by Donna Alam
‘But money can make you beautiful,’ Charles says, his eyes still glued to the guy with the ass.
‘You mean they can see beyond skin deep? Probably through wallets, too. Right to those black Amex cards.’ I snort as I struggle out of my jacket, feeling hot.
‘Non. Wis plastic surgery.’
‘I don’t want money or looks. I just want a man who treats me nicely.’ Her voice wistful as she sits forward, resting both hands on the table. ‘Anyway, it’s probably worse because the film festival lot are in town,’ Fee adds.
‘You mean, the place is full of actresses and stuff?’ I don’t recall seeing any famous faces when I was looking for J-Lo on the way in.
She shakes her head. ‘Monaco is currently full of fashionistas and the super wealthy. Oil tycoons, minor royals, and medically enhanced socialites.’
‘Ah. People who don’t have real jobs.’
‘Exactly.’ She makes a triangle around her glass with her thumbs and forefingers, her attention turning inward almost. ‘I’m sure if you happen to be in Ibiza next month, you’ll see all the same faces. They’re like nomads, but instead of trekking from camp to camp with camels and tents, they use private jets and stay in their vastly expensive holiday homes or ridiculously priced hotel suites. Royal Ascot, next on to Wimbledon, followed by a week in Venice for the film festival, then back to Monaco for the yacht show in September. Art Basel in December, New Year’s Eve in St Barts right before heading to Dubai for the races in the spring, then on to the Kentucky Derby.’
‘Some people have all the luck, right?’
‘I don’t know. The same places and the same beautiful faces month after month.’ She picks up her glass, seeming to come back to herself. ‘I think it sounds like a complete bore, personally.’
‘How do you know all this?’ Though I keep my tone neutral, something tells me this isn’t just an observation or second-hand information from her.
She smiles, but it almost seems tense. ‘I hear the wives and girlfriends talking after classes. Complaining, mostly.’
Hmm. I don’t think so.
‘You forgot about the other beauties.’ Charles inclines his head, his raised glass indicating a group of women crowded around the man Charles thought was about to hit on him. Standing straight now, his face in profile. Tall, dark, and handsome, as far as I can tell.
‘Yes,’ Fee agrees. ‘One of those things is not like the others.’
‘Because one of them is male?’ I’m confused because they’re all tall and dressed well; him in dark pants and a fitted shirt, the girls with their long tan legs running up to their chins and tiny dresses sparkling like candy wrappers. ‘He must be real entertaining the way they’re hanging on his every word.’
‘I think you’ll find they are the entertainment,’ Fee murmurs, her tone dropping.
‘Non. It is ’is wallet they find entertaining.’
‘I think someone might be selling sex. Hint: It’s not the one wearing pants.’
‘I’ve never seen a working girl look like that.’ I glance back at the group. ‘Every one of them looks like a freaking Victoria’s Secret model!’
‘That’s how they can charge so much.’ She glances knowingly my way. ‘The rich nomads follow the events, and the girls follow them.’
‘Some even travel with them,’ Charles says. ‘I understand rich Arabs ’ave their seasonal favourites.’
‘What, like a blonde for summer and a redhead for fall?’
‘Who knows. You could argue some cultures have arranged marriages, I suppose. Anyway.’ Fee sighs, reaching for her glass. ‘I guess for a lot of men it’s easier to pay for a relationship. Less risky to their billions.’
‘What about their hearts?’ I find myself asking.
‘I dunno.’ She shrugs. ‘I’ll let you know when I find a man with one. A straight man,’ she amends as Charles opens his mouth to protest.
‘What makes someone as pretty as you be so cynical?’
We all turn to the deep voice to find the working girl’s entertainment—or was that the other way around?—standing at the side of our booth. I was right; he is good looking. He’s also French, though his accent is a lot less pronounced than Charles’s. My final observation? Judging by his languid expression, this is a man who has no trouble with self-perception.
‘Did anyone ever tell you it’s rude to listen to other people’s conversation?’ I answer when it appears my companions have been struck mute.
‘Yes, my mother.’ He shakes his head in the vein of one who knows he’s a trial and is pretending to give a damn about it. ‘I am a grave disappointment to her,’ he adds, sliding himself into the seat next to me.
