Typist #4 - Every Romance is a Revenge Fantasy

The village of Mürren had no public road service, so we finished our journey on board the Luftseilbahn Stechelberg-Mürren-Schilthorn, which is a cable car that hangs in the air. I could only imagine how breathtaking the Swiss mountains could be in the summer, and they were certainly spectacular covered in snow.

The sky was bright blue that day, not a cloud in sight, and the snow sparkled so brightly, we had to put on sunglasses.

In the village, our guide came to meet us, and took us, by foot, to the hotel we were staying at.

My mother, still cranky, turned to me and said, “The least Smith could have done was come and meet us himself, not send a guide.”

“Take it up with Smith when you see him. I already told you he can be a real ass**le sometimes.”

The guide said, with his French accent, “Ah, yes, you are ‘ere for zee Wittingham event.”

Mom and I cracked up, because we both get the giggles over French accents.

“What iz wrong?” he asked. “What iz zee matter?”

“Nothing,” I said. “Just travel fatigue.”

We checked into the hotel and went up to our rooms to freshen up. The itinerary we’d been sent had a time for dinner at the hotel, but nothing listed after that night. My mother had made most of the travel arrangements, mainly just confirming we were coming, with Smith’s office. Neither she nor I had spoken to Smith, though surely he knew we were coming.

As we opened the doors to our rooms, on the top floor of the hotel, I tried to hide my disappointment that he hadn’t met us already. In my mind, I had several fantasy scenarios planned. In one of them, I told him off, real good, and spent the trip learning how to ski and ignoring him. All of the other scenarios involved sex, but still ended with me telling him off real good.

I mean really, would it have killed the guy to make a phone call? To send a postcard? It was just six months of nothing, and then suddenly a trip to Switzerland? He was all brakes and all gas, nothing in between.

Mom and I each walked through our doors, and then laughed when we immediately saw each other through the double doors connecting our two suites.

She walked around, her mouth literally open as she gaped at the beautiful linens, the sumptuous furniture, and the fruit. Yes, the fruit. She pulled it out of the bowl on the table in my suite, a piece at a time, saying, “Tori, this is real. Look, this banana! It’s real. And this peach! It must have been flown in from somewhere exotic.” She held it to her nose. “Oh, it smells so good. And these grapes. These grapes are real. Not plastic.”

She ran over to her side of the suite and shrieked.

“What?” I ran after her.

She held up a pineapple, her eyes glistening. “A pineapple,” she gasped.

“Mom, stop. You’re making me feel bad. We have a good life back home. You get pineapple all the time at home.”

“Only when it’s on sale,” she said.

“Pineapple is a ridiculous fruit for a hotel room. You can’t just eat that. You need a knife and a cutting board.”

She sniffed the pineapple. “There’s a nail file somewhere in my luggage.”

I backed away to my side of the double suite. “Okay, you have fun then. I’m going to take a shower and get dressed for dinner.”

She was still smelling the pineapple and muttering about her nail file when I went off to check out my bathroom.

I’d been trying to hide my nerves from my mother, but alone in the space of my luxurious bathroom, I collapsed in a heap of does-he-like-me-or-not insecurities. The flight and hotel were expensive, but I knew that was like pocket change to a man with Smith’s means. His most valuable asset was his time, and so far he’d given me none of it.

I cried into my hands, and then I got into the fancy shower and cried into the steam.

Pull yourself together, I told myself, which only made me cry harder.

My love life back home was not much better than my current prospects in Switzerland. The brother of my boss had shown some interest, suggesting we go out for drinks sometime. He was the exact same age as Smith, yet he was old.

I’d actually gone out with another guy, for a blind date set up by one of my girlfriends, but the guy was way too young. He was only a year younger than me, but when we were at the restaurant together, I felt like I was sitting at the kids’ table. He talked about his new computer system, with three monitors chained together so he could play video games, and I half-expected the waiter to come by with crayons for coloring the place mats.

I still slept with him, though.

What can I say? I thought it would help me get Smith Fucking Wittingham out of my system. The kid had washboard abs, and he was fun in bed—both times—but he didn’t take charge. He kept asking if it was okay if he did this, or did that, and I guess it was better than nothing, but not by much.

Smith had been so hot in bed, or on the forest floor, or in an alley, against the bricks. I’d had to imagine it was Smith in order to get off that night with the kid, and after that, I couldn’t face him again, because I thought for sure he knew. I may have accidentally panted out Smith’s name.

That was all behind me, though, along with Smith himself. Except now I was in Switzerland.

I got dressed in one of the nice dresses I’d bought in Montreal, and I styled my hair up into a twist for a change, so I’d look more sophisticated. Finally, I put on the necklace he’d hidden in my purse. It gleamed in the bright light of my bathroom, and I looked exactly like someone who’d be staying at such a nice hotel.

My mother came into the room all dressed up in an indigo-hued dress that showed off her hourglass figure.

“No, Mom. You look way too good,” I said. “He’s totally going to flirt with you.”

She held one hand to her lips. “Oh no. I can change?”

I laughed. “I’m just teasing you.”

We left the room and walked down the hall to the elevator.

What was that thumping noise?

Right. Just my pulse.

I grinned at my mother.

She said, “Why are you baring your teeth at me?”

“I’m smiling.”

We got in the elevator and she pushed the button. I thought I might throw up, but didn’t.

At the dining room, my mother confidently said, “Wittingham party,” and the elegant waiter led us over to a table set for four.

A man was already sitting there.

My pulse pounded in my ears.

The man turned our way and stood. Black hair. Blue eyes. Familiar smile. It was Claude, Smith’s driver.

“Tori!” Claude said. “I’m so glad you two came.”

“What’s going on here?” Where was Smith? I got the urge to punch something.