The Journey of Rosalie

By Audrey Glanville

Surely it was the case in recent times that people had simply been kidnapped who were never heard from again and, to be exact, exclusively Foreigners – but the Department of Tourism's information sheet with all of its good tips on appropriate behavior still wouldn't be able to keep this from happening.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Audrey Glanville
• Release date: Aug 7, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310180088

Audrey Glanville

Audrey Glanville is a German novelist. She was born in Munich in 1975. After a varied career including a sales assistant, a journalist, she did a degree at the Goethe University Frankfurt am Main. Audrey worked as a journalist, news reporter, including 1 year in India and 2 year in the UK. Some years later, she has started to be a full time novelist and dedicated her life to writing and her favourite readers. Since then she has written further five novels, all of which have been widely read and acknowledged by public. Audrey lives and writes in a German valley, in Hessen region, with her husband and their two children. "The Journey of Rosalie" is one of the author's favourite and long-term projects which is based on her experience being a journalist and travelling all around the world. The novel is translated from German to English and now available as an online version. Audrey Glanville is writing her books just for readers to enjoy! If everyone has questions, one is more than welcome to get in touch with Audrey and send an email.

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The Journey of Rosalie

Copyright 2013 Audrey Glanville

Published by Audrey Glanville at Smashwords

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The Journey of Rosalie

Surely it was the case in recent times that people had simply been kidnapped who were never heard from again and, to be exact, exclusively Foreigners – but the Department of Tourism's information sheet with all of its good tips on appropriate behavior still wouldn't be able to keep this from happening. Of that I was sure. Nonetheless, just like all of the other guests at the Srinagar Airport, I took a copy, nodding politely. As I waited for my suitcase at the baggage claim of the new airport, I skimmed over the text and wondered if McKinsey also handed out good advice here for optimizing the influx of foreign currency. What was written was well-meant, but nonsense. I crumpled the paper up and threw it into one of the waste bins. Nevertheless, I was a little surprised, since the Jammu and Kashmir region had been classified as safe by foreign ministries for many years. The measure taken by the local authorities seemed to me to be completely excessive.

Finally, the baggage claim carousel began to make its rounds in front of my weary eyes and I waited patiently until my suitcase made its appearance. As soon as I had gotten it off the conveyor belt and managed to balance its massive form on its wheels, I speedily headed towards the exit. After the long flight from Germany, I only wanted one thing: a shower and some sleep. Waiting for me in front of the airport building was a brilliant blue sky, mild spring air and a bunch of taxi drivers all trying to win me over. After a short discussion about the price of a trip to the city center, a small, lean driver heaved my luggage into the trunk of an old Mercedes and we departed without haste. As I had already suspected, rushing around was in no way the guiding principal in this place and, content, I leaned back into the soft seat. My gaze swept over the magnificent landscape on the other side of the window pane: snow covered peaks enthroned in glistening sunshine. They seemed so massive that I was tempted to believe the car wasn't moving at all. The sunshine reflected off of the snow covered peaks while at the foot of the mountain range green plateaus had been settled on. The plain-looking cabins there seemed spooky and uninhabited, but the grazing herds of animals in front of them were proof that people did indeed live there. The entire surroundings seemed to be drowned in a slightly beige hue and shimmered with an intensity unknown to me. Maybe it was the floating dust particles which gave the air a hue of its own? I was more and more fascinated by the energy that this landscape emanated – just as much by the music which traveled out of the car radio into my ear. The most overblown Indian hit songs resounded and I was sure that the songs, which had parts alternately sung by a man and a woman, must have been about unrequited love. In any case, the driver sounded this way as he was moved to join in on the singing. I had to laugh as I imagined what it would sound like if a Bavarian taxi driver would sing along to the polka songs of my hometown. Personally, I found the current version seemed to be the more humane one.

As the amount of activity going on in the streets suddenly increased, I realized that we were getting closer to the city. A huge number of people, motorcycles, tuk-tuks and car drivers all appeared to have to wrestle for their place on the densely inhabited streets. My eyes followed the spectacle with interest. Amazement took me over about how different the world outside of my continent appeared and all at once I was very excited to be a part of it. However, another part of the street scene bothered me more and more. It was the massive presence of the Indian military lining the streets, whose soldiers, in some places, stood one hundred meters apart from each other. On other stretches they completely dominated the scene, armed with heavy artillery. This was theoretically nothing new. Since time immemorial, the Indian authorities had sought to assert their territorial claim against the population's Muslim majority. The region of Kashmir had had a difficult past and without a doubt continued to deal with it, in part with such unpleasant means.

