Billionaire on Board (4 page)

"My, my. How long is Myrtle, three-hundred feet?"

"God no. Two-hundred-twenty-eight."

"Seventy metres?"

"Yes."

I had nothing more to say. Myrtle was a big seagull.

"Will you have dinner with me tonight?" 

 My insides were clenching again. Did he really mean to take me out on a date?

"The hotel made reservations for Jonathan and myself but since I'm alone now…"

"Oh, I see." I hoped not to sound too disappointed. "Which restaurant?"

"The L'Oiseau D'Or. It's overlooking the port, I think. You could tell me something about it."

"Oh, you want me for a tour guide? That would be 300,- euros."

"Food included?"

"Sure."

"Indeed? I could get a high class hooker for the price."

"She couldn't tell you about the port," I quipped. "Although, she may… they reside in the area."

"But since I'm your boyfriend, you're of course coming for free."

"Yes. Of course." 

What was I thinking? He was accompanying me to Christian's abhorrent wedding, how could I even think of charging him?

"Great." He got up. "I believe you'll want to change. I see it's almost six o'clock. What say we? Eight in the lobby? Do you have your car here? Should I have one sent?"

I got up as well. "I take the tube."

"How exotic."

I walked to the door and he followed me. "Be careful."

"This is a safe place. I take the tube every day. Maybe you should try it."

He did not reply, he simply held the door for me.

Four

I barged out of the hotel in a delirium.

After five minutes of aimless walking and trying to get my act together, I stopped and gazed around. I was standing in front of the tube station. My feet had carried me there automatically. 

"
Scheisse!
" 

I hit my hand against my forehead several times. 

Nothing happened. If you ignore the weird looks I got from the people coming out of the station. 

I was still here, I was not in my bed. I was not dreaming this. I fished out my phone and hit repeat. It would be either Lilly or Tina, I did not care. I needed help. I got Lilly's mailbox. "Call me. CALL ME! The universe is playing bad tricks on me."

I dialled Tina next. 

She didn't pick up either, so I texted her. 

'Just met the real Ryan C-F at Hanseatischer Hof. He's coming to the wedding. Going out to dinner with him tonight.'

Her answer came about fifteen seconds later.

'Ha ha, yes. He asked me to order a carriage and eight white horses. Can't talk, am at the hairdresser's.'

I ran down the stairs towards the platform, hitting my touchscreen.

'NO JOKE! I SWEAR! TOTALLY CRAZY!!!'

'Yeah right.'

Fortunately the train drove in after only a minute. 

'NO. I SWEAR! I SWEAR! HEART ATTACK!!! PLEASE PLEASE BELIEVE ME!!'

'Take a picture'

'I'm already on the tube'

'Gotta go, Brad Pitt has to rinse the dye.'

I growled and scared the old lady who was sitting next to me.

"Excuse me," I piped.

At my stop I practically ran out into the street, sprinted two blocks further and opened the door to my building. I hurled myself into the flat and stormed to the wardrobe. "Nothing to wear, nothing to wear! Get a grip, come on, get a grip!"

But who could seriously get a grip when one's imaginary boyfriend had just materialised like a genie from a bottle, looking larger than life?

There
was
the possibility of me going insane and hallucinating but somehow everything else was completely normal. 

There by the bed was the tea cup I had drunk from that morning. My laptop rested half-open on the sofa where I had left it last night before going to bed. A used sock was lying on the bathroom floor. I would not be hallucinating a sock, would I?

Okay, if I could not get a grip I would have to let myself be carried away by the cosmic hurricane that had come upon me.

What would I normally do when I went out on a date? 

Shower, shave, blow-dry my hair, polish my nails, put on some nice underwear (I did not usually have any audience for it, it simply made me feel better to be prepared), put on a dress, put on make up, put on shoes, grab a bag, fill it with keys, purse and phone. It was not too hard, was it?

It was. 

By the time the cab driver rang the bell at 7.45, my flat looked like a battlefield. 

