LIAR LIAR

by Alam, Donna

  ‘Yet you still brought him home like a lost puppy.’

  ‘He was hurt. What was I supposed to do?’

  ‘And the fact that he was pretty had nothing to do with you taking him home.’

  I don’t answer, though I narrow my eyes at her tone.

  ‘Okay. Fine. You took him home because you’re a paragon of virtue. It’s not your fault it was a cold, cold night, and you got into bed next to him to share your body heat.’

  Again, I don’t answer. I just deepen the stink eye.

  ‘And it’s absolutely not your fault that you rolled onto his dick at some point during the night—fell onto it vigorously. Multiple times!’

  ‘Are you done yet?’

  ‘You know his name,’ she says, trying a little stink eye of her own. ‘You could google him.’

  ‘Do you think I haven’t done that already? A search for the name Remy Durrant offered up a couple of kids on skateboards, one who lives in Toronto and the other in Calgary, plus a middle-aged accountant living in someplace called Clapham in London.’

  ‘You googled him?’

  ‘Didn’t I just say so? Why are you looking at me like that?’

  ‘Like what?’

  I open my mouth, reflecting some semblance of her expression right back at her. She looks like a guppy.

  ‘Ha. Funny. Is it any wonder I’m a little stunned? You’re behaving very un-Rose like.’

  ‘We’ve laughed and bickered and laughed some more. Sounds like the usual Sunday night call, if you ask me.’

  ‘That’s not what I’m talking about. You googled him? The man has totally pushed you out of your comfort zone.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘You never chase after a man.’

  ‘A Google search is hardly chasing,’ I respond, but even I can hear how defensive I sound.

  ‘But it shows interest. Even if you don’t want the gifts to have come from him.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Because if the gifts didn’t come from him, then that makes him thoughtless and ungrateful and possibly broke.’

  ‘Your point being?’

  ‘Which kind of makes him perfectly your type. If he is those things, I mean.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous,’ I scoff. ‘I don’t have a type.’

  ‘Oh, sweetie, you do. You only date men who are easy to kick to the curb.’

  ‘That makes no sense.’

  ‘Doesn’t it?’ she says kindly. ‘Even if it means your heart doesn’t get hurt?’

  Whether from her expression or her words, I’m stopped dead in my tracks. Is that me? Is that who I am? But then a thought strikes me.

  ‘I see a flaw in your hypothesis because even if Remy is rich and grateful, he’s not thoughtful. Or else he’d have stuck around.’

  ‘Which means it’s safe for you to still be crushing on him. Hence, the Google search.’

  ‘I think pregnancy has made you addle-brained.’

  ‘I think you’re probably right. But I have to say, if he sent you gifts, it means he’s thinking about you, too.’

  ‘Amber, you’re being ridiculous. The man was hurt, and I helped him. We both woke up kind of horny, and we had sex. The fact that he left in the morning was a blessing. He did us both that favour.’ It doesn’t make us star-crossed lovers or anything even close to that.

  ‘But he’s still thinking about you,’ she sort of sings.

  ‘And I think you’re a little bit crazy,’ I sing right back, even as my heart does a little skippity-skip. Bad heart!

  ‘Admit it, you liked him.’

  ‘So, he was cute,’ I reply, admitting no such thing. ‘And sweet, even though I couldn’t understand a word he said. ‘And he—’ I clamp my lips together, unwilling to confess he held me in his arms all night, let alone that I let him.

  ‘He what?’ Amber prompts.

  ‘Was great in bed. But while that’s all well and good,’ I say, hurrying on, ‘the only thing I’m interested in right now is keeping my head above water.’

  As Amber’s expression falters, my conscience prickles. My troubles are my troubles, yet I had to go open my big fat mouth.

  ‘Sweetie, you know I can loan you some money to tide you over until you get a job.’

  ‘Nope. I’m fine. As Great-Grandma Aida used to say, never a lender or a borrower be.’ In the meantime, I’ll just keep on clipping coupons and stretching my weekly grocery budget to nine days’ worth of meals.

