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I return her kiss and tear open the paper. “Wow, a gift certificate to the mystery dinner atFarmer’s Country Inn?” Just a few weeks ago we were talking about how expensive the five-course meal was, including the exquisite wines. “You guys are nuts!”
“Don’t talk nonsense!” Katja jabs me with her elbow. “Each of us just contributed the usual five euros.”
“Really?” I mentally calculate the number of employees, multiply and smirk. “That’s true, you’re right!”
“Article one of the house rules…” Katja sneers and points to the framed poster behind the reception desk. “…Ms. Walter is always right. Article two: If Ms. Walter should not be right…”
“…article one automatically comes into force,” I complete the age-old office slogan and, laughing, let her pass me on to our cleaning lady, who hands me a bouquet of flowers from her own garden.
At some point, my head is already buzzing. Everyone congratulates me, and someone is constantly refilling my champagne. I want to turn around and bump into—
“Whew!”
My heart stumbles in its beating. I catch my breath with trembling lips, feeling a veritable flood of endorphins coursing through my veins. Two syllables form in my head that I dare not pronounce.
Holding my breath, I turn around—and all the blissful anticipation and tension fizzle. “Oh,” I slip out, audibly disappointed. “It’s you, Pauline.”
She laughs uproariously. “Yes, it’s me, your best friend. Who were you expecting?”
I shrug, but she doesn’t back down.
“As candy-colored as you’re glowing under your makeup, definitely not Kevin, the old geek. And certainly not me…” She wrinkles her nose, as she always does when thinking. “Is there anything you want to confess to your best friend?”
I become embarrassingly aware of my colleagues’ curiously pricked ears and the tense drop in the noise level around us. If they could, they would probably turn their outer ears in our direction like cats, so as not to miss a word. “Yes,” I say clearly. “I never, ever expected to see you. First of all, you were already at our barbecue yesterday, and secondly, you have to work until six-thirty on Mondays!”
Disappointed sighs mingle with the murmurs of those gathered. One by one, the first people leave the surprise party, and only Pauline, Katja, Mr. Bretschneider, and the cleaning lady remain.
“My goodness, what a mess!” Now the foyer has emptied, I realize the confetti bombs and paper streamers have left an almost inch-thick layer on the floor. I grab three half-full glasses and a tray, but Katja emphatically takes everything from my hands.
“No way!” she scolds me. “You get out of here now, my dear. Why do you think your friend took the day off?”
I tangle my feet in the streamers lying around as I turn in the direction Katja is pointing. “Really?”
“OK.” She smirks, then looks at her watch. “We really have to go, the suburban train to Heidelberg won’t wait for us.”
My mouth opens, but I’m at a loss for words. Silently, I look from Pauline to Mr. Bretschneider and back. “Does that mean… does that mean you also got hold of tickets for the Monday night piano lounge at theTurquoise Piano Lounge?”
“Don’t ask such a dumb question.” With an annoyed look on her face, Pauline pulls me toward the door. “Otherwise we’ll miss half of it.”
We’re already under the door when Mr. Bretschneider calls something else after us:
“If you want to start later tomorrow… No problem, Ms. Lechner!”
Still giggling and a little out of breath, we board the suburban train a few minutes later, which has just arrived at the station at the Beetle’s Gate. We meander forward through the train as it swiftly starts up. We try to avoid eye contact with theyoung men—the common press euphemism for often criminal migrants from Islamic states who disrespect European women—who are almost drooling at us. Then, we find an empty seat bay behind the driver’s cabin.
In Binau, a regular customer of Pauline’s joins us and gratefully sits opposite us. As a natural consequence, our conversation turns to fashion trends, styling tips, and the latest gossip about celebrities.
“Did you see what a sickly-sweet dress Princess Charlotte wore to her aunt’s wedding?” Pauline sighs devotedly. “If I ever get married, my flower girls will have to wear something just like that.”
“You’re making wedding plans?” I tease her. “Who’s the lucky guy?”
Her customer raises her eyebrows in interest, but Pauline waves it off with a laugh.
“Purely hypothetical, dear Celine. Completely purely hypothetical. You know I don’t want to commit for the next five years.”
“Five years?”I can’t believe this.
“At least,” my friend confirms with a meaningful smirk.
