Love Is Pink!

My name is actually Michaela. My parents had absolutely no shred of aesthetic sensibility. Michaela Kr?mer—how completely dull! But Valentin had rescued me from ordinariness by renaming me Michelle . . . you know, like from the Beatles song?

“Michelle” better captured the qualities of my new personality and lifestyle: playful, romantic, cosmopolitan—with just a touch of extravagance. That was me.

“Valentin? What a surprise!” I said. “You’re already in Chamonix? Are you calling from the lobby?”

“No,” he said, “I’m not at the hotel.”

I heard a rasp in his voice. With anyone else, I’d have thought I detected embarrassment. But surely I was mistaken. After all, this was Valentin—a man who knew what he was doing. He always had everything under control. Without exception.

“Where are you, then? Still at the airport in Geneva?”

“No . . .”

Again, I noticed this strange rasp I’d never heard before. An indefinable fear slowly enveloped me, and I knew I needed to dig deeper.

“Is everything all right?”

“Yeah. Well, no,” he replied.

Yes and no? That was totally atypical for Valentin. He was reliably clear in his pronouncements.

“I’m still at home—”

“At home?” I said. “Then we can’t ski together today? The weather is gorgeous. I have brand-new gear that I’m dying to show off on the slopes. And you promised we’d go to the casino tonight. I don’t want to wait until tomorrow.”

“Michelle, I won’t be there tomorrow, either.”

“What do you mean?” The ground beneath me seemed to be giving way.

“I can’t come at all.”

“But our vacation . . . Christmas . . . our life together!” I was stammering like an idiot.

“Michelle.” This time there was no mistake. Valentin sounded insecure and embarrassed. “Some things have happened. Circumstances. Incidents. There’s no way I can come to France.”

“Did something horrible happen? Is something going on at work?”

“No,” he answered. After a while he added, “It’s my wife.”

“Oh, no! Did she have an accident? Is it serious?” In my inner eye, I saw myself standing at an open grave, a white lily in my hand. I wore an elegant black hat and itty-bitty veil, just long enough to cover my eyes. And then I started wondering how to quickly find appropriate mourning attire here at Mont Blanc.

Valentin interrupted my train of thought. “Not an accident, exactly.”

“Did she have a stroke or a heart attack? Oh, how terrible! But she is not among the youngest,” I said, careful to charge my voice with compassion.

I looked at my fingernails. I’d get them repolished as soon as possible. Shiny Swarovski crystals at a funeral were an absolute no-go.

“I’m begging you—don’t get angry, Michelle.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’m calm and composed,” I said. “Right now, you just need to take care of you.”

Valentin exhaled in relief. “It’s good that you’re so reasonable. I always knew I could count on you.”

“Always,” I said. “You know we’re soul mates.”

“My wife is pregnant,” he blurted out. “We’re expecting twins.”

I wanted to respond, but words refused to leave my mouth. What I did manage to get out resembled the sound of a clogged faucet: “Pfft.”

“Yeah,” Valentin continued. “That’s why I can’t leave home. And since my wife is the principal owner of my company, in this situation I simply have to—”

“She’s what?” I screamed. This time the words tumbled right out of me.

“Did I forget to tell you that? She’s the one with the money.”

“I thought you—”

“I’m a good administrator. But the fortune is hers. We have a prenuptial agreement.”

“What about us? Our future, and our life together?”

“You need to understand, Michelle. A man has to fulfill his duties. A man has to do what a man has to do. No matter what—”

I didn’t hear whatever he said next. I’d thrown my phone full force against the wall, where it smashed to pieces.





2


The hotel reception desk wasn’t even staffed!

An older couple was making their way toward it. I hurried in front of them, urged them aside, and took my place at the counter, glancing triumphantly at the woman in the pair. She looked at me in contempt. First come, first serve, I thought as I examined her. Probably in her late thirties, she’d already had at least two face-lifts. She wore expensive but tasteless clothes, and in her hand she carried the same Prada bag that hung on my arm.

“Excuse me, please,” I said, “but I’m in a hurry. I need to check out. And nothing and no one is going to hold me back.”

“We’re also leaving,” the man said sourly. His accent told me that the couple was Swiss. It was right to make them wait. Their whole country was living off of stolen money.

I set my handbag on the counter and rang the service bell. Since no one immediately appeared, I hit it again, harder. The golden bell bounced on the wooden surface.

A young lady came out from the rear, conjured up a charming smile, and addressed me with a professional expression.