  ‘I’m pretty sure Aida wasn’t considering shaking her tush in a titty bar to pay her rent.’

  I set off laughing. Only Amber could make that sound hilarious.

  ‘I’ll have you know that The Pink Pussy Cat is a respectable gentlemen’s club.’

  ‘Sure. And I’m about to let Byron name our daughter after a green rock. But seriously, do you think you might have something suitable coming up, work wise?’

  ‘I have a few irons in the fire.’ Unfortunately, I think I forgot to light the fire before putting them in, but I’ll keep that to myself. She has enough to worry about without fretting about me. Especially from the other side of the world.

  ‘I wish I could offer you a job,’ she says suddenly.

  And I wish the Aussie immigration system wasn’t so tricky because then she would.

  ‘You’ll keep me up to date, right? And please let me know if I can do anything to help.’

  ‘You do help. You helped fudge my resumé, and you help me every Sunday by showing me your sweet, sunny face.’

  ‘Now I know you’re taking the piss.’

  ‘Okay, little Miss Aussie-ness. Until next week. I’ve got to go and launder my tush-shaking outfits for my first shift.’

  ‘You’re really going to go back there?’

  ‘It’s not that bad.’ I’m surprised I don’t choke on my own words. ‘No booty shaking. Just waitressing and just for a couple of shifts.’ Though hopefully more because really, what choice do I have? I’m down to my last couple of hundred dollars in the bank. My windfall is almost completely spent. Next comes living on my credit card, and that is a slippery slope I’ll try very hard to avoid.

  ‘Something will turn up soon. I know it will.’

  I just hope my responding smile looks less brittle than it feels.

  * * *

  Birds chirp, pulling me from my sleep.

  Birds in the rainforest?

  Am I still in Australia?

  Or have I fallen asleep on the spa massage table again?

  I hope I haven’t drooled this time.

  As the irritating cheeping continues, realisation slowly dawns that my phone is ringing.

  ‘Who disturbs my frickin’ slumber,’ I complain, rising up in my bed with the animation of one of Dracula’s brides.

  I hate working at the Pussy Cat. Hate it. I hate the boss, and I hate the patrons. I hate going to bed when everyone else is waking up, and I really hate eating Cheerios in the afternoon.

  Fucking. Hate. It.

  But most of all, I hate it when I’m sleeping, and the phone rings, and it’s just a stupid marketing call.

  Pulling off the satin eye mask, I drop it on the bed. It arrived last week in my little Aussie care package from Amber. I’m only wearing it because she promised that, along with the cream she sent, it’d help prevent fine lines. Honestly, I think it’s more likely she’s just getting a kick out of me wearing something that’s embroidered with the words “dreaming of dick”.

  ‘Miss Ryan?’ a smoky voice enquires.

  ‘Speaking.’ I swing my legs out of the bed and pull the phone away from my ear as I yawn.

  ‘My name is Therese Moore. I’m with Executive Search Recruitment’—I’m suddenly very awake—‘I’m calling about a position you recently applied for via our website.’

  ‘Yes?’ My voice sounds high, reedy even, and I begin to worry about the impression I’m giving. ‘I mean, of course. I applied online and took part in the virtual interview for
a trainee position in hotel management.’

  Months ago, back in March, I think. As for a virtual interview, what a crock. I sat in front of my ancient laptop and gave a personal account of myself, as instructed. I was supposed to inform the robotic voice of a time in my life that I was most proud, and I’d begun to recite the well-rehearsed tale of how I’d travelled around the world by myself; my one big accomplishment. I’d intended to cover all the interview candidate buzz words—organised, passionate, enthusiastic, detail-orientated, flexible—in an effort to sell those highly valued transferable skills.

  Unfortunately, I’d gotten no farther than explaining how I’d worked in hospitality on several continents when the dumb Poodle I was working on rehoming jumped up on my knee, pressing his front paws to my laptop. The interview I actually sent them was of me mouthing “what the fuck, mutt!” along with one final horrified look at the camera as excitable doggy paws hit the enter key, my interview immediately uploading and pinged to the agency. To add insult to injury, he then peed on me. Suffice it to say, I felt pretty downhearted about the whole thing. When I didn’t hear back, I wasn’t surprised. But hallelujah, it looks like they’re desperate, and I’m about to get a second chance!