‘Sit down, why don’t you.’ I sneer, wriggling my butt closer to Charles, who, in turn, shimmies closer to Fee while looking like he’s ingesting prunes.
Charles, my friend, I think your gaydar needs a reboot.
‘My mother also taught me that beautiful girls have sharp tongues,’ the stranger says. ‘But I find that just makes them all the more fun.’ His gaze is bold as it sweeps over me. I find myself glancing at my friends, sure my expression reads can you believe this dipshit?
‘I’m Benoît, by the way.’
‘And I’m not interested,’ I retort, my tone flat.
‘You prove my point for me.’ He looks up, shooting Fee a cheeky wink. ‘Your friend doesn’t like me.’
‘Oh, I’m sure it’s not that,’ Fee answers with a brightness that seems almost brittle.
‘Benoît.’ He holds his hand out across the table to her, half standing, repeating the process with Charles. I’m just about to ask why they get the polite version, and I get hit on when Charles, his hand still in Benoît’s, speaks.
‘We know who you are. We work for Industries Du Loup. All three of us.’
‘You work there, too?’ I ask, turning my head his way.
‘Don’t sound so excited about it. I should tell you, the meaner you are to me, the more I like it.’
‘There are names for people like you,’ I mutter, meaning asshole over masochist.
‘Yes, names like boss,’ Charles murmurs under his breath, covering his next words with a cough. ‘Also owner.’
My head swings Charles’s way, a denial on the tip of my tongue.
‘I wouldn’t expect you to be nice to me just because I own a little of the company.’ Something tells me that’s exactly what he would expect, cemented by his actions as his arm feeds along the seat behind me, his thumb lightly brushing my spine. It’s such a light touch but somehow intimate. And unwanted. ‘It’s the weekend, and you’re not working now. Have you ever been in the VIP suite?’ Benoît directs his question to Fee, who shakes her head.
‘This is only my third time here,’ she answers.
‘What about you?’ This time, he directs his question to Charles this time.
‘Non, but I have heard they serve nothing but Dom Perignon. Is this true?’
I can feel Benoît’s gaze crawling over me, though I refuse to return it.
‘In the VIP suite, you can get almost anything you want.’ Was I the only one who caught that tone? ‘You should join me,’ he adds quite suddenly, as though the idea has only just occurred to him. Yeah, right. ‘All of you.’
‘That’s very kind,’ Fee protests. I wonder if she’s reading my expression or if she has her own reservations. ‘But—’
‘But we’re waiting for my boyfriend,’ I interject.
‘Then he should come, too.’ He stands and pauses briefly. ‘I’ll leave your names at the door and see you there soon, I hope.’ And then he’s gone.
‘Dammit,’ I announce as soon as he’s out of earshot. ‘I thought that would’ve put him off. No way I’m going to hang out with the creepy boss.’
Fee grimaces. ‘He’s not really creepy . . .’
‘Oh. My bad. He’s just a douche.’
‘I know. I’m sorry. God, he was a little intense, wasn’t he?’
‘If by
intense, you mean creepy, yes.’
‘Maybe he’s drunk?’
At Charles’s interjection, I turn to him. ‘How did you not realise you were staring at our boss?’
‘I don’t have in my lenses,’ he protests, holding up his hands.
‘What?’
‘I wore my new sunglasses earlier. Remember? They are prescription!’
As an explanation, I find this baffling.
‘So, what, when it got dark, you decided you didn’t need to see? How does that even work? Well, I’m not going in there,’ I add mulishly. ‘The dude has my creep-o-meter going off.’
‘But Rose.’ Fee reaches over the table to take my hand. ‘How can we not?’
‘We just don’t go. He’s partying. His eyes were glazed, so he’s probably on something. He’ll probably forget he even asked us.’
‘And if he doesn’t?’ she asks carefully. ‘And we see him at work, and he remembers we ignored him?’
‘Okay, so we’ll go and dance. He’ll never find us on the dance floor. He’ll think we’ve left.’
