Love Is Pink! Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2013 Roxann Hill

  Translation copyright © 2014 Elena Mancini

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Previously published in Germany by the author as Liebe macht pink! in 2013 through the Kindle Direct Publishing platform. Translated from German by Elena Mancini.

  Published by AmazonCrossing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and AmazonCrossing

  are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781477826836

  ISBN-10: 1477826831

  Cover design by Verlag Lutz Garnies, Haar/München, www.vlg.de

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2014944825

  L’hiver, nous irons dans un petit wagon rose.

  In the winter, we travel in a little pink carriage.

  —Arthur Rimbaud

  CONTENTS

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR

  1

  The view from my suite was truly spectacular. Snow-covered mountains as far as the eye could see, ice-gray peaks, and hundreds of skiers racing down the slopes in the sunshine. Soon I would slip into my brand-new ski outfit and join them. The day, the place, the weather—it was as if everything had been made just for me.

  I smiled. I’d earned this.

  I brushed my freshly dyed hair off my forehead. Ombré—the latest trend. And it looked really good on me.

  I gazed at my hands. The nail art had cost me a small fortune, but I just couldn’t resist once I saw the perfect sparkle of these teeny little Swarovski crystals. I grabbed my smartphone and took a few pictures to post on Instagram: #lookoftheday.

  I giggled. I knew that my friends—or, rather, my numerous followers—would burst with envy at seeing how good I had it.

  On the small coffee table in front of me stood a photo in a sterling silver frame. It was of a man—or, better put, a genuine god. Tall, well-structured, with a special look in his eyes.

  Distingué. No. Très distingué.

  Unfortunately, that exhausted my knowledge of French. But it didn’t matter. When one has a life partner like Valentin von Gertenbach, one need not worry about learning foreign phrases. The hotel staff had been tipped well enough to speak to me in my language—German.

  Ah, Valentin.

  I’d met him three years ago. Like a conqueror from a bygone era, he’d stepped into my office, his head held high. He was self-aware and unapproachable, yet never arrogant. And right then and there, he’d claimed me for his own.

  At the time, I was only filling in at a real estate company, but Valentin insisted that I show him properties. No one else would do. The place he ended up buying cost seven digits. And that deal landed me a steady job as a real estate agent.

  But that’s not the only position I landed.

  Valentin and I felt an attraction from the beginning. We were kindred spirits. Soul mates, as he always said. At first we met at my apartment, where our passion was all that mattered. But soon we realized that those surroundings just weren’t suitable. So Valentin found me another apartment—more precisely, a fourteen-hundred-square-foot penthouse with a private elevator. It was comfortable, luxurious, and very discreet.

  Whenever he could slip away from work, he’d call my office. And I’d leave everything to rush home to my rapturous lover.

  OK, with time we’d gotten a bit more sensible. But our feelings for each other were beyond any doubt. We constantly pledged our eternal love. It could survive an earthquake of 10.0 on the Richter scale.

  There was just one small problem.

  Valentin did not belong to me alone. He was married. On paper only, of course, and he merely stayed out of pity for his wife. Poor thing, she was a bit older—early forties—with no financial resources. She was completely dependent on him. Valentin was far too great of a man to simply ditch this pitiful creature along with their three children—even if she did have a belly covered in pregnancy stretch marks.

  No, Valentin wasn’t that kind of person. He didn’t shirk his responsibilities.

  For almost three years now, he hadn’t been able to bear the thought of breaking his wife’s heart. To tell her the truth and leave his family in order to live with me.

  But five days ago his youngest daughter had turned sixteen. He’d promised me then that he’d finally separate from his wife. The children were older now. He’d fulfilled his duties and could focus on himself—and especially on me.

  This little vacation in the French Alps over the Christmas holidays would mark the beginning of our new life together. We would leave everything behind and enjoy what was due to us.

  It was high time. For too long I’d had to make concessions, and I wasn’t getting any younger. Not that Valentin and I wanted children. Here, too, we were on the same wavelength. Let’s be honest: Who needs screaming brats? I certainly didn’t. And those unscrupulous little creatures would surely ruin my figure.

  I sighed and leaned back in my armchair. I could hardly wait to put my arms around Valentin.

  That’s when my phone started playing Tchaikovsky’s suite from The Nutcracker. I’d downloaded the ringtone a few days ago. It was perfect for the season, and Valentin liked it when all the details lined up. He was fastidious in this regard. I figured I couldn’t go wrong with Tchaikovsky.

  “Hello,” I said as I took the call, coloring my voice with a hint of boredom and a note of confidence. This, too, I’d learned from Valentin.

  “Michelle!” I would have recognized Valentin’s voice among thousands.