  ‘I have wonderful news, Miss Ryan.’ The woman’s forty-a-day voice brings me back to the moment in a snap. ‘A position has just become available, and after viewing your interview, our client would like to go ahead and offer you the job.’

  ‘That’s . . . that’s . . . wonderful.’ And as well as so, so strange. ‘When would they like to interview me?’’

  ‘Oh, there’s no need for that. The position is yours. Isn’t that wonderful?’ she gushes. Yes, gushes. The woman who gave zero fucks when I called to explain what happened during my so-called interview. It wasn’t even an interview for an advertised job but an interview to get me on their books, so to speak. And now this?

  ‘Yes. Wonderful,’ I answer haltingly. ‘But isn’t it also a little,’ weird, whacky, not to mention downright, ‘strange?’

  ‘It is a little unorthodox,’ she demurs, ‘but hardly unprecedented.’

  ‘My interview recording was a disaster.’ I rub the heel of my palm against my eye, not quite believing I’m bringing this up right now.

  ‘Well, what can I say?’ she replies, not bothering to hide her annoyance. ‘They must’ve seen the funny side as well as being impressed with what else you had to say.’

  ‘I find it hard to believe you sent it to them.’ Especially after not responding to my botched interview. Right now, the competition is pretty fierce in the current job market, as I’ve found since coming home. Surely, they must have had better interviews than mine.

  ‘Do you want to hear about this job or not? Because I’m sure there are lots of other candidates who would receive this news with much more grace.’

  Grace; the thing Southern women are supposed to have an abundance of. That’s the whole cat born in the stable thing again. But hell, what am I doing?

  ‘No, of course I’m interested!’ I begin, hitting reverse. ‘I suppose this has all just come as a shock. I mean, like a wonderful shock. A surprise, in fact!’

  ‘There are more surprises to come,’ she adds, a touch inscrutably. And then she mentions a figure that causes me to curse, though I have the decorum to do so silently.

  ‘That’s . . . that’s the whole package, though, right? The figure? It includes all benefits.’ Because ho-lee-hell, that is a lot of money. More money than I ever dreamed I’d earn.

  ‘Oh, my dear, not at all. That is the figure of your base salary only.’

  My eyes are as wide as saucers in the dresser mirror as she goes on to explain the scope of the position, the opportunities for promotion, and how, with my experience, I’m a great fit for the team.

  ‘My experience?’ I halt my happy dance mid-hop. What experience? The fact that I work in a strip joint? That I serve drinks to men with grabby hands and an obsession for shoving dollar bills between my tits? Amber has a theory. She thinks it’s because they want to shove other things there. And she doesn’t mean Legos.

  ‘Yes. The fact that you worked for Riposo Estates in Australia is of particular interest to them. You began in the vineyard and worked your way to the hospitality arm of the business, according to your resumé.’

  My highly inflated resumé that I know Amber and Byron (and their HR team) will help me pull off. I picked grapes, waited tables, and worked the cellar door. None of it was groundbreaking career stuff, but I’m not about to admit so now.

  ‘Ah, yes, well. The Phillips team believe that in order to understand the wine, you have to have an understanding of the land. They take a . . . holistic approach to education and employment.’

  Please don’t ask me what that means.

  ‘I believe you also worked as a trainee manager in a motel chain after graduating college.’ She says “motel” as I imagine she would say “used condom”.

  ‘Yes, I did. Well, a mid-priced hotel chain, actually.’ Slave labour by any other name is just the same.

  ‘And now you work in hospitality as a waitress, I believe.’

  ‘Yes, that’s correct.’ If you look at it through cataracts. I might have also fudged my resumé a little here by listing the name of the holding company that owns the club, rather than the club itself. I also didn’t include their details under the reference section.