I was quite uneasy at the unusual sight of heavily armed soldiers and I had to admit: As a child of prosperity from Germany, this was something I was just not used to. I quickly swept aside these disturbing impressions. After all, I had chosen this place in order to report about the pleasant and distinctive features of the city. I had put a great deal of preparation into this trip, always supported by the hope of leaving behind the days of reporting on European holiday destinations - a segment I had worked in up to now. Especially since there was only one constant in this competitive field: competition always remained fierce while profits remained consistently low. I had spent hours googling the whole wide world always looking for a perfect destination. And it was Srinagar which swiftly left all competitors in the dust: It not only had the highest golf course in the world, but also attracted winter tourists with its adjoining aerial cableway and ski slope. The temperate continental climate did the rest to attract fans of both sports. Embedded in huge crags, it called out to adventurous climbers, but also an exotic honeymoon could only become extra special with a visit to the famous floating gardens of love, which the little lake districts full of romantic lotus flowers were called. In addition, the region possessed abundant cultural treasures, and besides: Hadn't Ayurveda been at the top of the wellness trends list for years?

All in all, exactly the right conditions for diverting attention away from the widespread image of alternative tourism India had often been associated with. These were also the arguments which, in advance and taking into account my proposed fees, had convinced the editors of three major German newspapers, a London golf magazine and a Swiss lifestyle magazine to place a report on this exotic pearl in their segments. I was happy about the successful preliminary negotiations which had opened the door to the world for me and I was determined to make use of the opportunity.

I was so deep in thought that the taxi's abrupt stop startled me and I jumped. I gave the taxi driver the rupees agreed upon and got out. My eyes skeptically surveyed the brown multi-story building, which judging by its outward appearance could not really be thought of as a luxury hotel with the name Broadway. But I had already seen enough Hilton hotels which from the outside also in no way did their name justice. Nevertheless, zealous porters swiftly approached and took my suitcase. The room was also generously sized, but the only oriental glamor to be found was in the form of a woven colored bedspread. This 30 square meter minimally exotic room was similar to ones found in a typical business hotel anywhere in the world. Practically oriented, I resolved immediately to address the quality of the local five star hotels. After all, now it was time to concentrate on the most important things and, to that extent, this clearly structured accommodation harmonized with my plans. I gave the porter a generous tip and opened the heavy beige curtains. My view wandered to the outdoors pool and I spontaneously decided to make use of the opportunity for a short refresher before laying down to rest. I quickly searched for and put on my bathing suit and went down to the concrete cast pool deck. Completely alone, I swam my laps in the cool water. The afternoon sun reflected its rays in the clear blue water and scattered into a thousand new shapes. It was a wonderful spectacle and I amused myself unexpectedly for almost an hour there until returning to my room where I fell exhausted onto the white sheets of the bed.

I must have fallen asleep in no time because when I opened my eyes again I was looking into a deep indigo blue night sky. Dazed, I sat up and no sooner had I figured out where I was than my little sister in Munich popped into my head. I had promised her that I would get in touch with her immediately after landing. Starting already weeks before my planned departure, she had bored into my conscience with a mantra-like command. You better call me right away, you hear! even now, thousands of kilometers away, I could hear her voice in my head. I was sure she would already be waiting by the telephone worried to death since I hadn't sent out any signs of life and it was long after my arrival time. I urgently picked up the receiver of the telephone next to my bed and got connected to Germany. As I listened to the dial tone I thought about my sister's excessively fearful nature. In my opinion, she just got progressively worse after the death of our parents eight years ago – especially whenever I got anywhere near an airplane. Due to my career, this had been the case more and more often too.

In a way, I could understand her naive fear perfectly. After all, she was just fourteen years old when our parents died in small propeller plane crash. From one day to the next we had become orphans. Since there were no closer relatives and I was six years older than my sister, Marie, I was awarded custody of her after passing a suitability test. In the beginning everything ran quite smoothly. I had the typical life of a student at a university and my sister visited secondary school without any further problems. We led normal lives in our parent's condominium on the banks of the Isar, right in the center of the serene city of Munich. My circle of friends grew over the years, Marie, however, chose to stay alone. But since she was not a notorious loner, I didn't pay any more attention to it. The first abnormalities arose when I became active in my profession. Her anxiety level rose and fell based on whether I had an assignment or not. It was not always easy to strike a balance between my interests and the needs of my ward, who simply tended to reject any kind of change. I was temperamentally more like my parents, who never shied away from any adventure and I found it astonishing that the same genetic origin could bring forth such different offspring.

