Seductive Viennese Whirl (11 page)

No sooner has Eva returned with the beers than Pacino leans over and looks into my eyes so that I feel as if a dagger – of lust, not pain, has imbedded itself in my stomach. He has dark feral eyes and they pull me in. While my stomach starts doing flips, he says, loading the sentence with meaning, "Where are you two going, later?" He has an almost perfect English accent with just a trace of something foreign.

"Why?" I say, but it comes out like a squeak.

"Because wherever you're going we'd like to go too."

Male Model lowers his eyes. He has the prettiest lashes. When he looks back up he seems faintly embarrassed at his friend's forthright manner and smiles sheepishly at Eva.

"We'll be lucky if we find our way back to the hotel," I say, taking a swig of beer, which fizzes up inside my nose, causing me to sneeze.

"It's our first night here," says Eva, staring at Male Model while licking her lower lip and pulling at her left earlobe. "And I do believe we're lost."

Pacino laughs. "I see. In that case, once the rain has stopped me and my friend won't mind showing you the way back to your hotel. Not at all." He waves to the waitress and orders some champagne.

"That would be kind," I say. What I'm thinking is that it's awfully presumptuous of him to think we want them to come back to our hotel. In a flash I panic. Maybe we've got our wires crossed. Maybe he thinks we're prostitutes! I decide to set him straight.

"I'm Kate Pickles and this is Eva Black," I say. "We work in advertising." Getting no reply I say, "And you two are?"

"Who would you like us to be?" says Pacino. What a creep. Eva starts giggling.

"Why don't you just call us by our nicknames, everyone else does," says Male Model, fitting a cigarette into the corner of his mouth. "He's the Marquis and everyone calls me the Count." I bat away the impulse that these two might be dangerous loonies. Something about them intrigues me, or rather something about the Marquis still intrigues my lower regions enough to stick around. Not that I intend sleeping with him, of course.

Once the champagne arrives, and I've had a couple of glasses, I feel myself letting down my defences. I can sense that they are dodgy as hell, but I don't care. What the heck, we're on holiday and they promise adventure, an escape from our, okay my, dull little life.

Even as a voluptuous brunette in a pink bikini steps off the podium and comes up to the Marquis to start a slow, sensuous strip, he shoos her away as if she's nothing more than an irritating fly and continues talking to me. It makes me feel very attractive, warm and oozy, a feeling I haven't experienced in forever.

We find out they are both from Vienna. They are vague about their jobs but can talk in detail about many European destinations. I figure they're probably playboys.

Suddenly the intimate atmosphere is shattered by the ringing of a mobile phone. The Count gets up to answer it and walks away. When he returns he looks anxious.

"It's my sister, Anya. She's gone off the rails again. My mother is very concerned."

"How old is she?" asks Eva.

"Sixteen. She's ended up in hospital after mixing Ecstasy and booze."

Thinking about his sister is depressing. I don't want reality to enter into this unreal situation. Eva puts her face close to his and starts talking to the Count. They speak quietly, so I don't really hear what they're saying. Sorry if I appear unsympathetic, but I'm all burned out in my sympathy for Eva. I wonder about her, I really do. A few hours ago, while she was all heartbroken over McManus, I was her shoulder to cry on. But her misery seems to have dissipated, the moment she saw the Count.

I look over to see that the Marquis is observing me intently. "You are lost in your own little fantasy world," he says.

"Any more," hic, "champagne?" I say, smiling and raising my glass.

As he refills my glass, his eyes don't leave my face.

After I've worked my way through a mountain of pastries and a gallon of coffee Eva finally emerges in the hotel foyer, where I'm breakfasting, and sits down opposite, her hair all mussed up like it was after her night of passion with Carlos. Before I can ask her if the crazy hair is down to doing the Male Model last night, she pops a grape in her mouth, raises an eyebrow and says, "I feel like shit. How about you?"

"Dreadful. It feels like someone's playing the bongos inside my head. And I have absolutely no idea how we got home last night. Maybe you could enlighten me."

She shakes her head and looks at me blankly. "‘Fraid not. But at least we got back. That's all that matters, right?"

"I suppose so." I slurp my coffee. "I noticed that you and Male Model hit it off." She nods.