  But really, who is going to admit to working in a strip joint while looking for a corporate position?

  Yes, I was vice president of the booty shorts, and my boobs are boner-fide marketing materials.

  ‘Wonderful. Well, when can you come in and sign the paperwork for your visa and such?’

  ‘Visa?’

  ‘You did say you were willing to relocate for a position.’

  ‘Well, yeah but, as I understood, you deal with employment here in the States.’

  ‘Goodness, no. ESR is an American subsidiary of a worldwide company. In fact, our headquarters are in France.’

  ‘France?’

  ‘Yes, which is exactly where the position is.’

  My stomach twists. This cannot be another of Remy’s gifts.

  ‘But I don’t speak French.’

  ‘Knowledge of the language isn’t necessary for the role. You’ll be working with an English-speaking team and taking care of the needs of the English-speaking guests, on the whole. After all, English is the language of business there.’

  ‘English is the business language in France?’ Horseshit. I may not know much, but I do know the French speak French in their own country!

  ‘No, in the Principality of Monaco. You’ll be residing in France, on the Côte d’Azure, in fact, but you’ll spend a large portion of your working time in Monaco.’

  Ooh la la!

  9

  Rose

  June

  Monaco. Visions of Grace Kelly and her European prince. Of casinos and Daniel Craig’s James Bond. Of endless sunny days, azure skies, of sand like sugar and a Mediterranean Sea.

  Those were my impressions of Monaco without even seeing it. Not that I needed to see the place to agree to work there. I just needed to keep thinking of the zeros on the contract I’d signed in the offices of ESR the very next day. I can only imagine that the agent was promised a sizeable percentage of the finder’s fee because she actually sent a car to collect me, while also trying not to imagine what sort of a company would want to hire someone with an interview video like mine. But anything has got to be better than being poor and working at the Pussy Cat.

  I gave notice on my apartment, gladly told Shaun, the shitty shift manager he could stick his job where the sun don’t shine, grabbed my ticket the agency couriered to me, and got on a plane to France. To the Côte d’Azure!

  I’ll be working for Industries du Loup who, amongst other things, run a chain of hotels that cater to the rich and gorgeous. And let me tell you, Monaco is a place built for the demographic. Or maybe those demographics. As far as I can t
ell there are:

  Those who are both rich and gorgeous; those blessed in looks and wealth.

  Those who are rich and not so gorgeous; more often than not, rich and old.

  Those who are just gorgeous; usually draped over the category above.

  The city state is a tax haven for the super wealthy, a home for their multi-million-dollar real estate, their super yachts, and their model skinny wives and girlfriends. I’m sure there are uber-wealthy women out here, juggling their money and gigolo men friends, but these are not so visible, as far as I can tell.

  Only the super-rich live in Monaco, along with a handful of Monegasques, or Monaco locals. The rest of the people who work there bus, drive, or train in over the Monaco/French border every day. Industries du Loup staff are fortunate enough to have a shuttle service to and from the city of Nice, home of the staff accommodations, along with the salad. Salad niçoise. The company houses most of its staff in a couple of buildings on Rue Arson, or Arson Street I guess you could say, where I’ve been allocated a studio apartment. It’s anything but spacious or swanky, but it’s bright and clean and has a tiny Juliet balcony overlooking the street, so that’s pretty cool.

  I’d arrived late Thursday night, and the following day, I was taken to the HR department in Monaco. I’d also visited a government building of some sort to arrange my work permit. Thankfully, I was accompanied by someone who spoke French because as it turns out, the first language of Monaco isn’t English but French.

  Help!

  I’m told there’s also a local language in Monaco which is a mixture of French and Italian, but I’m not going to worry about that. Instead, I’ve decided to concentrate on learning French and have spent the weekend listening to YouTube videos, spending my downtime repeating useful phrases, injected with a little Remy-like flair.

  Things like:

  Is this seat taken?

  Can I buy you a drink?

  Is that a baguette in your pants, or are you just pleased to see me?

  You know, the useful stuff.