by Donna Alam
‘I know just the thing to redeem him,’ the other man says, reaching out for a glass from the tray of a passing waitress. ‘Merci.’
‘I suppose that would be a donation to your charity,’ I interject, mentally increasing the size of my contribution. Manners cost nothing, yet the rich don’t often use them.
‘It couldn’t harm.’ Gunnar grins widely. ‘It’s for the kids.’ His accent is a mixture of Latin lover and London lad, according to Everett, as a result of learning to speak English while playing in the English football league. Hence the name; Gunnar for the club he captained all the way to the top. The Gunners, not Gunnars, but who am I to comment?
‘Jesus, don’t let him drag out his evangelical soapbox. You know who you’re like?’ Everett asks with a vague wave of his finger. ‘Fucking Fagin. Well, except for the whole pickpocketing thing.’
‘You’ve met Everett, I see.’
Gunnar nods. ‘We play five-a-side soccer on Sunday.’
‘Football,’ my companion corrects. ‘Soccer is for the uninitiated. He’s French,’ he adds, directing his thumb my way, ‘no need to explain it to him.’
‘I’m honoured. As you must be on Sundays.’
‘Ha. He was a shit centre forward when he played professionally,’ Rhett grumbles, ‘he’s only gotten worse since.’
‘That must be why my team wiped the floor with yours last week.’
‘Yeah, well, I couldn’t see for the fog of the female spectators’ sighs.’ With a sly smile, Rhett turns to me. ‘He still draws a crowd. He broke more hearts than he kicked footballs in the last year of his career.’
‘You’re just jealous because my legs look better in shorts. What exactly does this man do for you, Remy?’ He says men like you might carbuncle.
‘Everett is the head of my security team, or so they tell me.’
‘You’re expecting trouble?’ Gunnar asks, one dark eyebrow raised like a question mark.
‘Nah. He only keeps me around to make his face look prettier. Sometimes I get to beat off the ladies with a big stick.’ As he says this, his gaze is scanning the crowd, the results of my recent accident still making him paranoid. ‘You know how it is with you good-looking, rich types.’
‘You’ll have to excuse him. He doesn’t get out much. He’s not what you’d call socialised.’
‘You mean, give him a chance, and he’ll start humping my leg?’ Before either of us can answer, his name is called from the other side of the room, the voice high-pitched and excitable. ‘I don’t suppose you want to come and beat some off for me,’ he murmurs, watching the crowd of people part like the Red Sea.
‘Nah, you’re not my type,’ Everett answers with a grin as a diminutive brunette comes barrelling towards us, waving manically to get Gunnar’s attention.
‘Monsieur Gunner,’ she calls. ‘Bonsoir! Hello, it is I! Princess Mariella!’
‘A princess,’ Rhett scoffs. ‘You’re moving up in the world.’
‘Piss off,’ he retorts as he turns. ‘She probably just wants to talk about the donation she’s making.’
I doubt it, though I keep the thoughts to myself. These European minor royals usually think charity begins at home and often struggle to keep the heirloom Bentley on the road.
‘I reckon she’s looking for a deposit from you. A personal kind of deposit, if you know what I mean.’ Everett smirks as the matronly princess appears in front of the retired athlete, staring up at his face with wide-eyed expectance.
‘We shall leave you to it,’ I murmur, drawing away.
And this is what I’ve exchanged a night with Rose for.
I must be crazy.
21
Rose
‘Mon Dieu!’ my dinner date announces, sliding aviator sunglasses to the top of his head. ‘The sun is so bright today that it is burning my rectums!’
‘Charlie, what the hell?’ I splutter through the mouthful of water I’ve just ingested, though manage not to expel it over the little wooden bistro table.
‘What? Did I not say this correct?’ He frowns, pulling out the chair opposite but not yet seating himself. ‘It is still bright outside. This is why I have my sunglasses.’ He places them on the tabletop between us, running his hand down the front of his tightly fit shirt. The rest of his outfit is very him; baby blue chinos that look like they’ve been sprayed rather than pulled on, a skinny navy leather belt to draw the attention to his trim waist, and matching Gucci penny loafers.
‘What do you think?’ he says, doing a little twirl.