"I just thought, what with your hair all sticking up, that you and he might have …"

"What?" Her eyes twinkle with mischief.

"You've done the dirty deed, haven't you? Where is he?" I glance around at the guests having breakfast. "Or is he still in your room?"

"Not to my knowledge." She beams. "I didn't sleep with him. I think I'd remember that. And my hair's this way because I forgot to pack my hair mousse, that's all." She pops another grape in her mouth. "Anyhow, I don't know why you keep calling him Male Model. For starters, he's not tall enough to be a model, and his ears stick out just a tad, and his front teeth cross over," she says, chewing thoughtfully.

"Okay, the Count, whatever. What's the difference? Since they didn't get a shag, I doubt we'll be hearing from them again," I say, vigorously dunking an almond croissant into my cup and splashing coffee all over the tablecloth. I'm having a sudden flustered recollection of how uncomfortably aroused the Marquis made me feel, swiftly followed by a shudder of cold dread as an image skitters across my aching brain of that moment when I came home unexpectedly and interrupted Ben fucking his secretary on our bed. What that should have to do with the Marquis, I have absolutely no idea, apart from that maybe, just maybe I need to do what you've been telling me to do all along. That until I flush Ben out of my head my emotions will continue to be frozen, lost in deepest Antarctica. Would the Marquis have been able to thaw them, do you think? Well, shit, I'll never know now.

Eva snaps me back to the present. "Actually, the Count called my room half an hour ago and asked if we'd like to meet them later at some cake shop called Demel's."

My ears perk up at the mention of cake. "What did you tell him?"

"What do you think? If you want to skulk around the hotel like an old spinster with a dried up old hymen between her legs, you go right ahead. But I'm here to have a good time." As she talks her eyes fill with tears. I can tell she's thinking about McManus and is wishing he were here. At the same time she hates herself for thinking it.

"Well, okay, I'll come along. I don't want those two taking you for a ride. You're very vulnerable right now."

"There's nothing wrong with the Count. It's the other one that's all twisted."

I shrug. Maybe she's right. Maybe the Count is a decent guy. What do I know about men? I misjudged Ben didn't I?

"Right then, let's go," I say briskly. "If I don't get away from these pastries, I'm likely to explode."

This time I remember to take the city guide. We turn left outside the hotel and saunter along the Ringstrasse, which encompasses the First District, where, I read, all the well heeled people reside. It's a clear sunny day, with a gentle breeze, which makes me feel, despite my throbbing head, glad to be alive. Carrying a tiny Louis Vuitton handbag, Eva teeters behind me in spiked red heels that wrap around her perfect ankles with red laces.

"I'm not sure how far you're going to get in those," I say.

She scrunches up her nose. "Why can't we take a taxi? I mean how far are we going for chissakes?"

"You can't get to know a city from inside a taxi."

"What's there to see? A bunch of old buildings?"

"Vienna has a rich cultural history," I read from the guidebook. "And I think that while we're here we should make an effort to find out something about it."

Eva rolls her eyes, but I ignore her. "Take this, for example," I say, pointing to the State Opera House.

"As it stands today, most of this Neo-Renaissance building is only decades old," I read. "The outside walls, the façade and the grand staircase are the only portions to survive being bombed. The interior is a reconstruction, which attempts to capture the grandeur of the original building."

Eva yawns. "Yeah, yeah, where are the clothes shops?"

"Just be patient," I snap. As I walk down the Burgring I'm beginning to feel a bit hacked off. I'm about to tell her that she'll just have to do what I want for once, but before I can launch into a tirade I'm distracted by some decidedly un-austrian high pitched wailing, backed by an uptempo bhangra beat.

Turning right into MariaTheresiaplatz, a square full of historic buildings and statues, I notice that the music is coming from the direction of a couple who are doing some kind of courtship dance. An incredibly handsome Indian is miming to the music while the actress, wearing a bright purple sari, rubs herself provocatively against an ornate lamppost.

Eva totters up behind me and raising her voice over the music says, "I'm going to sit down. These shoes are killing me." I put my finger to my lips.

"Shh," I hiss. "They're filming," I say, pointing at the movie camera trained on the scene.