Finally, the receiver on the other end was picked up. Marie's voice sounded sleepy. In Germany it was already later in the evening, but my sister liked to spend even the early evening hours in her bed. In this respect, she still behaved like a little child, in my opinion. We exchanged a little information and then I gave her the extension number for my room and quickly said goodbye. Even as my hand let go of the receiver, I already had the urge to go on my first walk through the unfamiliar city. After all, I had slept the entire early evening away and was anxious to get a first impression of the place which was to be my home for the next four weeks. I quickly hopped out of bed, arranged my hair and put on a fresh dress. A short time later, I took the elevator down to the lobby. No sooner than I had left the room key at the front desk, a group of strangers came towards me. They crowded towards the front desk with rapid steps and were conversing lively amongst themselves in English. These people must have almost booked the whole hotel, as many as there were. However, they didn't at all appear to be like one of the usual tourist groups. Their charisma was too autonomous and laid-back. The strange cases some of them were transporting also piqued my interest. My gaze swept over them attentively before I stepped out into the pleasantly temperate spring air of the city.

What lay before my eyes was just as before, wild and exotic. There was still a lot of activity on the streets despite the late hour. Many merchants offered their wares, small food stands along the way gave off strange scents and young tourists were drinking an evening beer on the house boats on the large lake in the city. I eagerly let all of these impressions soak in. Effortlessly, I became a part of the goings-on and I felt as if I was infected with an alien virus. That's how strangely light-footed I also proceeded. After a first evaluation of the city center, I decided to take a little rest in a small restaurant whose architecture resembled an open garage. An old full-figured woman who seemed to be the only one in charge at the establishment shuffled up to me and gave me a menu with pictures of the dishes offered. She was wrapped in many cloths, which together made up something you could call a dress. When I pointed to the chicken soup, which was decorated with hot chili peppers, she nodded contentedly. As I waited for my food, with the uplifting feeling of having arrived, I watched two children playing wildly with a small colored rubber ball on the sandy sidewalk in front of my table. The longer I watched, the more familiar this world seemed to me and how I felt about this place could be summed up with two words: unbounded enthusiasm. As the old woman soon afterward placed the large bowl of hot soup in front of me, she did so without any fancy gestures and then shuffled away with heavy footsteps, not saying a word. I was unable to suppress a slight smile. Everything here seemed authentic and natural – just like the spicy composition of the soup, which left me panting and of which I finished every last drop. Full, tired and restless at the same time, I decided to treat myself to a little drink at the hotel bar. This day had been too exciting to be ended by just crudely fall into bed again. I remembered the recommendation of the receptionist, who had given the rooftop bar of the hotel the highest of praise and decided to end the night there. So I got in the elevator and pressed the Mastibar button. The elevator quickly lifted me up, but as the elevator door opened I was presented a scene opposite to that of tepid idyll above the roofs of the city: Spread out over the entire terrace, people were sitting and chatting lively in small groups. It appeared to be the same group that had flooded the lobby earlier. I looked for an available seat at the bar and ordered a vodka on the rocks. My gaze wandered over the active groups at the tables around me. It was impossible to determine what kind of group these people belonged to because they were of all ages, evidently of different nationalities and I found them to have a unique aura. The way in which they conducted themselves was so easygoing and candid, characterized by a flair, which one seldom experiences. Maybe I would still have the chance the find out what they were doing here, but the first order of business was to plan the next day. I searched for my notebook so I could write down my first impressions and go through the notes I had already made in Germany. No sooner had I called up the menu of my Blackberry than I was startled by a somewhat hoarse voice coming from directly behind me.

Excuse me, are you new?

I looked up and saw an approximately forty-year-old casually dressed man. With curiosity, he looked me over. He also seemed to be a part of the group.

Yes, I arrived today, I answered and laid my device aside. You seem to have an overview here...

Well, even if a team looks big – it’s not hard to quickly find who you best get along with.

Team? I asked, slightly irritated.