‘Très chic. I also think if your rectum is burning, you’re wearing your sunglasses in the wrong place.’
His expression seems to turn inward as he lowers himself into his chair. After considering his reflection in the smoke grey lenses. ‘Les yeux. The eyes,’ he begins to muse aloud. ‘Les rétines. Retinas. Le rectum . . . Oh!’ He titters. ‘I think that would be one way to bleach l’anus.’
‘No. No, I don’t think it would be.’ Covering my hand with my mouth, I try to keep from giggling myself.
‘Maybe with a little lemon juice,’ he adds with a one-shouldered shrug.
‘Limon jooz?’
‘Bah! You can’t make fun of my accent.’
‘I can try.’
‘Not the way you butcher la langue française.’
‘That’s fightin’ talk!’
‘Bon. Then it shall be handbags at dawn!’ He tightens his fingers on the strap of his invisible purse, one eyebrow incitingly raised.
The waiter arrives, and Charles suggests we order a bottle of wine, and I agree while also hoping he orders a cheap one this time because funds are getting low. I don’t get paid until next week, and I’m currently living on bread and cheese when I’m not with Remy. Bread and cheese might sound kind of fancy, especially considering where I’m living. It’s not because I’m not eating the fancy stuff, but the carrot-orange processed yuck. My diet is a little more balanced thanks to the contents of the fruit bowl kept on the concierge reception desk, which I think is mostly for show, but provides at least one of my 5 A Day, the number increased by a liberal consumption of grapes. In liquid form.
Still, it beats living on ramen and cups of watery coffee to fill my stomach. It sounds like a poor person cliché but, if you ask me, the unfortunate thing about clichés is that they are all to often true.
When I am with Remy, which has been a lot these past three weeks, but not every night—because, hello, no one likes needy—I eat well. Like amazingly well. It blows my mind that he has the kind of influence that has brought some of the best chefs in Europe into his kitchen. Last night, for instance, some Michelin-starred dude flown in from Sicily served a melt-in-the-mouth arancini that was so delicious, I’m pretty sure I could live on just that for the rest of my days. It was followed by a pasta dish that I was initially certain I could live without ever seeing again because it looked disturbingly like a bowl of black worms. It turned out to be squid ink pasta and equally as tasty.
We drank cocktails poolside watching as the sun turned molten, dusk then turning to dark. The weather was so beautiful, we decided to eat outside. At the end of the meal, the chef was presented at the table, still dressed in his whites, and Lord knows why, but I was surprised as Remy began to thank him in perfect sounding Italian.
Is there anything this man is bad at? Except maybe riding motorcycles.
But I teased him anyway.
‘I think your Italian mustn’t be as good as it sounds,’ I’d said, hiding my smile behind my wine glass.
‘What makes you think that?’ His purring expression should’ve warned me I was heading into a trap.
‘Oh, just the way the man turned pink in the middle of your conversation. You must’ve mispronounced something, making it sound dirty.’
He’d tipped his head back and smiled up into the star-filled sky and laughed. A slight breeze in the air ruffled his hair, and I’d curled my hands into fists against the urge to reach across the table and run my fing
ers through it.
‘No, ma Rose. He turned pink because I told him you made such enthusiastic sounds as you’d eaten your entrée that I thought I was going to have to cut the meal short and take you to bed.’
‘You did not!’ I’d squealed, but he’d just inclined his head and said my rapture belonged to him now.
When we’re not being fed by the best in the business, Remy’s housekeeper isn’t averse to rustling up a delicious dish. She—and I’m assuming she is a she, which isn’t very modern of me—cooks a mean lasagne and her salads are to die for. A couple of evenings we’ve even cooked together, though nothing fancy because neither of us is particularly housetrained. What we haven’t done yet is eat out, like in a restaurant or café. In fact, we haven’t been anywhere together in public, and the truth is, I’m not ready to be seen with him. When I’d explained my fears to Remy, how I worried it was too soon, that I’d be gossiped about and not taken seriously at work because people would probably assume he’d brought me out to Monaco to bone, he said he understood. In fact, he was very sweet about it.
