by Donna Alam
I flip over the paper to examine the rows of numbers I’ve scribbled in an attempt to understand my finances. I shouldn’t stay, but I must. I should leave, but I can’t. At least, not yet. Because it costs too much. If I leave before the end of my probation period, I have to pay not only for my return flight—my repatriation—but also for my original flight out. There’s also a daily charge for my accommodation I’ll accrue if I leave before then. And it gets better; my probation period is six months.
Six months!
My little row of figures confirms what I already know. I’m going to be here for at least that long. Here, working out of the same building as Remy, maybe even still living here. Maybe there’s a chance I’ll be able to get a transfer to one of the hotels on the Riviera, or even just move back to one of the little studio apartments in Nice. Because the more I’m around him, the closer I am to my resolve dissolving like the sugar in a hot drink. It’s been two weeks, and every day gets a little harder. Every day I get closer to breaking down. To giving in. To admitting I feel the same way about him.
He says he loves me but how can he?
But I’m not going to think about that right now as I make my way into my bedroom to tie up my hair, trailing my fingers over the cashmere throw draped over the bottom of the bed as I pass. A couple of months ago, I wouldn’t have even known it was cashmere without reading the label, but so much has changed since then.
I glance around the room. I’ll probably never get to live anywhere like this ever again. I’ll probably never meet another Remy, but that should feel like a good thing, right? I try to ignore the shiny stack of bags and boxes in the corner of the room; the designer clothes and gifts, also known as items of manipulation. As I tie up my hair, I refuse to indulge in the game of how much money would selling these gifts net and decide that as Charles is still showing up to the office every day, I guess my dramatic parting shot of I’ll never forgive you if you fire him must’ve worked.
For now, at least.
What was even that all about? Was he using Charles as a bargaining chip?
I really don’t know.
Back in the living room, I shove the tablet and paperwork in the drawer of the coffee table as the doorbell buzzes. Speaking of Charles, I’ve invited both him and Fee over because I cannot work another day in that office without answering at least some of Charles’s questions after Remy gave him the hard sell and a grain of truth. I also thought I’d tell Fee, presuming the news hasn’t already reached her. I’ll need all the allies I can get for when people start chanting ho bag as I pass.
‘Bonsoir!’ Charles practically vibrates with anticipation as I open the door. ‘Ça va?’
‘I’ve been better,’ I complain as he presses a kiss to each of my cheeks.
‘Salut.’ Fee is a little more tentative as she pulls me into a hug to accompany her quick Hi.
‘I brought la medicine,’ Charles sings, brandishing a bottle of red.
‘Come on in. Let’s get this over with.’
‘You don’t have to tell us anything.’ Fee tugs on my arm as Charles wanders deeper into the apartment, oohing and ahhing at the space.
‘It’s fine. Better you hear it from the horse’s mouth, I guess.’
A few minutes later, I’m curled at the end of one sofa, Fee and Charles sitting much more primly on the sofa facing me.
‘So.’ I take a long pull of the wine Charles had poured, then set it down. ‘What do you know about the torrid story so far?’
‘Torrid?’ Fee’s gaze slides Charles’s way. ‘He made it sound sweet. Ow!’ She rubs her arm, glancing to the side once more, but this time Charles refuses to meet her gaze.
‘She ’eard nothing from me.’ I imagine my expression tells him I know otherwise. ‘I just tell her you have a rich boyfriend.’ Nose in the air, his gaze makes another inspection of the living room. ‘A very rich boyfriend.’
‘I must say, this is such a beautiful flat.’
‘It is not ’oo you know, but ’oo you blow, n’est-ce pas?’
‘Charles!’ Fee chastises, shocked.
‘I make a joke only!’
‘Cut it out, Charlie, or I’ll dangle you over the balcony. Now, tell me, what do you know?’
‘I only know what ’e told me.’
‘Hang on. Who is he in this instance?’ Fee interjects.
‘The rich boyfriend!’
‘I don’t have a boyfriend, rich or otherwise.’
‘Bon. I will have him then.’
‘Charlie, you really do put the ho in homosexual.’
‘Thank you!’ He sends me a beatific smile.