I watch as the director, a short Indian man wearing green flip-flops, waves his arms around and shouts, "Stop!" A man presses a button on an ancient tape deck. The music falters, then skids to a hault.

Wiping his forehead with a grubby handkerchief, the director goes up to the pair, shoves himself between them and starts shaking the actor by the shoulders.

"Wake up boy! You are still asleep. Maybe you bloody well need a cold shower." The actress titters at this, until the director turns to her and gives her a dark look. Lifting his little finger in front of her face, he says, "And you are no better Shamila. There is more passion in my little finger, than in your whole body. This is how it should be done."

The music starts up and he lip synchs the words of the song, slithering around the lamppost with a grin on his face like a snake that has just devoured a large mouse. The camera rolls as the actors play the scene again. Shamila writhes around the lamppost while her lover woos her.

The building she's dancing against, the Museum of Natural History, is made of dull grey stone. Against it, the actress's sari is like purple nail varnish spilling onto a black and white photograph.

"You like our film?" says the director, who has appeared at my side. He is about my height, with bushy eyebrows. I nod. He bellows something in his language at the actors and gives them the thumbs up. They smile. Evidently he approves of their performances this time.

"We are speaking Hindi," he says, as if I'd just asked him what language he was speaking, which I hadn't. "And I am Ravi Rawal, one of Bollywood's hottest new directors. I have recently made two Hindi films in Austria. Our people very much enjoy them. We have been in Linz, and also in Salzburg." Behind him Anil is staring at Eva with a look of adoration, while Shamila's expression is one of pure jealousy. "Plans are afoot for more projects." Eva rests on a bench, oblivious to either gaze, and retouches her lipstick.

Ravi needs no encouragement from me to start whizzing through the plot of the film they are working on,
Vienna's Pearl
, which kicks off when an Indian Prince, while vacationing in Vienna, falls for the charms of a poor Austrian chambermaid. The Prince decides to rescue her from a life of drudgery and whisk her away to live with him in Bombay, where he has to battle against his family's violent opposition to the union.

Suddenly he breaks off and looks at me quizzically, "You are on holiday here?"

"Yes."

"Look, maybe you can help. I am looking for a location here in Austria for my next film, a castle with high tower, where will take place a story based on one of your legends, of the lady with long hair, trapped inside. Her lover climbs up on her hair."

"Rapunzel?"

"Exactly."

Anil is inching his way in Eva's direction while Shamila gives her the evil eye. What I really don't need right now, is having to referee a cat fight between Eva and Shamila.

"Sorry Ravi, but I really need to get going," I say, taking a step towards Eva, before finding out that Ravi's grabbed my hand and immobilized me.

He's waving his card in front of my face. "You will ring me if you find such a place, yes? You give me your card?"

"Sure." Since he seems harmless enough, I free my wrist from his clutches, pull out a crumpled business card and hand it over.

While Anil is shuffling towards Eva, Shamila shouts something at his retreating back. He shouts something over his shoulder and continues towards his goal. Shamila follows, turns Anil toward her and slaps his face, leaving me relieved in the knowledge that the cat fight will take place between Shamila and Anil rather than Shamila and Eva, as I'd feared.

"Your friend," Ravi says, gazing over at the commotion. "What is her name?"

"Eva." Anil is screaming something back at Shamila while Eva sedately plucks a stray hair from her left eyebrow.

Ravi rubs his chin. "She is actress?"

Undeterred by receiving a slap from a girl who I am assuming is his girlfriend, Anil is now only a few feet from Eva, who is talking into her mobile, although I know full well it doesn't function outside the UK.

"Yes, I suppose she is, in a way." Ravi looks puzzled. "Well, goodbye," I say, scooting over and grabbing Eva's arm before Anil can get to her.

"Hey!" she protests. "What's with the heavy arm tactics?"

Since she evidently wasn't aware that Anil was ogling her I decide to keep things simple. "I thought you wanted to check out the shops?" I say, leading her across the Heldenplatz. It's only while I'm striding across the circular Michaelerplatz that I realize Eva's no longer beside me. I jerk my head round to see she's lagging behind, bent over and trying to yank her heel free of the cobblestones.