Okay... My counterpart looked at me scrutinizingly. Where are you from? Sorry, I should have asked you right from the start. You're a beginner, aren't you?

Beginner? I repeated, amused, and thought about my big report, which, in this form, was new for me. Why, in a manner of speaking, yes!

Ah, ok...and what did you do before?

I looked at him curiously. Either there was some kind of misunderstanding or it was some kind of uncompromising courtship. But I couldn't read anything special from his expression, except that he had a well-developed sense of self confidence.

Travel reports, mostly for German-language magazines and as far as I know, I still do that. Unless you mean to prove me wrong, I replied, jokingly.

The expression on the face of my counterpart pulled off the feat of portraying an easing of tension and at the same time intensified curiosity.

Oh, you're German? he abruptly asked in my native tongue and free of any accent. I looked at him surprised. He rocked his head slightly back and forth and looked at me with interest.

So, script assistant, am I wrong? he said with a hoarse laugh.

That's another way of saying it too, I replied, amused. What are you doing here? Based on your accent-free German, you have to be fellow-countryman, right?

He held out his hand. You can call me Martin.

I gripped his hand with a noncommittal smile.

Rosalie.

He came a half step closer to me and with a big grin began to lean on the bar and stroked back his almost chin-length brown hair.

I'm originally from Marburg, but it's already been a few years since I've been home. Everything is too small and stuffy there for me. And you can only get anywhere in life if you attend a university.

He laughed in a slightly disparaged way and looked at the group as he continued.

When I was seventeen, I hit the road. I dropped out of school and looked for a job as a cable puller at the smaller studios in London. Since then, nothing has changed, except that my job title is now first cameraman. And I’m currently working for the Wacinskys!

Cameraman... I thought for a moment. So you are shooting a film here or a commercial?!

Now he looked at me a bit irritated and pressed his lips together in a somewhat bitter manner.

What? So you don't know the Wacinskys?

I also pressed my lips together and gave a regretful smile.

No, sorry, I'm afraid not. But I'm sure that's about to change.

He nodded, turned his back to me and casually ordered a new drink. Then he turned to me all at once, gesturing in an exaggerated way.

Why, young lady, we are shooting the new motion picture with Arnault and Kitson!

He accentuated the syllables as if he believed that what he was telling me would make me fall off of my bar stool. But I also felt as if I was slowly beginning to understand.

You mean the actors?

"You got it, a very sharp witted deduction! The Daniel Arnault! The Maxime Kitson!"

Oh, that's really cool, I replied, now interested. So, you're shooting the film here?

Not directly in the city. We're filming a little further up in the mountains....unfortunately, I can't divulge any details. Contracts, contracts!

Making a gesture of enormous importance, he leaned back.

I see, I nodded. And you all live here in the hotel?

The important people.

Then I'm in good company, I joked, charmingly and wondered what would come next.

I would indeed describe myself as good company, my counterpart smiled confidently down on me. I stared at him attentively. I found this person to be, in a way, very peculiar, which principally didn't have to mean anything bad, even if something did bother me about his overly nonchalant demeanor. Maybe it was his somewhat capricious nature that was troubling – or even his exaggerated pointy nose which lent his face a somewhat devious expression. Nevertheless, I decided to continue to exude charm for now because I was a stranger here and could really use any kind of contact. I took my drink and made a toast.

To our having met! I laughed charmingly.

To the future!

Martin looked deeply into my eyes. The depth must have been in proportion to the amount he had drunk, but that didn't bother me. Quite to the contrary – maybe this circumstance could even be beneficial to me. Perhaps he could tell me some interesting stories about the project's main actors. I decided to stay close to him, which I also succeeded at, until we finally staggered off to our rooms. And of course we went our separate ways, even if Martin surely had had something else in mind.

The next morning I woke up in my room's king-size bed with a considerable hangover. When I lifted my head from the sheets, my neck muscles tightened painfully. The intermezzo at the bar last evening had wrought pure evil! Martin had bought me one drink after another and I stupidly drank them all while he continuously supplied me with information about the film shooting and the actors taking part in it. For me it was exciting to get a glimpse into a world which, until now, had remained a secret to me. But I had persevered a little too long – which my relentlessly pounding head was now making painfully clear. Nevertheless, the effort was worth it: I now knew where the crème de la crème of acting heaven resided and what they were working on. Location: Pahalgam Hotel, situated in the Mountains. To a great extent, the script had to be based on events which happened in 2006. Which ones they were exactly, Martin didn't want to tell me. Something to do with terrorism, one time he mentioned Mumbai and immediately the 2006 incident in which a whole train full of commuters became the victims of a deadly attack came to mind.

