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“Then we went inside and I suggested we forgo the bar because there were several people in there and instead have a drink in my salon in the suite. I allowed my hand to brush against his a couple of times as we walked along the corridor. At one point, he took my hand and squeezed it. I pulled it away gently and smiled at him.” Ambrose could imagine the scene. He felt desperately sorry for poor Gilles. “We reached my suite. The lobby light and some soft mood lighting were already on – the hotel people are really very good there – and the little courtyard with its trimmed green bushes was lit. The turn-down service had lit the little gas fire in the salon. It had coal-like briquettes and real flames just like ours at home.” Em and Ambrose liked their little fireplace. They loved to fuck each other in front of its flames on winter afternoons. “I asked him what he’d like to drink,” said Em. “He said he’d like a whisky with ice. I said I would get the drinks and perhaps he would like to. My first words to her, before I knew her name or anything was: ‘Are . . . are you an angel?’ And that wasn’t a feeble attempt at a pickup line. I seriously thought I must have died, and woke up in heaven. ‘No,’ she laughed, ‘just a poor nursing aide.’ ‘If you are only a poor nursing aide, then what do the nurses look like here?’ I asked, and yes, that was a slight attempt at a pickup line. This time she laughed even harder, then quipped with a huge smile: ‘Well, Debra is the head nurse and she is about two or three inches shorter than me and weighs about 200 pounds. Would you like me to get her for you?’ I think I told her that wouldn’t be necessary, but I was still very groggy from the anesthetic they had used to put me to sleep, and apparently I immediately dozed back off. When I woke up several hours later I was in a different room, but this angel was still there. ‘Are . . . are you an angel?’ I again asked, and she laughed and reminded me that I had already asked that question.
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