“Was he warning me?”
She sighed. “No, Callie. He was warning himself. He’s a danger to himself, not you. He would not hurt you, not intentionally, as much as you might think Monday evening was unpleasant for you. He needs somebody like you, not me. Tame him, and he will be yours forever.”
Her words encouraged me, because I was already formulating a plan. An impulsive, stupid plan that would wipe out my savings and probably lose me my job.
Chapter Thirteen
Bright sunshine shone directly into my eyes. I yanked at the plastic blind, tugging it down until the yellow glow diminished. I went back to gripping the seat belt tightly, periodically lifting and snapping the metallic buckle. About me, the hubbub of voices¸ air conditioning and turbine engines. The seat next to me was vacant. The flight was half-empty. It was a blessing as it had allowed me to book a ticket at the last minute.
The previous twenty-four hours had whizzed by in a whirlwind of activity. I’d gone straight from the salon to the Golden Lily, pedaling frantically until my thighs had exploded with pain. I’d roughly mapped out my plans, as I’d woven between parked cars. First requirement—I would plead for time off, unpaid if necessary. Bridget had been shifting buckets of flowers around, ready to close up the florist, when I burst through the door, breathless.
Bridget’s response to my rambling request had been to take me by the hands and immediately announce that I could take as much time as I needed to sort myself out. I’d cried in her arms with relief, then panicked. I’d no idea how to book a flight or anything.
“Passport?” she’d asked.
Yes, I’d replied, not a problem. It had been six years since I’d last used it on a family holiday to southern France. We’d driven through the Channel Tunnel as my father had hated flying. Bridget had sat me in front of the office computer and we’d trawled for suitable flights to Munich. I’d maxed out one of my credit cards. The cost of the flight was extortionate for the distance. I might have fared better flying to the States. I’d booked a single, rather than a return. Exactly how long I would be out there depended on unpredictable factors—finding Stefan for starters.
Early Friday morning, I’d dashed around the house packing my holdall, leaving notes for the absent Talia. I’d rung my mother—no answer—then remembered she’d gone to Edinburgh. It would mean speaking to my sister, and I’d chickened out of that confrontation. I would text Mum…at some point.
I’d emptied my bank account
of cash, all my readily available savings, and headed for the train station. From there, I’d caught the Express to Stansted Airport and checked in. The whole experience was novel and confusing. The bustle of the airport, crammed with a mixture of business people, tourists and holidaymakers, almost overwhelmed me. I’d held onto my desire to see Stefan, as with each stage of my journey, I’d come close to backing out and heading home defeated.
Now, sitting on the narrow economy seat, I was grateful for the other passengers and their chatter of normality while my befuddled mind questioned my sanity. What the fuck was I doing? Beyond arriving in Munich, I had the vaguest of plans. A train to the city station, another to a town in the heart of Bavaria, then a taxi to a small village and what? What if he wasn’t there? I’d barely any money left to book a hotel, and I’d reserved another credit card for the flight home.
“Stupid, stupid,” I muttered to myself.
“Drink?” The flight attendant loomed over the spare seat.
I shook my head. I’d hardly eaten anything for the last twenty-four hours. My stomach churned with anxiety. I was the proverbial fish out of water. In my handbag, I’d stuffed a German phrase book, purchased at the airport, and my mobile.
I hadn’t texted Stefan to warn him of my arrival. What to send? Hi, I’m coming for a chat? He might be at the hospital tending to his sick father, and me the last person he wanted to see. I’d told him to get lost, my last words to him. How to explain my sudden change of heart and irrational, impulsive need to fly across Europe to see him?
“I’m nuts!”
“We’ve got peanuts,” said the attendant, politely mishearing my words.
I had to eat something. I bought a packet of salted peanuts with my euros and nibbled on them while the plane descended through the clouds. I slid the blind back up and stared at the landscape emerging below.
I drifted in a haze of weariness. I’d achieved little sleep the previous night as I’d battled my demons of doubt and anxiety. Images of Stefan had plagued me and they re-materialized as I watched the white, fluffy clouds. Try as I may, I couldn’t stop thinking about him. I wanted to be angry with him, but Magda’s calm voice haunted me. Her intriguing explanations of Stefan’s behavior popped in my head and they instigated emotions I didn’t want to feel. Yearnings for his body, his passionate displays of sexual prowess, kept me focused on my plan. I couldn’t go back until I’d seen him, spoken to him and heard what he had to say. Then, and only then, would I decide to forgive him or not.
* * * *
I arrived at Wolfratshausen in the dark. A bizarre name for a town and it conjured up images of gothic horror movies with vampires. As the train pulled up, it crossed my mind that there may not be taxis at the station. I’d made various assumptions about my journey, and so far, they’d been accurate. German trains ran on time—thankfully. I had no problems with connections, finding my way around platforms and deciphering display boards. My luck held out until I stepped off the train.
I ached, my head throbbed and my feet protested at standing again. I’d spent much time in the last few hours standing, waiting for connections. My stomach rumbled, but my appetite remained on the precipice of nausea, not hunger.
The street lights lit up the front of the stationhouse. Some of my fellow passengers were greeted with smiles and embraces, others with a formal handshake. People clambered into waiting cars, and I stood on the curbside, wondering if there were any taxis.
One car remained, its interior lit up, and inside sat a middle-aged man. I stepped closer and spotted the placard on the roof of the car. My luck was holding out.
He took my luggage and placed it in the boot while I climbed into the back seat.
From my coat pocket, I pulled out a piece of paper. Stefan’s father’s address written in Magda’s neat handwriting. I passed it to the driver and he peered at the paper, nodding.
He spoke to me in German. I shrugged. “English.”
“Ah.”