Slowly I rose from my bed and went to my digital notebook. The name of the hotel seemed familiar to me and after a short search I did indeed find it in my notes again. Due to its spectacular location in the mountains, it had already been used several times for film productions and was saved in my notes under the interesting accommodations category. I remembered that Martin had never stopped talking about his status as first cameraman and the unused reservations at the Pahalgam. I wondered about that a little because actually he shouldn't have had much to do with hotel bookings as a cameraman. However, he did speak of his being part of a large family at work and that everyone one had enough if they had Kitson around them the whole day.

I don't need her around me in the evening too, was his sober declaration.

He was only staying here in the Paradise Hotel because of the super crew. While saying this, he had looked demonstratively at the group of people present. In contrast, no one had paid any attention to him. I knew nothing of the hierarchy in the film business and just took his word on everything for the time being. Now, in the light of the new day, I resented my unassertive nature. After all, it's not every day that you meet a crew member of an international film production with two renowned stars. I had to proceed with my research because Srinagar had only held pleasant surprises in store for me thus far. I was among the small group of people who were convinced that foreign places each had their own unique effects on people. While working on travel reports I noticed time and time again that in some places all of my undertakings led to nowhere while in others everything just happened naturally. My position only drew ridicule among my circle of friends who were only interested in pure science. However, in the case of objections to my theory, I could always suggest that they leave the comfort of their own home more often, before they make fun of the experiences of others. Usually, the only response my counterpart had to this was awkward silence, which always gave me some sense of satisfaction. And perhaps the Jammu and Kashmir region was finally the perfect place for consolidating the advancement of my career which I had so longed for. I decided to definitely keep the matter in mind and engage in a little investigating later on. But first I had to go to my first official appointment in Srinagar: A meeting with the region's tourism representative. The order of business included a joint visit to the famous tulip gardens – the largest in the world, of course. Another of the region's accessories that was capable of receiving the title of highest, largest and most fascinating. I closed my notes and my gaze wandered to the clock. It was a pleasant surprise that there was still enough time for a few laps in the pool. I quickly slipped into my bikini and went headfirst into the cold water. As I did my laps in the pool, I once again thought about what could be achieved if I checked in to the Pahalgam Hotel.

Actually not a single thing... I heard a part of me soberly state. But an inner fascination held me tightly in its grip. Everyone knew the two leading actors of the movie and the director, Wright Manson, was probably well-known as well. Just to me, unfortunately, the name didn't ring a bell. I had to admit that I didn't know much at all about the action movie genre. However, that would change today. What was the free Wi-Fi in the hotel for, anyway? I was determined not to let any opportunity pass me by. After all, I came here to experience something. The essence of my ambition would surface, I was sure of it. What would be of interest? Where should I start? An interview? Not likely! Photos of the set? Only possible with Martin's help! Secret photos of Maxime Kitson at the hotel bar? All of a sudden I saw myself in my mind's eye as an undercover paparazzi. I had to snicker at the thought and, as a result, almost choked on some of the pool's water. I rested at the edge of the pool. My gaze was drawn upwards into the glistening sun. Its heat was already amazingly intense. I squinted into it and its rays splintered into thousands more on my retina. I quickly pulled myself out of the pool and the little white dots persisted in appearing in my vision until I got back to my room. As I got dressed, I decided to get my head out of the clouds for now and keep my first appointment: A first rendezvous between millions of tulips.

My first encounter with the tourism representative also turned out to be quite beneficial. No sooner had I shook his hand than I recognized the boundless enthusiasm in him. I suspected that we would get along extremely well. And my intuition didn't fail me at all. He led me through the vast seas of tulips and avidly immersed me in his knowledge of every little last detail about the region. When it came to praising his country, he was all but unstoppable. I found this to be exceptionally pleasing and after we parted I was still dizzy from the superlatives he had slipped into every sentence.