‘Even I cannot dance all night,’ grumbles Charles. ‘I think we go. Just for a little while. I, for one, do not want to be fired.’
‘How could he fire us for not wanting to party with him?’
Fee’s fingers tighten on mine. ‘Do we really want to find out?’
23
Rose
So we go. We leave our drinks, and we leave our table on the terrace to go back into the club, though I do so with the protest that I’m only doing it for them.
Because they don’t have a Remy in their lives.
As this thought strikes, I wonder what will happen when I no longer have him. When our relationship runs its course, will I still have a job? I push the thought to the back of my mind. Living day to day, living for now needs to become a way of life for me.
There’s another heavy at the velvet rope at the entrance to the VIP suite, and I seriously hope we’ll be turned away despite the potential embarrassment. And there would be embarrassment because people seem to look as we approach that hallowed space. But no such luck. The rope is unhooked, and we’re ushered through the twinkly crystal curtain.
‘Leave our names at the door, my ass,’ I complain, following my friends. ‘What door.’
Inside, the space is dark and intimate, the décor echoing that of the main club. Black interspersed with pink and purple as the skull-shaped disco balls glittering above, the lights from the dancefloor catching the tiny mirrored tiles. And Charles was right; behind the bar is a wall filled with bottles of Dom Perignon champagne.
‘My friends!” Benoît approaches us with his arms held wide. ‘No boyfriend?’
‘He’ll be here later.’ I twist my lips in an approximation of a smile.
‘Then let me get you a drink.’
‘I’m good,’ I answer as my friends follow his direction to the bar. I flop onto the nearest seat, placing my purse next to my thigh as Benoît lowers himself to the seat opposite.
‘Help yourself to the champagne.’ A silver bucket sits between us on a tiny black table.
‘Like I said, I’m good,’ I repeat, folding my arms and deliberately ignoring him. But as I glance up, I notice Fee and Charles eyeing me warily. Their anxious looks remind me of what they perceive as a precarious situation. So I toe the line. For their sake, forcibly turning up the corners of my mouth as I add, ‘Thank you.’
‘A smile? I’m honoured. Fille qui rit, fille qui est à moitié dan ton lit.’
‘Yeah, sure,’ I answer with disinterest, wondering why Charles chuckled and why Fee is now frowning.
‘Let me introduce you to a few people.’ He stands, people nearby gravitating towards us almost as though by prior instruction. Charles is immediately drawn into introductions, but Fee hangs back.
‘It’s okay,’ I assure her, pointing at the small group of people behind her. ‘Go mingle. I’m pretty sure the guy in the black shirt was on the front cover of Vogue last month.’
‘Rose, fille qui rit, fille qui est à moitié dan ton lit. It means make a girl laugh, and she’s halfway in your bed.’
‘That’s what he said?’ She nods. ‘In his dreams.’ I huff unhappily. ‘Honestly, it’s all good. I’ll be good. I mean, I promise not to strangle him or anything.’ Or laugh at him, never mind with. ‘You can keep an eye on me just as well from over there.’
It’s not that I feel the need for supervision. I’m pretty sure I can shoot the man down just as effectively whether she’s nearby or not. But maybe it’s best that I’m the only one making possible enemies right now.
‘If you’re sure . . .’
‘What I’m sure of is, out of the three of us, Charles is the one who needs watching most.’ She follows the line of my gaze. ‘If he gets any closer to that redhead, there’s gonna be a little snake on snake action for sure, and I’m not sure this is the kind of place that would take kindly to that.’ Also, maybe he’s not a redhead. Maybe it’s just the pink lighting giving his hair that hue.
‘I’ll be sure to tell him this is a no-bone zone,’ she says, her attention turning back to me briefly, her smile almost reluctant.
She’s no sooner gone when Benoît slides into the seat opposite.
‘How do you like Monaco so far?’ he asks, sitting back in his seat, one long leg crossed over the other.
‘How do you know I haven’t been here for a long time?’ I counter, adopting a similar pose, though without crossing my legs.