‘It wasn’t a compliment.’
‘Not to you, per’aps.’
‘Can someone please tell me who this rich boyfriend is?’
‘Remy Durrand,’ he replies with a waggle of his eyebrows.
Fee’s eyes are suddenly the size of dinner plates. ‘Durrand? Not the Remy Durrand?’ Though her eyes dart back and forth between us, I neither confirm nor deny. ‘Oh my . . . wow. Just wow! How? When? But isn’t he engaged?’
‘He was.’ The admission still makes my spine stiffen, but I try to push all that away. He says he didn’t make an adulterer out of me, so if he doesn’t feel bad, why should I? But it goes deeper than that. It wasn’t an oversight that he didn’t tell me; a lie of omission is still a lie.
I pause, picking up my glass because I’ve no intentions of telling them about March, or even how I didn’t know about Amélie. I don’t want to add idiot to ho bag when the gossip machine starts to blacken my name. Stick to the plan, I silently intone. You don’t owe them all the things. ‘Well, you see—’
‘I want to tell!’ Charles claps his hands together like a performing seal, bouncing in his seat. ‘Monsieur Durrand, il m’a confié—he confided in me. I need to say before I burst! Also, the man is not so scary as his reputation.’ He presses a hand to his chest and sighs like a teenage girl with a crush. ‘The words ’e say? Such love ’e feels!’
‘Well, this should be interesting.’ It seems this might be a night of many mutterings as I take a deep swallow because, as it turns out, Charles is that teenage girl. A better analogy might be that he’s Pepe le Pew. He thinks he’s crushing on another skunk, when in fact, Remy Durrand is a whole other animal.
‘He told me that Amélie broke off the engagement before she went travelling last. Zat he’d fallen ’ead over ’eels in love with Rose.’
‘Oh, that’s so romantic!’
It’s so something, all right. So not true, at least in parts. It’s also confusing because even though it makes me smile, I also want to cry because Remy can’t be trusted.
‘’E loves you—why are you not smiling?’ Charles’s tone is more than a little piqued and—oh my God. That’s why he told Charles—he was playing with me, yes. But more than that, he knows his big mouth will blab. But now he’s going to blab his version of events, which doesn’t paint me as the woman who puts the ho in homewrecker, but someone who he love. And not at all a liar, either.
‘So this is why you moved to this place?’ Fee’s gaze immediately drops to her glass, her expression aghast. She’d make a pretty poor poker player.
‘I didn’t ask for this.’ I can feel my expression twisting. If Fee’s thinking it, others will, too. ‘The truth is, I didn’t get a choice. Not that anyone will believe I’m dating my boss for anything but the perks.’
‘Oui, the man, he has many, many perks.’ Like an old-time game show hostess, Charles uses his hands to mime a prize like Remy. The curve of his bicep, the handsomeness of his face, and the depths of his pockets. Unless that last mime was a reference to the baguette.
‘Of course people won’t those things,’ Fee protests, indignant on my behalf despite her assumption about this apartment. ‘And if they do, well, you know better.’ She nods decisively, as though that’s the only thing that matters.
‘When I first met him, I didn’t even know who he was,’ I complain, swinging
around to face Charles. ‘I swear to God, Charlie, if you tell anyone anything about this—’
‘I say nothing!’ he retorts, his eyes as wide as dinner plates, his little flounce one of outrage that I would even dare suggest such a thing.
‘Is that why his cousin was so insistent in the club that night?’ My attention moves to Fee, once Charles is suitably served the stink eye. ‘I thought he was coming on to you, but maybe he was warning you off?’
‘More like scoping me out,’ I add quickly, not wanting to be drawn. ‘He apologised later. It’s all good.’ It’s so not all good, though Ben is the least of my problems having redeemed himself a little by doing what Remy should’ve done. By telling me the truth. And whatever his deal was that Saturday, at least he apologised. And he’s not interested in me, thankfully.
‘Let me tell you something.’ Lips pursed, Fee leans forward as though afraid of being overheard. Maybe she doesn’t realise Charles is just dying to spill the tea, aka spill the gossip, if he hasn’t already started. He’s not malicious, as far as I can tell. It’s more like he just can’t keep his mouth shut, especially in the office.