And to think I was worried there’d be some sort of power imbalance ebbing involved with a rich man. Maybe Amber was right; maybe power issues are the difference between dating a rich guy and a rich asshole. Remy is no ass. In fact, he’s probably one of the best men I’ve ever met. When we’re together, everything is so normal—we talk about everything, but I never wanted to fall in love with him. Hell, I never wanted to fall in love with anyone. Love leaves you vulnerable. Leaves you wanting. It makes junkies out of mothers and relegates children to the sense of never being quite enough. Yet, each time we get together, he steals a little more of my heart.
But I’m happy to exist in our little bubble for now because I know once we step out in public, all that will come to an end. Aside from how I’ll be viewed at work, there are other concerns. Will I be accepted into his world? Would he make a place for me there? Also, it seems the richer you are in Monaco, the more appealing you are as society pages fodder, which is more than a little freaky. Think TMZ but a little classier, because paparazzi aren’t allowed to follow the rich and fabulous in Monaco, by order of the Crown Prince.
Remy doesn’t get to keep me all to himself every night. He has his social obligations, and I have mine. Like tonight—dinner with my new work friends!
‘What’s up, bitches!’ Fee arrives at the table wearing a cute pink dress that shows off her toned arms and her golden tan. Charles rises to greet her, and double air-kisses are bestowed to each of us, as is the custom out here.
‘Your tan is great,’ I tell her, taking in the golden glow of her arms as they retract.
She looks down, then holds her arm against mine to compare. I’m olive skinned while Fee is fair, though after spending this morning at Larvotto Beach together, we’re both a little tanner than we were. Charles refused to come with us for fear of premature sun-induced wrinkles.
‘I thought for sure I’d be sunburnt after we laid out so long.’ I’m pleased to report I did not. I’d also began topping up my tan last weekend by spending a little bikini time out in Remy’s penthouse pool in the sky. And now I know why the man has no tan lines. And the view. It was good.
‘You looks tres glamorous, my darlings,’ Charles offers with a pout.
‘Well, you look super glamorous, too. And I see you started without me,’ she quips as the waiter arrives with our bottle of Pinot. Before he leaves, she orders herself a vodka tonic.
‘You could have a glass of wine with us,’ I suggest. ‘Especially as you’re our best biche.’
‘Biche? You mean as in doe?’
I nod. ‘Are you impressed? I’m working on expanding my vocabulary.’ Thanks to Remy mostly. ‘Though much of it isn’t appropriate for the ears of polite company.’
‘Then it is a good thing you choose us as your friends.’ Charles inclines his head in the manner of one all-knowing, reaching for his empty glass. ‘We can teach you all the good sex words.’
‘I didn’t say they were sex words. I’ve been learning some pretty good insults, too. You know, so I can mutter them under my breath when one of the residents says he needs to find someone to fill his bath with jellybeans or something equally ridiculous.’
Charles puts down his glass and brings his hands to his shaking head. ‘This has happened to me when I worked in Paris. Worse, I had to pick out the red ones. I never want to work in a ’otel again.’
‘I’ll drink to that,’ Fee agrees. As her vodka hasn’t yet arrived, I reach for the bottle intending to splash a little into the spare glass.
‘No, thank you. I can’t have a wine hangover tomorrow. I’m leading a spinning class at seven a.m.’
‘On Sunday?’ I splutter a little incredulously. ‘First of all, what kind of person exercises on Sunday, and second of all, who the hell is out of bed at that time?’
‘Mon chère, you live in Monaco now,’ drawls Charles.
‘People be cra-zy!’
‘Monaco is the home of the rich and the cra-zy,’ adds Fee.
‘No doubt ’zis class will be full of trophy wives and girlfriends.’ Charles wrinkles his nose in distaste.
‘While that’s not necessarily untrue, I do have some men who attend regularly.’
‘Gay men,’ he asserts, ‘because le cyclisme is good for le buns!’ He lifts a little from his chair, tapping his own ass.
‘The only buns I want to see at seven on Sunday are the kind that are filled with chocolate. Seven a.m.,’ I repeat with a dramatic shiver. ‘No thanks.’
‘I’ve always been an early riser,’ Fee answers mildly, watching as Charles fills our glasses—finally!
