Love Is Pink!

On the other end, all sounds stopped. Then I heard steps. Then muffled noises as the receiver was passed and, at last, a voice: “Hotel Grand Royal. What can I do for you?”


“Thank God!” I said. “Finally someone who can speak properly!”

“Ms. Kr?mer? Is that you?” Apparently I’d made a lasting impression on the concierge. My forceful demeanor had paid off.

“Yes,” I said. “This is Ms. Kr?mer. Earlier at the reception desk . . . the Swiss woman . . . you know who I mean? The one with the face-lift. She took my handbag.”

“Your quoi?” he said, before quickly correcting himself. “What did she take?”

“My handbag. My Prada handbag. It holds all of my documents and my money. Please get it back to me immediately!”

“Mais, Madame. How should I do that?”

“Don’t ask me! I’m here at a rest stop—I haven’t a cent in my pocket, no ticket home, and not even my passport. It’s all your fault, so now you’re going to make it right at once!”

This time he was slower to respond. “The woman from Switzerland did not leave any information about her destination. It’s impossible for me to help you.”

“But she will soon realize that she has the wrong purse,” I said. “She’ll call the hotel, and you can have her bring back the bag so you can immediately send it to me via courier at the airport in Geneva!”

“That I cannot guarantee you, Madame. In no way. But I will do my best.”

“That’s not good enough! If you don’t want to concern yourself with this, then give me the woman’s telephone number. I’ll call her myself.”

“Je regrette—I can’t do that.”

I slammed the receiver against the wall until I calmed myself down again. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed other people at the rest stop staring at me, thunderstruck. Well, too bad. They could just see how a real businesswoman handles ridiculous problems!

“You can’t give me this Swiss woman’s cell number?”

“No. I don’t have it, unfortunately.”

“Then give me her address!”

“I am not allowed to do that.”

“And why not? Is she Mata Hari or something and works for the secret service?”

The concierge dared to laugh. “How do you Germans like to say? Le data protection.”

“Give me a break! You know exactly how stuck I’ll be if I don’t get my Prada back. You’re doing this on purpose! I’ll sue you until you’re bleeding out of your eyes! You—”

A momentary buzzing noise sounded, and the line went dead. My money was used up.

I banged my hand on the cradle and probably uttered one or two four-letter-words. I can’t say for sure, because the scene is kept in my memory in a sort of fuzzy bubble of time.

At some point, I hung up the receiver, squared my shoulders, and walked through the deadly silence of the store to my taxi outside.

But as I came to the spot where I’d left the car, there stood only my two half-snow-covered suitcases. On top of them lay the Prada bag that wasn’t mine.

I was at the end of the world.

Vulnerable, helpless, and deserted.





4


Are you from Germany, kiddo?”

I put away the flimsy tissue I’d used to wipe my nose and turned around. An older man stood in front of me. Baggy corduroys, unfashionable lumberjack shirt with open collar, and a down vest over it. Crowning his head was something that looked like a baseball cap. It matched the rest of his outfit both in color and lack of style.

“Excuse me?” I said.

The man smiled apologetically. “Before, in the store . . . it was impossible not to overhear your phone conversation.” He pointed in the vague direction of the rest stop. “I really didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but . . .” He lifted his shoulders. “You need to get to Geneva?”

“Yes,” I answered. “The whole world has conspired against me. If I don’t get to the airport soon, my life will collapse like a house of cards. But I’ll show them. They’ll be amazed! No one messes with me! Not with Michelle Kr?mer!”

He opened his mouth as if to respond, then he stopped and pointed toward the parking lot. “I don’t know, but maybe . . .”

“Maybe what?” I prompted.

“If you want, I can take you there.”

“To Geneva? You’ll take me to the airport?”

He thought for a moment and then nodded decisively. “I certainly can’t leave you here alone.”

I studied him more closely. A plain sort, without any education to speak of, probably, but with a docile facial expression. He appeared harmless.

“Sounds good,” I said. I grabbed the Prada bag and pointed to my suitcases. “Please take my luggage.”

A clueless expression spread over his face, but when he saw my commanding gesture, he grabbed the handles of my roller bags and moved toward the parking lot. I was hot on his trail. I didn’t want to lose him in the snow, which was getting even worse.

He stopped in front of a big truck, which I wasn’t able to see clearly, opened the passenger door, and lifted my two suitcases inside with a groan. Then he crawled behind the seats to make sure the bags were safely stowed. This took him quite awhile.