‘I never liked that Amélie. She came to spin class a few times and behaved like a total bitch.’
A bitch she may be, but she also looks like a sleek thoroughbred. And I already know I’m the ass in this comparison.
‘Oui, her family is not well liked,’ Charles agrees.
‘I understand why you’ve kept everything secret. I’m assuming that’s all over now because you want to go public with your relationship.’
‘Non. It is because la chienne, she is back,’ Charles announces dramatically.
‘The bitch,’ Fee offers by way of translation.
‘Remy tells me Rose is angry wiz him. But he cannot do wizout her, but ’e say she cannot forgive him for not saying ’e was engaged before.
‘That’s it, huh?’ If only he knew. If only that was the issue.
‘And ’e now wants the world to know they are in love.’
‘Well, I for one, I do not love being called to his office multiple times a day,’ I reply, dragging out the throw pillow from being me and punching it into some form of submission.
‘What was that?’
‘Olga, she gave Rose Monsieur Durrand’s account. She now works for ’im exlusivement.’
‘Almost exclusively,’ I correct. ‘And yes, I am mad at him.’ Sadly, not for the reasons they both think. ‘And now he’s driving me crazy, calling me to his office with all sorts of demands. He’s got me delivering lunch and then an afternoon coffee every day to his office, even though he already has a fancy-assed coffee machine in there. Not to mention a hotel with a Michelin-star chef who would probably stoop to making him brains and eggs if he wanted.’
‘Brains and eggs?’ Fee’s nose wrinkles.
‘Best not to ask.’
‘I wasn’t going to. But I was going to say it’s obvious he wants to make amends.’
‘By ordering me to jump when he says so?’
‘By getting you in the same room in the hope of making you remember the things you like about him.’
‘Comme sa bite.’ Like his dick. As Charles titters, Fee frowns across at him.
‘He does order two of everything,’ I say, refusing to be drawn. ‘And insists I stay with him.’ The first day, I refused to even sit down. He might’ve blocked out my time with Olga, but I didn’t have to sit or eat. Or even talk. By the third day, it became clear he was intent on wearing me down so I decided I’d sit and eat my sandwich, because you don’t make friends with salad, while just ignoring him. But even that didn’t last long because the man is infuriating. He seems to take a perverse kind of pleasure in goading me.
‘I think that’s sweet,’ Fee coos. I’m sure she wouldn’t say so if she knew exactly what he’d hidden from me. But telling her serves no one, least of all me. ‘But do you want to see him?’
‘I don’t know. It’s complicated.’ I get butterflies still when I’m on my way to see him, but then I remind myself of his lies, and the butterflies turn to pterodactyls that swoop and gnaw at my insides. When he’s not in front of me, he’s easier to hate. Okay, dislike strongly. And I think he knows that, or why else would he call me to his office multiple times a day?
‘You were out for a long time yesterday,’ Charles remarks, bringing my attention back.
‘Yeah, his tailor was there. He wanted me to help him pick cloth for a bespoke suit or four. I suggested the green tartan but changed my mind at the last minute when he’d said if that’s what I liked, then he’d order three. He’d probably wear them, too.’
‘That is love,’ he says through a wistful sigh. ‘For I would not look ugly for anyone.’
I’ve had worse afternoons. I got to spend it ogling his broad shoulders and solid thighs while pretending not to be interested in his innuendo and wicked half-smiles. We kept the arguing to a minimum for the sake of Monsieur Veilleux, the elderly white-haired tailor. Which basically means Remy behaved as he liked, as always, while I refused to be riled. I, Rose Ryan, took the high road. While thinking low thoughts because, when Monsieur Veilleux commented on the increase in the width of Remy’s bicep since his last measurement, he’d glanced over the man’s head, shooting me the most suggestive look as he murmured something to the effect that he might need a little more space in the right sleeve as he anticipated that arm getting more workouts over the coming weeks.
The man has no shame.
At least his right hand isn’t infidelity.
And I’m not going to admit to knowing which side he dresses on, even if Charles asks.
