. And what a day at that. But it was not yet over! Before day’s end I would take Valentin to task. And then we’d see which woman he’d choose.

The concierge cleared his throat.

“Come to think of it, I hope my taxi is already here,” I said, pointing to the miniature face of my Cartier watch. “Tick-tock. In two hours at most, I’ll need to check in at the Geneva airport. And in five hours I want to be in Berlin.”

The concierge bowed and indicated the exit with an elegant hand motion: “Madame, your taxi has just arrived.”

The bellhop who’d retrieved my luggage looked at me expectantly. I gave him a little wave with my left hand and grabbed my Prada bag with the right. Then, with head held high, I swiftly exited the miserable hotel that had brought me nothing but terrible things.





3


The landscape outside the car was covered with snow. White everywhere I looked, and it was now snowing again—faintly, but continuously.

The taxi driver was an ordinary, uneducated guy, whose only skill was to swerve around in a car. Around fifty, clean, poorly dressed. His suit screamed H & M—assuming the store even existed in this godforsaken place.

But he’d greeted me in German (with a heavy accent) and had placed my things rather carefully in the trunk. Miracles do happen sometimes.

Now he turned on the radio, and although he played the music on a low volume, I could clearly make out George Michael’s “Last Christmas.” He probably intended to fill the entire ride with tasteless holiday songs.

I reached over the seat back and tapped him on the shoulder. He gave me a quick look.

“Please turn that off,” I said. “It’s dreadful!”

“You no like Christmas?” he said, but it sounded like, “Yew no laik Chreezmaz?”

Of course a simple guy like him would care about such sentimental drivel. I smiled confidently and demanded: “Just turn it off, please.”

The driver obeyed, and I enjoyed the relative stillness of the engine noise. It began snowing more heavily, and the windshield wipers screeched over the glass, back and forth.

All I needed was a flight delay due to the bad weather. Not to mention how awful it would be to have to sit around the airport for hours.

I grabbed my bag to check the departure time on my phone. Then I remembered I’d thrown the phone against the wall, and that made me recall my reason for doing so and how Valentin had suddenly become such a wuss. I nearly screamed out of rage.

But at least I could pull out the e-ticket the concierge had given me. I’d have to show it at the airport, anyway. It was a good thing that I never fly using just the bar code on my phone. I‘m old-fashioned in this regard.