"If you jump, I jump."
I raised an eyebrow at the city sprawled below my feet, but I didn't turn around. Steps crunched behind me.
"Really? I never took you for a Titanic fan."
"Oh, shit."
Ingrid swung her leg over the guardrail and sat down next to me. A knot caught in my throat. If anything happened to her now, it would automatically be my fault.
"You're right," she continued, "Leonardo DiCaprio said that, didn't he?" She laughed. "I seriously thought I came up with it myself. Guess not."
I reached for the bottle of Brennan whiskey I'd brought to the roof with me, but Ingrid snatched it from my hands.
"I think you've had enough," she justified herself and literally gulped down the liquor.
It made me stare at her wide-eyed. She grimaced as the whiskey burned its way down her throat and groaned, blinking tears from her eyes. Then she tossed the half-empty bottle over her shoulder. I sighed.
"So," she began, her palms propped on the edge of the building, her body angled forward. "I guess that makes you Kate Winslet."
She grinned at me and I couldn't help smiling back at her. Coloured light washed over us from the billboard atop the neighbouring building.
"Are you gonna jump?" she asked, peering into the abyss beyond her shoes.
"I don't know," I answered truthfully, "I was still debating whether I should when you showed up."
"It's a shit way to die," she said, matter-of-factly. "Personally, I'd opt for an overdose."
"Of what?"
"Heroin?"
I thought about it. "You think you could get me some?"
She leaned back against the rail. "I could, but knowing you'd use it to kill yourself, I wouldn't."
"So why shouldn't I jump, then? Why shouldn't I just die and get it over with?"
"It's too easy. The easy way out. Don't give the haters that satisfaction."
She had a point.
"And you haven't bored me yet. That's rare."
She stared up at the clouds drifting past. A storm was brewing, so we couldn't see any stars.
"Let's go back to mine," she suggested. "If you still want to kill yourself after I'm done with you, then I won't stop you."
It sounded tempting enough. More tempting, at any rate, than crash-landing into gory pieces on the pavement.
"Yeah...," I mumbled, "I'd like that."
~
My wife had just died and I was a mess when I met Ingrid in Berlin.
I had taken some time off from my job at K in England, to grieve and get my shit together. That I ended up doing the exact opposite is another story entirely. The one I’m telling you now began one weekend in London, where I was catching up with an old mate from the liquor company I used to work at. I'd called him up in hopes he could procure some free booze for me, except he had other plans.
He’d agreed to meet because he thought I’d be a good fit for a position his boss was desperate to fill. They were looking for someone who could go to Berlin for a while, to help train some new marketing recruits. Someone they’d been very certain of had opted out not long after accepting the offer.
"It'd only be for a month," my mate insisted. "Six weeks, tops. It'd be good money - and good fun." He winked.
I don't know why I took him up on it. I was in no shape to be imparting knowledge upon doe-eyed fresh graduates, but I did love the Berlin vibe. Besides – this would get me the free booze I’d wanted in the first place. Win-win.
Before I signed anything, I had a meeting with Ian, the CEO, to discuss terms and requirements. I'd always liked him and honestly, I'd only ever left the job because I needed to get out of working in London. The lifestyle wasn’t good for my marriage, and we had a baby on the way. Ian had understood and now expressed his gratitude that I accepted to help him out with this.
"How's Liz? You had a baby, right?" he asked good-naturedly and I was forced to tell him the truth behind my sabbatical. "Shit, Jude, I'm so sorry... Are you sure you're up for this? I didn't mean to impose, you should take all the time you need..."
"You're fine," I reassured him. "I think this'll do me good. Berlin is an amazing city."
Ingrid Astor was one of those new recruits. Twenty-five years old and...widowed. My eyebrows jumped when I read that particular tidbit in her file.
"Widowed?"
I was reviewing the recruits' files alongside Emma, the marketing manager. As a trainer, I basically belonged to HR now, so she wasn't my direct superior, but she'd be the boss of these kids and we had to work together to whip them into shape.
"Hmm?" Emma managed in response.