‘Some people have all the luck. While you were watching a beautiful man being touched, I ’ad to add ’z final touches to a birthday party for twelve Pekinese.’
‘That sounds like so much fun,’ giggles Fee.
‘Not when I tell you what the cake is made from.’ His nose wrinkles with distaste as he stands to top up our glasses.
‘Nope, you’ve got that wrong. My job is much worse. I have to look daily into the face of the man I have to remind myself I’m no longer allowed to love. The way things are going, Remy will be calling me to his office next just to pick up his dropped pen.’
‘Yes, and you will bend over, and he will make like this!’ From the other side of the coffee table, Charles thrusts his hips lewdly.
And in a nutshell, that is how the rest of the evening goes.
‘Rose, before you go . . .’
Week three post-Remy, I pause at the door following lunch number twelve, meeting number twenty-four, by my count, because there have been no accidental meetings in the hallways and mumbled greetings. No awkwardness, not beyond the tailor’s visit, at least.
I let go of the handle and turn as though I’m about to face a firing squad.
Oh, Lord. I know what’s coming. I bite the insides of my lips as I try not to smile.
‘Yes?’
‘I wanted to ask you about this.’ He pulls on a drawer in his desk, reaching deep inside.
I can explain, maybe I ought to say, but I won’t. Because I wouldn’t know where to start. Plus, I wouldn’t be standing here all calm and shit, instead I’d be garbling and red-cheeked because I’ve been dreading this moment since I woke up and realised what I’d done. But it’s been almost three weeks since I placed the order.
I was hoping it might’ve gotten lost in the mail.
Angry girl music, a bottle of Sauvignon, and a credit card were my naughty companions following a particularly trying day at work where Olga called me into her office to tell me I’d be “taking care” of Remy exclusively while making it sound like I was to be his personal harlot. Then Charles wouldn’t quit badgering me, asking what misdemeanour I’d committed to be summoned to her office. Like I said, a very trying day which ended when I basically went home and . . . got shit-faced. I woke on the couch in the morning, my emergency credit card unearthed from the depths of my purse and an email from an Etsy sto
re congratulating me on my purchase of a twelve-inch chocolate penis, along with my selected upgrade of a dip-dye in edible purple glitter, which I’d presumed I’d chosen for old times’ sake.
It’s basically a go fuck yourself gift that you can eat. Or choke on, I suppose is closer to the sentiment. In fact, that’s what I’d opted for the card to read, for the grand sum of an extra two euros. I even got a free bag of gummy dicks so I can gift someone with the words: choke on a bag of dicks. Go on, literally.
In my drunken state, I’d even managed to input Remy’s work address correct. So, when he subsequently pulls out a plain brown box from the depths of one of his desk drawers, and settles it on the desk between us, I know what’s coming.
Yes, the chocolate penis.
Is coming.
‘This . . .’ Something ripples across his face. I’m going to go with humour. ‘Is from you, I believe.’
I nod, my lip-biting doing nothing to smother my smile. ‘Don’t pull it out on my account.’
His eyebrow quirks at my unintentional innuendo, his gaze lingering almost speculatively. This wasn’t the exchange I had in mind when I ordered the man a purple penis, I’m sure. It isn’t an angry anthem made in the flesh, or rather confectionary, and more like a reminder of how we got together. In the end, he avoids the cheap laughs.
‘It’s quite an art project,’ he says, turning the thing in his hand as he examines it. ‘Is it modelled on anyone anatomically?’
‘Who knows,’ I answer airily.
‘It does have very impressive detailing.’
‘Someone takes their work very seriously.
‘And purple.’ As his eyes rise to meet mine, merriment dances there. ‘Like forget-me-nots. Not that I’m likely to forget.’ Ask he speaks, he grazes a finger across his left brow where a sliver of a reminder lies. ‘It’ll be a funny story we’ll tell our children when they’re old enough, of course.’
My heart beats like a punchline—ba-dum-cha!—a dozen things going through my head. Who talks about children this quick? Children with Remy’s green eyes and my dark hair, children with golden skin, and platinum futures. Children loved to infinity—and then I realise he’s still watching me, and I have nothing but gushing to return.