I had cut my armpit, I had ruined a white towel with red nail polish, I had torn the zipper off a dress, but the result was worth it. 

I wore a black chiffon dress reaching almost down to my knees. It charmed my figure without revealing anything significant. I had chosen some pearls for my ears, neck and arms (they had cost me a bloody fortune some years ago and were the only halfway decent pieces of jewellery in my possession). My only pair of black stilettos finished the picture. 

It was a time tested outfit. 

If there is one advice I have to give it is this: never experiment on a date.

But this was no date. Who was I kidding? 

This was me playing the fool for a bored billionaire in need of distraction. 

When Ryan Corvera-Fabergé went on a date he would go with a sleek supermodel, not with a baby faced nerd who barely scratched 5'6''. 

I piled my hair on top of my head. Maybe that would give me model height. Maybe I could jump.

When I arrived at the hotel I stepped out off the taxi with wobbly knees, worrying like crazy whether I was overdressed. 

Or underdressed. 

Or whether black mascara was covering my entire face. 

He was waiting for me in the lobby. 

He had changed into a black suit and no tie, just a white shirt, top button open with a tiny triangle of bronzed skin peeping out. 

I felt an urge to put my tongue to it. 

I resisted.

"No tie?" I asked instead when I shakily halted in front of him and he looked me over.

"Not if I can avoid it. I had a business lunch earlier on. You look different."

"I changed."

"Yes." He was still looking down at me with an impassive face. Did he miss three inches of supermodel?

Neither of us said anything for maybe five seconds and I felt myself slowly sink into the ground. 

Finally he switched on his inner stage lights and produced a smile. "Where are my manners? You're looking very lovely, Jude. Shall we?"

He took me by the elbow and gently guided me out of the hotel. 

A black Maybach was waiting for us already. 

It had not been there when I had arrived at the hotel a minute ago. I imagined limousines just sprouted out of the ground wherever Ryan Corvera-Fabergé appeared.

"What are you laughing at?" he asked me once we were sitting inside.

"Nothing. It's just funny to be driven like this."

"It's very nice to be driven by professionals, you know, you might enjoy the experience." He adjusted his sleeves.

"It's my job to be driven by professionals, I do it every day. But tonight it's private. I'm the guest. I don't have to talk about what's passing outside the window."

"I see. Well, why don't you? I've been here a couple of times, but I never had a guided tour."

"Sure. We're now going to pass the City Hall on our right. With the canal and the big lock in front." 

I was relieved to talk about something, anything, really. 

During the cab ride I had been fretting about what we should say to one another.

We continued to the Speicherstadt, the warehouse city, drove along the old piers and the jetties, turned onto the historical fish market and eventually drove up onto an eminent street called Elbchaussee, elevated high above the great river Elbe and its vast port. 

The L'Oiseau D'Or restaurant was situated on a terrace with a view across the stream towards the container terminals on the other side.

The light was slowly fading when the head waiter guided us to our table and the harbour was beginning to twinkle. The commuter ferries speeding by below us had turned on their evening lustre, so had the imposing container bridges and the van carriers hurrying rapidly from one ship to the other.

"What a beautiful view. Do you think we can see Myrtle from here?" 

"No, we can't, she would be further inland. The headland behind me is in the way." 

I was quite proud for how I handled myself. So far I had not stumbled, I had not covered the man in spittle and I had suffered no hysterical laughing fit. 

"Yes, she's next to those gigantic floating docks. How did you know?"

I studied the menu intensely. Somehow I did not dare to look at him across the dinner table. Not just yet. "I also do harbour cruises."

"That's interesting. When's your next?"

"Tomorrow." I concentrated hard on the menu. Somehow nothing in it made any sense. 

"In German?"

"No, in English, the captains can do the tours in German themselves."

"Great, so I'll understand everything."

Now I
did
look up. He in turn did not look at me but at the wine list.

A new waiter showed up. 

He was the one in charge of the drinks. A glass of champagne was put in front of me. "Pour Madame."

"We'll have the — have you decided? Should I order red or white?"

