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Morning hangover.The meal was superb. Foie gras and oysters for the aperitif, lobster ravioli entree, fillet with a Périgord sauce and haricots verts as the plat principal. Then salad, a cheese course, followed by île flottante for dessert, in the French manner. The accompanying champagne, red and white wines including a Sauternes with dessert, and after dinner liqueurs, was a blowout.
When I got back last night, I drank a huge balloon glass of water and took two ibuprofen. My head keeps pounding. I guess it didn’t do the job. Especially the ringing in my ears. I grope for my phone, trying to turn off the alarm, until I realize the room phone is ringing, and ringing, and ringing.
When my eyes unstick enough for me to see the evil instrument, I stumble over the ornate table it sits on. “Oui?” The croaking sound is barely comprehensible to my own ears.
“Madame, this is the wake-up call you asked for. The buffet breakfast is available for your pleasure.”
“Merci.” I want to slam down the receiver and go back to bed. I start to pick up my cell phone, looking for missed calls from JL. He’s called every day since he left for London. Could I have slept through the ringing? Instead, I head toward the bathroom. I can check later. Right now, a full bladder is urgent.
That taken care of, I start the Nespresso machine and dress to the sound of JL’s voice. He called four times last night, twice while I was cruising. The last time, he left a voice mail. “Kurt tells me you’re safe in your room, so I am going to assume you’re sleeping. I can’t wait to see you tomorrow, ma chouette. I hope you have sweet dreams.” I play it over and over, reassurance oozing through me at the sound of his voice.
After the last play through, I hear voices in the corridor, then a sharp rap. I pull the belt of my robe tighter. “Hello?”
Kurt’s voice is loud and clear through the heavy wood door. “Ms. Press, did you order room service?”
“NO,” I yell back.
I hear murmured conversation.
“Open the door, please.” Kurt stands, grinning, next to one of the hotel servers.
Still fuzzy from the effects of last night’s overindulgence, I ask, “What is this?”
“Breakfast, Madame.”
“I see that, but why is it here?”
Kurt is still grinning. “JL ordered it for you. So romantic, yes?”
It is romantic. But I’m still not sure whether I’m ready for this much romance.
I move out of the doorway. The cart that rolls in has everything I might want and looks much more appetizing than the food on the plane yesterday. Definitely on a par with last night’s gourmet meal. The server rolls it over between the two chairs. “Madame. Bon appetit.”
I thank him and hand him a small tip, then sit with my now tepid coffee as he and Kurt leave. “Make sure you put the chain back on,” Kurt calls out as he leaves.
Setting down my cup, I pick up the phone, planning to listen again to JL’s message. I see two more calls from an unknown number and block them. Then I notice a stream of text notifications from someone unknown, or at least not in my contacts. As soon as I open the first one, I’m sure they’re from Sam. Goosebumps break out on my arms, and the smell of bacon, warm pastries, fruit, and eggs turns from enticing to nauseating. Even the well-sugared and creamed coffee tastes bitter as I roll through the lines.
How did you like the fireworks? Good, huh?
Too bad you tried to block me, bitch.
My breath hitches.
Think you can escape.
You can run, but you can’t hide.
I’m just an old hound dog but I’m good at sniffing things out.
The Elvis reference is so Sam that, despite myself, I want to laugh.
I will track you down.
Now I’m shaking, but I can’t take my eyes off the screen.
Feel the hot breath on your neck?
