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“Two Rheingolds it is,” the bartender replied.
Fulmar turned back to Ingrid.
“So,” she said, “how is your mother?”
Fulmar did not immediately reply.
“You would probably know better than I,” he said finally, without emotion.
She raised an eyebrow.
“I thought you knew,” he explained.
She shook her head.
“My mother and I don’t talk. I don’t exist to her, at least to her as Monica Sinclair, Star of the Silver Screen.”
Ingrid reached out with her right hand and gently squeezed Fulmar’s left wrist. He liked the warm feel of her hand, and its strength.
“That’s so sad,” she said softly.
Jesus Christ, Fulmar thought, looking into her eyes. They’
re even more sensual in person than on screen. Can she turn that on and off as needed—or is it sincere?
He shrugged.
“You get used to it,” he said.
She looked off into the distance.
“And all this time,” she added, “I thought that it was just me that brought out the bitch in Monica.”
“Well, welcome to the club.”
Ingrid shook her head sadly.
She caressed his wrist, then looked more closely at it.
“You have unusually dry hands,” she said suddenly.
It was more a question than a statement.
Fucking Cosmoline, Fulmar thought.
He said, “That’s a long story. Had trouble washing some gunk off of my hands.”
She stared at him with a look of amazement.
“You seem to deal with things so well. Nothing seems to bother you—”
She paused as the bartender arrived with the two glasses of beer.
He placed one in front of Ingrid, then one in front of Fulmar.
“Danke,” Fulmar said.
“No problem,” the bartender said.