This isn’t the sort of restaurant where hovering waiters wear a uniform of black or pristine white aprons, rather it’s a little place off the beaten path where the clientele is mostly Monégasque; those native to Monaco. In other words, the ordinary folk, not the uber-rich. The décor is less fancy and a little more hodgepodge with scarred bistro tables and leatherette booths. The walls are painted magnolia and covered with framed prints and old photographs. There’s a garden seating area outside for those warm summer nights, or for when you don’t mind your hair to growing in volume due to the humidity. Tonight is not one of those nights, and the tables are free of linens, napery arriving in the form of red and white chequered napkins. The food is hearty rather than fancy, the wine mostly French and the beer Belgian, and importantly, all are reasonably priced. In short, I’d recommend!
‘As my dad likes to say,’ Fee continues, ‘the early bird catches the worm.’
‘Ah, but Rose already has a worm in her bed—one that keeps her up all night!’ Charles titters. ‘That is why she is reluctant to get out of bed, n’est-ce pas?’ Right?
‘Really? A worm?’ I echo, though not in the same tone.
‘Non. Not a worm. Plus gros!’ he amends, miming like a fisherman describing the one that got away.
‘You mean a snake,’ Fee adds, raising her glass. ‘Here’s to huge trouser snakes!’
‘I drink to that,’ replies Charles, clinking his glass against hers. ‘And I will buy champagne if Rose tells us about her mystery lover.’ He annunciates the final word ridiculously, all teeth and lips, his lashes fluttering manically.
‘Ah, but then it wouldn’t be a mystery,’ I hedge. ‘And what would we have to talk about in the office, then?’ And by talk, I mean gossip.
‘Bah! I don’t need mysteries. I need tales of hot men!’
‘Then get your own hot man.’
‘I am living with one! But ’e is still angry with me.’ He pouts ridiculously.
‘You’re so lucky to find yourself a man out here.’ With her elbow on the table and her hand cupping her chin, Fee takes a sip from her newly delivered glass. ‘My love life has been like the Sahara since I got here. And I don’t mean hot and vast.’
‘How can that be? Just look at you, babe-a-licious. If I had an ass like yours, I’d be wearing booty shorts all day every da
y.’
‘Squats,’ she says by way of explanation for booty deliciousness. ‘Swap you for boobs?’
‘This conversation does nothing for me,’ Charles sniffs.
‘You must be the one gay man who isn’t fascinated with boobs.’
‘They are interesting,’ he replies with a disinterested shrug. ‘But like a fluffy tail on a rabbit. That is all.’
‘What about man boobs?’ Fee asks. ‘Are you into those at all?’
‘Yeah, breasts,’ I add with a giggle as Charles deigns not to answer but rather glares. ‘You probably like the moobs on a male gym bunny, though, right?’
‘I prefer the ass.’ He sighs, glancing at the retreating form of a passing waiter.
‘Yet, my ass does nothing for you,’ I quip. ‘And Lord knows, I have enough of it.’
‘Whatever,’ Fee scoffs, dipping the rim of her glass in my direction. ‘It’s working for you. Out of the three of us, you’re the one who’s—’
‘Getting some,’ interjects Charles.
‘I was going to say found someone.’
‘I wouldn’t say that exactly,’ I demur, my mind rapidly scanning and rejecting ways to turn the conversation from me. I don’t want to talk about Remy now, and I can’t afford to drop my guard three glasses in. I like Fee and Charles—I like them a lot. But we don’t know each other well enough to establish any great degree of trust.
‘But she is the only one getting some,’ Charles huffs mulishly, crossing his arms. Charles is a sweetie, and he’s been super helpful during my first few weeks on the job. But he’s also a gossip, as well as a tiny bit catty.
‘Yeah, but it’s not like we’ve made any declarations or anything. For all I know, he could be seeing other people.’ Even as I say this, I know this isn’t true, unless Remy is sexing someone between the hours of work. At least, those hours he’s not calling me to his office with his ridiculous demands.
Ridiculously sexy demands.
It seems Olga has somehow gotten the message that messages from the resident of the penthouse suite aren’t for her sole attention. I’m not sure what exactly has been said, and by whom, but I only know it’s resulted in her treating me with a cool sort of reserve.