"Red, please," I breathed. 

"The 1995 Chateau Manon." 

"
Bien sur
, Monsieur, excellent choice."

When the waiter was gone, Ryan lifted his head and we were face to face at last.

"That's top stuff. The vintner's a friend of mine."

"Oh." 

He looked so incredibly handsome with the river glittering behind him in the setting sun, it was almost too much to bear. His chiseled face, so aloof, so in control… as if he came directly from the pages of a saucy romance novel.

"I see, I can't impress you."

I unfolded the napkin. "No, no, it's interesting."

"Interesting. Yes."

Another five second silence. 

We started to speak at the same time.

"Do go on," he begged.

"Tell me about Myrtle. Where did you find her?" 

It was one of the things I had mapped out during my trip to the hotel. I was sure he would be eager to talk about his yacht. 

I was right.

"Myrtle!" His eyes lit up. "Well, I got her from some dubious Lebanese arms dealer who inherited her from his late father. She had not been operated since the seventies, just lay there rotting and I got her for a real bargain. I had always wanted a classic yacht. I fell in love with them as a boy, during the cruises with my grandparents."

I nodded, the words 'falling in love' ringing in my ears. Certain words and phrases should be prohibited from use on dates. Even fake dates. 

"We get a lot of cruise ships here, too. If we're lucky we'll see one go by tonight."

"Yes. Err, we went on my grandfather's yacht. Not on a cruise ship."

"Thank Goodness."

"I didn't mean it like that."

I felt a little smile creep up on me. "Go on, what did you do to Myrtle once you had her?"

"I had her lifted to Antigua. There— "

"Is that where you normally live?" I interrupted.

"Whenever I can. But I have to spend too much time in London and NYC."

"Yes. So do I." 

"Really?"

"Oh yes, I'm commuting on the Concorde. My private one. They don't fly them commercially anymore." 

He chuckled. "You're a nasty piece of work, Poppy Jude."

I chuckled too. "I know."

Our eyes met and my body vibrated like a cello string.   

"Anyway, in Antigua I got together with a friend who's a yacht designer and we figured out what we could do about her. She was originally outfitted for sixteen guests plus their staff plus crew but I don't like having too many people around so we changed it to six cabins and cut out the rest for a convertible pool area and a jet ski pod et cetera. I had her with me on Pink Pebble Cay to work on her insides. I took her bowels out almost all by myself."

A vision of him in black trunks and nothing else, working and sweating on a white sandy beach did nothing to improve my state of mind. 

Fortunately, a third waiter delivered the starters before I could start to slobber.

They were "
Crevettes à la Crème du Marc du Cremant aux Asperges Vertes flambée
." It roughly translated to two shrimp and two asparagus sticks.

"Pink Pebble Cay?"

"Yes, I don't actually live on mainland Antigua."

"I see."

He owned a private island. How charming.

"So, once she was completely seaworthy, we brought her here."

"When?"

"Last August."

"And you'll be taking her back to Antigua on monday?"

"No, I won't, I'm planning to take her to the Med for three weeks before it gets too crowded there. Sardinia, Monte Carlo, Liguria. The usual stuff. My only free time this year. Get to meet up with some people."

"Ah, yes. The usual stuff. It must be quite hard when your friends are so widely dispersed around the globe. I already think
my
best friend lives far away and she's only in Berlin."

"I fly a lot."

I wanted to make some cynical remark about a private jet but I stopped myself. I had been too edgy about his wealth already.

"Will you be going all alone? Three weeks? Only with Angelo and the crew?"

His eyes narrowed. "Hmm. Actually I had two candidates but in the end I decided I could stand neither of them on restricted space for such a long time."

"Let me guess. Models? One Russian, one Italian?"

He drew his eyebrows together. "One Czech and one Brazilian. Good Lord, am I such a stereotype?"

I shrugged. 

The wine came. It was excellent and I praised it freely, not mentioning the fact that I usually quaffed discounter stuff with the same gusto, as long as a plate of pasta and my girlfriends were in the package.