Her Irish twang tickled my ears and I had the sudden urge to ravage that flawless office look of hers until she turned into a wild animal in my sheets. Or on her desk.
"Marital status," I said. "Why's that on here?"
"Oh, it's a German thing," she answered dismissively. "You can just ignore it. They're very keen about details, so we fill it out even though, obviously, that has no bearing on the recruitment process. Don't go blabbering about it, by the way," she hurried to add, "only HR and upper management have access to that information."
I followed Emma's advice and did my best to forget what I'd read, which must have worked, because when I eventually singled Ingrid out, it was because she easily proved herself to be the smartest person in the room.
She was juggling this job with the final semester of her master's degree, had just returned from half a year in Denmark and she was Romanian, so the English and German she spoke to near native fluency were both foreign languages to her.
And fucking hell, she was only twenty-five and widowed?
By the end of our first week together, I decided I needed to know more about her. Luckily for me, she took it upon herself to organise weekend drinks at some vibrant student pub. The two of us led the alcoholic charge and got shitfaced beyond recognition. Then the party moved to a nightclub nearby, where Ingrid knew the DJ. I must have told her about my hobby at some point, because she convinced her buddy to let me hijack his decks for a few songs.
A handful of us ended up at Ingrid's place overnight, for games and more booze, but we left as soon as the trains started running. I would have stayed, except I felt it was too soon to get naughty. And I knew I wouldn't have been able to hold back if I did.
I still had to train this girl.
At least I liked teaching her. She wasn't afraid to champion the craziest ideas if she believed in them, took no bullshit and her contagious confidence strengthened her team when she stood her ground. Her international experience meant she could openly consider all kinds of varying perspectives, weigh them against each other until she settled on the most suitable one.
The Brennan Company had struck gold when hiring her and she could become an important asset if they treated her right. I wanted to make sure she knew that. It turned out she needed no reminding, though.
"I'm aware of my worth," she told me one morning over coffee, "and trust me, they're paying a premium for it."
"That's good to hear. Ruthless negotiator, are you?"
"I've had to fight tooth and nail for everything in my life. You bet your tight little ass I am."
"I'm intrigued," I said, pretending to ignore that throwaway flirt.
The look she gave me showed she didn't buy it, however. I wondered if she wanted to see for herself how tight my ass really was and she wiggled her eyebrows as if she could read my mind.
"Long story," she shook her head, "and we have to get going."
I checked my watch and she was right, so we stood up and headed for the meeting room where I held my classes.
That Friday, we all went out for pizza after work and halfway through the ensuing pub crawl, Ingrid and I snuck away to a bar she seemed to know well.
"Hey, baby!" the bartender greeted her and she grinned at him. "What can I get ya?"
She hopped on a stool and glanced up at me.
I shrugged. "Whiskey?"
"Make that two."
I sat beside her, picked up my glass and clinked it with hers.
"Cheers," she said and took a generous sip from her drink.
"Do you come here a lot?" I asked.
She nodded. "Remi and I go way back. We met in New York and came out here together."
"Oh, really? How long did you stay in New York?"
She tilted her head, had another gulp of whiskey. "A few years."
There's not much I remember after that, just that our glasses never seemed to go empty. We must have sat there and drunk for a long time, because the next thing I know, I was waking up in her bed, drenched in sweat.
"Fuck."
She was nowhere to be seen, so I threw my clothes on and tiptoed out into the hall. My stomach growled when a sweet aroma, almost like that of a cake baking, wafted through from the kitchen. It couldn't have been that loud, but Ingrid must have sensed me, because she came outside and waved me over.
"Have some breakfast before you go," she said.
"I don't...usually stay for breakfast."
She raised an eyebrow at me. "I cooked for two, so you're going to. Then you can go hook up with some other hoe, I don't give a shit."
I gulped and licked my lips. I was hungry and Ingrid looked like she'd whack me with her frying pan if I turned her down.
We had American pancakes for breakfast, which is what reminded me I'd asked her about New York at the bar. I was going to resume that conversation, except she dropped a bomb on me that froze my blood.
"So who's Liz?"