‘Well, now,’ he begins, almost as though he’s a little shy. I’ll admit, he’s pretty good at this even if we both know this is just an act. ‘I have a small admission to make. I saw you on your first day. The walls in the office are mostly glass,’ he says, almost by way of explanation. ‘You were in one of the meeting rooms filling out forms, I think. You looked a little like, what is the saying? Like a fish out of water?’
I try not to bristle at the implication, pushing away the residual sense of confusion and worry I’d felt that day. ‘Doesn’t everyone feel a little strange on their first day at a new job?’
‘It looked like more than that.’ Sitting forward, he pulls the bottle of champagne from the bucket and begins unwinding the foil. ‘You looked vulnerable.’
I snort unhappily. You are barking up the wrong tree, friend.
‘Pardonne-moi. I don’t mean to offend you. I was simply intrigued.’ He pops the cork expertly and begins pouring the effervescent liquid into two glasses, passing one over the small table with an inciteful look.
‘Well, as you can see, I survived.’ I take the glass from his hand because champagne is champagne. Besides, I need something to take the taste of this exchange out of my mouth.
‘Non. You have thrived.’ He raises his glass in a toast.
How am I supposed to refuse that toast? So I don’t, the crisp bubbles dancing on my tongue.
‘Where did they eventually hide you?’
‘Hide?’ I roll my lips together, savouring the flavour as I place my glass down. Okay, I’m stalling for time, trying to work out what his angle is.
‘No one seemed to know where you’d gone to. The beautiful girl with the luxurious dark hair? Très exotique.’
‘Someone needs to book you some sensitivity training,’ I mutter under my breath because exotic is not a compliment.
‘Pardon?’
‘Hmm?’ No one knew. I began to think I’d imagined you.’
‘Oh, boy. You’re really laying it on thick. Did you forget already that I said I’m involved with someone?’
‘Ah, the boyfriend.’ His head drops between his shoulders, but his smile is still visible. ‘Someone snapped you up so quickly.’ As his head comes up slowly, his smile almost wolfish. Though a pale imitation of the wolf himself. Of Remy. ‘I could be good to you.’
‘I think you should stick to neutral topics if you want the pleasure of my company.’
He nods slowly, seeming to consider my words. ‘How do you fi
nd Monaco?’ A change of direction.
‘I like it so far.’
‘Two square kilometres. More billionaires than anywhere else in the world. Super cars. Super yachts. Supermodels. You like all this?’
‘I like my friends. I like my job. I like the scenery.’
‘Yes. I can appreciate that.’ My skin prickles under the weight of his gaze. ‘And you like a man. So, where is this boyfriend of yours?’
‘If he has any sense, he’ll be tucked up in bed.’
‘If he had any sense, he’d make sure you were tucked up next to him. He neglects you, my dear.’
‘Is this a speciality of yours, hitting on women who aren’t interested? I guess you like them a little hard to get, huh?’
‘Hard to get but not impossible.’ The final word is wholly French and wholly provocative.
‘I don’t know, I have to tell you, Benny,’ I reply, pressing my elbow on the table to cup my chin in my hand. ‘The longer I speak to you, the worse your odds become.’
‘Non. You like to spar with me. I think you and I would make a fire between the sheets.’
And I think you’re not only annoying but deluded, too.
‘What a shame I’m not into flammable nightwear.’ I make as though to rise, dipping to grab my clutch.
‘I’m sorry. Please, at least, finish your drink.’
A quick look at my surroundings tells me neither Charles or Fee are in view. I lower back into my seat reluctantly because I can hardly leave without them.
‘What do you think is the item most sold in Monaco?’ he asks quite suddenly.
‘What?’
‘A change in the topic of conversation,’ he answers airily.
‘I don’t know.’ Truly, I don’t. At work, hundreds of thousands of dollars run through my fingers on any given week, at least figuratively, as I purchase trinkets and experiences. Or time, as the concierge bible goes. But surely this isn’t indicative of the whole of Monaco? Just then, an older man swaggers past the velvet entry ropes; you know the type, a balding head, a sizeable paunch, looks like he has a mohair sweater growing out of the neck of his shirt. But this troll, pardon, man has a beautiful woman tucked under each of his arms. Women young enough to be his daughters, though fathers don’t, as a rule, feel their daughter’s asses.