  My name is actually Michaela. My parents had absolutely no shred of aesthetic sensibility. Michaela Krämer—how completely dull! But Valentin had rescued me from ordinariness by renaming me Michelle . . . you know, like from the Beatles song?

  “Michelle” better captured the qualities of my new personality and lifestyle: playful, romantic, cosmopolitan—with just a touch of extravagance. That was me.

  “Valentin? What a surprise!” I said. “You’re already in Chamonix? Are you calling from the lobby?”

  “No,” he said, “I’m not at the hotel.”

  I heard a rasp in his voice. With anyone else, I’d have thought I detected embarrassment. But surely I was mistaken. After all, this was Valentin—a man who knew what he was doing. He always had everything under control. Without exception.

  “Where
are you, then? Still at the airport in Geneva?”

  “No . . .”

  Again, I noticed this strange rasp I’d never heard before. An indefinable fear slowly enveloped me, and I knew I needed to dig deeper.

  “Is everything all right?”

  “Yeah. Well, no,” he replied.

  Yes and no? That was totally atypical for Valentin. He was reliably clear in his pronouncements.

  “I’m still at home—”

  “At home?” I said. “Then we can’t ski together today? The weather is gorgeous. I have brand-new gear that I’m dying to show off on the slopes. And you promised we’d go to the casino tonight. I don’t want to wait until tomorrow.”

  “Michelle, I won’t be there tomorrow, either.”

  “What do you mean?” The ground beneath me seemed to be giving way.

  “I can’t come at all.”

  “But our vacation . . . Christmas . . . our life together!” I was stammering like an idiot.

  “Michelle.” This time there was no mistake. Valentin sounded insecure and embarrassed. “Some things have happened. Circumstances. Incidents. There’s no way I can come to France.”

  “Did something horrible happen? Is something going on at work?”

  “No,” he answered. After a while he added, “It’s my wife.”

  “Oh, no! Did she have an accident? Is it serious?” In my inner eye, I saw myself standing at an open grave, a white lily in my hand. I wore an elegant black hat and itty-bitty veil, just long enough to cover my eyes. And then I started wondering how to quickly find appropriate mourning attire here at Mont Blanc.

  Valentin interrupted my train of thought. “Not an accident, exactly.”

  “Did she have a stroke or a heart attack? Oh, how terrible! But she is not among the youngest,” I said, careful to charge my voice with compassion.

  I looked at my fingernails. I’d get them repolished as soon as possible. Shiny Swarovski crystals at a funeral were an absolute no-go.

  “I’m begging you—don’t get angry, Michelle.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I’m calm and composed,” I said. “Right now, you just need to take care of you.”

  Valentin exhaled in relief. “It’s good that you’re so reasonable. I always knew I could count on you.”

  “Always,” I said. “You know we’re soul mates.”

  “My wife is pregnant,” he blurted out. “We’re expecting twins.”

  I wanted to respond, but words refused to leave my mouth. What I did manage to get out resembled the sound of a clogged faucet: “Pfft.”

  “Yeah,” Valentin continued. “That’s why I can’t leave home. And since my wife is the principal owner of my company, in this situation I simply have to—”

  “She’s what?” I screamed. This time the words tumbled right out of me.

  “Did I forget to tell you that? She’s the one with the money.”

  “I thought you—”

  “I’m a good administrator. But the fortune is hers. We have a prenuptial agreement.”

  “What about us? Our future, and our life together?”

  “You need to understand, Michelle. A man has to fulfill his duties. A man has to do what a man has to do. No matter what—”

  I didn’t hear whatever he said next. I’d thrown my phone full force against the wall, where it smashed to pieces.

  2

  The hotel reception desk wasn’t even staffed!

  An older couple was making their way toward it. I hurried in front of them, urged them aside, and took my place at the counter, glancing triumphantly at the woman in the pair. She looked at me in contempt. First come, first serve, I thought as I examined her. Probably in her late thirties, she’d already had at least two face-lifts. She wore expensive but tasteless clothes, and in her hand she carried the same Prada bag that hung on my arm.

  “Excuse me, please,” I said, “but I’m in a hurry. I need to check out. And nothing and no one is going to hold me back.”

  “We’re also leaving,” the man said sourly. His accent told me that the couple was Swiss. It was right to make them wait. Their whole country was living off of stolen money.

  I set my handbag on the counter and rang the service bell. Since no one immediately appeared, I hit it again, harder. The golden bell bounced on the wooden surface.

  A young lady came out from the rear, conjured up a charming smile, and addressed me with a professional expression.

  “Qu’est-ce que je peux faire pour vous, Madame?”

  My smile turned to a grimace. “I don’t understand your gibberish. Does anyone in this establishment speak a normal language? Is there no one here who’s educated and can speak German?”