As I got into the taxi which had been sent for, I put together the basic structure of the text in my mind. Once brought to paper, it would be a magically exotic event which no one should miss out on. In my opinion, everything was just a question of fiction that had to be transferred into a foreign mind to stimulate its imagination. Done properly, success was assured. The man from the tourism authority held the same point of view as me and at the end of our meeting he gave me a small picture portfolio full of the exhibition's attractions complete with a memory card. I immediately asked if it was the official portfolio of the exhibition and he handled the question just as evasively as he did gallantly, as he replied:

"Each photo is of course an individual creation for your country."

I didn't believe him for a second, but still politely bowed farewell. It was all the same to me because I had taken plenty of photos of my own, which wouldn't lead to any copyright problems. The first report was as good as in the bag and sold to the home and garden sector and various hotel and other magazines you find laying in lobbies and waiting rooms. They loved these kinds of innocuous articles, just as much as the potential readers did, who like having their waiting time filled pleasant stories from the great wide world. Thanks to the dedication of the kind man, I was now excellently informed. I was sure that this wouldn't be my last report from a different continent, because deep within me I sensed that there was much more to be discovered outside of one's own comfort zone.

Back at the hotel, it was time to create a first rough draft of the material before any of my impressions could fade. As a principal, I never let much time pass whenever there was something to report because only this way did the intention and expression remain strong. After an hour, I had the basic text ready and my first task was finished for the time being. Satisfied, I leaned back. Now it was time to find out more about my surprising second project. I opened my browser's window and without delay began to do research on the nearby superstars. Maxime Kitson's biography and way of life were just as smooth as her 40 year old skin. She was a sophisticated artificial product and nothing about her seemed genuine. Not even her career, which could only really be attributed to her marriage to a top boss of an American motion picture studio. Thanks to him, she was granted immediate entry into the big leagues. Maxime acted exclusively in top productions and held roles which were always quite substantial. When her then husband divorced her – allegedly due to infertility – she experienced a kind of career slump. Since then she still acted in big productions and attained respectable box-office results, but the content of her films had become much more trivial. It was mostly just petty love story movies. With her current husband, a former MET conductor, she led a rather reclusive life.

Marcel Bethmann, Maxime’s husband, was less fortunate with his career than she was. Five years ago, a car accident had left him with a stiff shoulder joint. A circumstance that ended his career as a conductor in the blink of an eye. From this life-changing event, he seemed never really to have recovered, because he had done nothing else but accompany his wife from one shooting location to the next since then. Officially, he had already been working on writing a book for four years – so far with no released title, content or fixed publication date. It seemed doomed to fail. I felt sincere sympathy.

The male lead actor also seemed to be more of a reclusive type. Daniel Arnault began his career as a theater actor, but soon switched to French film noir. These short quirky Parisian milieu stories drew the attention of major studios to him. The first more expensive production in London already provided him his breakthrough: A secret agent movie which had no happy ending. Based on his biography, I suspected that his theater work represented his true identity as an artist.

'Appeal to civilized people' spontaneously sprang to mind when I thought of him, since he enjoyed playing the roles of modern playwrights such as Tennessee Williams and Jean Paul Sartre. Surprisingly, for some years now, he had gotten attention for playing action hero roles, to which, according to an interview statement he made, his contribution was only my body and that he invested no more than solely my body. The son of a Lithuanian teacher and a French military officer, Arnault lived a rather withdrawn life in London, despite his remarkable fame. His home city of Paris didn't seem to play a role in his life anymore. At twenty-five he married an unknown German actress, but this turned out to be just simple infatuation. Nevertheless, the marriage lasted nearly seven years until they got divorced due to irreconcilable differences. I suddenly liked his having something to do with my country – what a great conversation topic! But perhaps he still had negative feelings about it, even after all these years, so I held my excitement in check. Daniel Arnault would have to be approached carefully. I just hoped that despite his calm and withdrawn nature he would actually leave his room, cause:

... otherwise there would only be photos taken through the keyhole I snickered in an extremely silly manner and shook my head at my own audacity. Arnault's private interests included playing golf and practicing an Asian martial art. I immediately thought about how convenient it must be for him to be working next to one of the most spectacular golf clubs in the world and I noticed how I began to fantasize.

You're behaving like your little sister, my rational side scolded me, but it wasn't able to ruin the fun I was having with my new-found pastime. Around 9:00 p.m. I checked out one last short tabloid report from the previous month. Arnault could be seen on a beach with an unknown beauty.

Arnault passionately in love with Asian.

The tabloid quoted a source which alleged he preferred Asian women. Bad news for me, since I was neither small nor flat-chested, which had,