October 13, 2012

Adventures of the Nina Ricci Girl: Ponette cares

Source: style.com via Veronika on Pinterest

She was in the dressing room when a phone rang. Finely crafted heels echoed through the high-ceilinged rooms of the empty apartment as she walked to the kitchen. Nobody called on the land line. Well, almost no one, obviously. It could only be Tante Herta or Mon Oncle therefore no need to hurry. These two were the last living blood relatives. "When will the devil let them die?"

"Frontline Porn shop. How may I help you." There was a click on the other end. Ponette had to think of something a bit more original. Porn jokes were lame. But you could fool people who watched TV with the lights off with the stupidest crap. There was a flute of stale champagne on the counter which she downed as the phone started up again. "I need to change ring tone. Desperately."

"Hello. Jacquemar residence." The quantity of champagne was not enough to lift her spirits to engage in more of let's fool old people whose hobbies include collecting tea pots and visiting the doctor.

"Am I speaking with Miss Ponette?"
"You are."
"This is Mrs. Hausner."
"Yes. Hello. How are you Mrs. Hausner?" Ponette forestalled lamentations by continuing "How is Mon Oncle?"

It took Ponette an hour and a bit to reach the picture book village planted some 500 years ago amongst the Vienna Woods. A car was waiting as she stepped off the train. It was rather bizarre to be met by the driver chauffeuring an ancient Golf. Whatever. Definitely better than walking in heels. She hated walking.

"Good Morning Miss Ponette."
"Good morning Mr. Haarer."  He held the back door open for her. "Now why do I feel like a 7-year-old every time I come here." The ten-minute ride down the main road and up the hill was held in silence. Ponette and Mr. Haarer would chat later in the kitchen over coffee and stale biscuits. 

What desolate times to tend a sick man day and night. Mrs. Hausner deserved a medal despite a habit of eating with the poodle on her lap. "I wonder if other dogs think poodles are members of some weird religious cult." Ponette looked dutifully sad as she sat by Mon Oncle's bed.

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