  “Mais, Madame,” replied the little bimbo as a man in a dark suit approached and carefully but firmly pushed her aside. She exhaled and turned to the couple, who’d stepped forward. Naturally, they stooped to her level and spoke French with her. How typically Swiss. A people with no semblance of character!

  The woman in the couple, that classless daughter of an Alpine hillbilly, edged her way up and placed her bag on the counter right next to mine. Unbelievable!

  “What can I do for you, Madame?” the concierge asked me. His accent was heavy, but at least he made an effort to be understood. It was a start.

  “I’m checking out,” I said, impatiently tapping my platinum card on the shiny counter.

  “Very well, Madame. What was your room number?”

  “Room?” I said, infuriated. “Do I look like someone who stays in a room?

  “I had the penthouse suite, 1B!”

  “Of course, Madame. How could I forget?” The concierge stepped over to a laptop and began tapping away at the keyboard. A moment later, he returned with a reverent facial expression. If he thought this would help him get a tip from me, he was mistaken!

  He extended an envelope. “We have changed your flight, Madame. Inside is the confirmation for your check-in. And the suite has already been paid for, Madame.”

  “Paid?” I said. Blood shot straight to my head. Now the Swiss couple would think I was the type of woman who was supported by her lover. I bit my lip and slid my credit card back into its sleeve. I took my time opening my Prada bag and stowing the wallet inside before taking the envelope from the concierge and placing it in a compartment in the purse.

  In the meantime, I’d regained my composure. “When my taxi gets here,” I said, “have your bellhop bring my baggage outside.” I gestured to the two inordinately large, mauve-colored wheeled suitcases, which contained the minimum of what I needed for a seven-day vacation in the French Alps.

  Or, what I would have needed. Unfortunately, the vacation had lasted barely a day. And what a day at that. But it was not yet over! Before day’s end I would take Valentin to task. And then we’d see which woman he’d choose.

  The concierge cleared his throat.

  “Come to think of it, I hope my taxi is already here,” I said, pointing to the miniature face of my Cartier watch. “Tick-tock. In two hours at most, I’ll need to check in at the Geneva airport. And in five hours I want to be in Berlin.”

  The concierge bowed and indicated the exit with an elegant hand motion: “Madame, your taxi has just arrived.”

  The bellhop who’d retrieved my luggage looked at me expectantly. I gave him a little wave with my left hand and grabbed my Prada bag with the right. Then, with head held high, I swiftly exited the miserable hotel that had brought me nothing but terrible things.

  3

  The landscape outside the car was covered with snow. White everywhere I looked, and it was now snowing again—faintly, but continuously.

  The taxi driver was an ordinary, uneducated guy, whose only skill was to swerve around in a car. Around fifty, clean, poorly dressed. His suit screamed H & M—assuming the store even existed
in this godforsaken place.

  But he’d greeted me in German (with a heavy accent) and had placed my things rather carefully in the trunk. Miracles do happen sometimes.

  Now he turned on the radio, and although he played the music on a low volume, I could clearly make out George Michael’s “Last Christmas.” He probably intended to fill the entire ride with tasteless holiday songs.

  I reached over the seat back and tapped him on the shoulder. He gave me a quick look.

  “Please turn that off,” I said. “It’s dreadful!”

  “You no like Christmas?” he said, but it sounded like, “Yew no laik Chreezmaz?”

  Of course a simple guy like him would care about such sentimental drivel. I smiled confidently and demanded: “Just turn it off, please.”

  The driver obeyed, and I enjoyed the relative stillness of the engine noise. It began snowing more heavily, and the windshield wipers screeched over the glass, back and forth.

  All I needed was a flight delay due to the bad weather. Not to mention how awful it would be to have to sit around the airport for hours.

  I grabbed my bag to check the departure time on my phone. Then I remembered I’d thrown the phone against the wall, and that made me recall my reason for doing so and how Valentin had suddenly become such a wuss. I nearly screamed out of rage.

  But at least I could pull out the e-ticket the concierge had given me. I’d have to show it at the airport, anyway. It was a good thing that I never fly using just the bar code on my phone. I‘m old-fashioned in this regard.

  Old-fashioned and well organized!

  I knew exactly where in my Prada I’d stowed the printed ticket. Without looking, I unzipped the bag and reached inside. My hand felt something that shouldn’t have been in there: cold plastic wrap.

  As if struck by lightning, I opened the bag wide and stared inside for a moment, then began rummaging through the contents: a package of fine nylon stockings, see-through and not even my size; a used map of Paris (poorly folded); a packet of tissues (the cheap kind); peppermint candies; a pack of Marlboros.