“Room service,” said a voice from beyond the door.
She dragged herself out of bed and found a bathrobe hanging up, which she slipped on. She opened the door a fraction to find a uniformed young man with a tea trolley. Now she came to think of it, she was famished.
“Oh. Thanks,” she said, opening the door for him to wheel in the provisions. For an awkward moment, she thought of spy thrillers in which room service always turned out to be bad news, delivered by enemy agents.
&
nbsp; Don’t be daft. You aren’t a spy.
“Herr von Ritter ordered it for you,” the man explained. “He said to tell you he had to go out but he will be back soon. He asks that you will wait for him.”
“Oh. Okay. Thank you.”
She nodded at the man, hoping that would be enough to get rid of him. From the corner of her eye, she could see the vibrator on the nightstand and she prickled with embarrassed heat.
He left, thank goodness, and she sat down to a feast of seafood pasta and chilled sauvignon blanc, wondering where von Ritter was and when he would be back. She felt anonymous and lonely here in the hotel room, like a whore who’d been hired for the night.
Was that what she was? A diversion? A toy? Von Ritter never seemed to want to talk about himself much. She had no sense that she was getting close to him. It was all sex games so far.
She speared a prawn and shrugged inwardly.
So what? It was early days. She was having fun. And it definitely took her mind off Milan.
Damn. Why did I have to think of him?
Now she was going to lose her appetite and sit there, thinking about him and what might have been. Double damn.
Her inconvenient longings were conveniently interrupted by the arrival of von Ritter.
“Where did you go?” she asked.
“Julius called.”
“Julius Hackmeyer?”
“That’s right. I joined him for a quick drink. I’d have brought you along but…” He chuckled. “You were far too deeply asleep.”
“You could have woken me.”
Von Ritter shook his head. “I think he wanted a man-to-man talk, Liebchen.”
“Oh?”
“Curious, aren’t we?” He tweaked her nose and stole a clam from her dish. “Aren’t you hungry?”
“Oh…a bit.”
“I hope so. Because I’ve got something I want to give you for dessert.”
Chapter Thirteen
The spring rushed headlong into a sultry summer. The city air grew hazy, the hemlines rose, the concert drew closer.
Vanessa met Ben’s parents and nobody got shot. In fact, everybody got pleasantly tipsy and there was much laughter and clumsy dancing and the birthday meal ended with all of them getting turned away from a taxi rank for being too rowdy, especially Ben’s father, who was singing Mrs Robinson at the top of his voice.
Milan and Sarah seemed to be getting very much closer, very quickly. They appeared to be inseparable after rehearsals and, by the week before the Prom, Milan had even stopped chasing after Lydia and trying to lure her back.
She was relieved. Or was she? Was relief the word?