by Donna Alam
‘And don’t forget glittery!’
His smile is so wide and so sudden, it’s like I’ve just told him a joke.
‘But perhaps next time, you might spare Madam Bisset’s blushes by directing it be opened by me,’ he says, standing the base against his desk.
‘Oh, my God. No wonder she couldn’t look me in the eye.’
‘No, but she did look something else in the eye.’
‘Maybe I should’ve chosen the chocolate assholes.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Forget I said that.’
‘Where are you going?’
I turn and look over my shoulder. ‘To apologise to Madam Bisset.’
‘And what am I meant to do with this enormous erection in front of me?’
‘I could tell you exactly where to shove it, but I don’t think you’d be happy!’
30
Rose
Thursday afternoon, week four, I’m in the middle of helping Charles load a trolley filled with packages of deluxe doggy party favours into the service elevator when my phone beeps with an incoming concierge request.
‘Lover boy?’ Charles asks, his tone a little piqued, mostly because Olga suggested he supervise the doggy party planner this afternoon, even going as far as to hand him a pink poop-a-scoop. So I don’t bite; we all have our limits.
‘Apparently, he’s left his gym bag at his apartment, and this flunky right here has to pick it up from the penthouse and deliver it to his office.’
‘It is still more fun than my afternoon,’ he grumbles, using his hands as though he were a balancing scale. ‘A beautiful man ’oo wants you or puppies ’oo want to ’ump your leg.’
‘You booked the dog walker to come along, right?’
He nods. ‘Dog walker, party planner, Charles, and a poop-a-scoop.’
‘It sounds like a joke.’
‘Like my life.’
I leave a dramatically morose Charles to his afternoon and collect the key card from reception; I gave him mine back after . . . well, just after, and take the elevator to the penthouse. At the door, I experience a pang of something like nostalgia, though choose not to indulge myself in the what-ifs and what could have beens, swiping the key and stepping inside. It’s hard to ignore the temptation to snoop around a little, so I don’t. I’m not sure what I’m expecting to find, though I know what I dread as the list runs through my head.
An empty bottle of wine.
Two glasses, one of them with lipstick.
Discarded underwear.
Condom wrappers.
A girl still in his bed.
I find none of those things, on the ground floor, at least, and I plan to have a little snoop-de-snoop to discover if what he says is true. Namely, that he is living here and not in the house he shared with her. And he is living here, according to yesterday’s Le Monde newspaper discarded to the dining room table, the bottle of wine on the kitchen counter, along with the singular glass in the dishwasher, and the coffee stain on the fancy machine. They’re all small signs but enough to make me feel oddly gratified as I begin to climb the stairs, halting halfway.
You’re forty-seven floors up. No one is going to see you come.
No one but me.
The aural memory curls around my ear, causing a tiny explosion of fireworks deep in the pit of my belly. I know I’ll be old and grey and in a nursing home and I’ll still remember the way he held me against him. The way he carried me up this staircase as though I’d weighed nothing. I’ll never forget the way he made me feel like a goddess.
I shake away the memory and the sadness that always seems to follow and make my way to his room.
What if he’s here?
Shut up, stupid brain. Also, not helpful and not likely.
What if the room is filled with shiny balloons and rose petals leading to the bed and—
I should not have had that third coffee. Clearly, I’m high on caffeine. I push the door open, smiling to myself as I step inside, knowing that Remy isn’t lying in the centre of his bed with a rose clenched between his teeth.
His bedroom looks exactly the same, little signs of my presence still lying here and there. A hair tie lies on my—his—nightstand, a pair of my shoes placed neatly in the walk-in closet, which solves the weeklong mystery of where I’d put them. The oversized T-shirt I’d wear to bed, for at least the first few minutes, has been laundered since its last wear. Laundered, folded, and placed on top of the pouffe in the centre of his dressing room. Like a reminder, I leave it all there, along with my shoes, a spare toothbrush, my travel-sized moisturiser, and spare deodorant. I can’t bear to move them, and I suddenly realise I can’t bear to be here anymore.
I glance around for the sports bag, ignoring the almost coffin-sized bag sitting on the top of the bed covers. But there isn’t another bag anywhere. I unzip the thing flopping to the bed with a huff. This is it, confirmed by the sports shoes and a mask that resembles a teabag. If I don’t put my back out, I’ll be highly surprised, I decide as I pull on the handle and it hits the floor with a thunk.
It’s a short elevator ride down to the executive floor, not really long enough to prepare but long enough to recognise the fizz of excitement.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I mutter to myself. ‘You are not looking forward to meeting Remy Durrand, the man you thought you were in love with. The man you can’t be in love with. Because that fact would make you an idiot—just look at the size of the bag he’s got you towing around!
And now I can add talking to myself to the list of my lovesick maladies.
Madam Bisset barely raises her gaze from her screen as I stagger in.
‘Let me take that.’ Two sets of arms rush to take the bag from me, but not before I drop it to the floor once again. ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t even consider how heavy it would be.’
‘It’s not heavy. It’s unwieldy. But I managed, as you can see.’
Remy moves it to the sofa before half sitting and half leaning against the long table, the other man taking a chair at the head of it.
‘Rose.’ I love how my name sounds on his lips; the rolling R, the husk in it. I strive to ignore it as he continues with his apologies. ‘How could I have thought to ask you to bring this,’ he asks himself, all self-deprecating good nature. The man is no good for you, I remind myself. Matterless, the words seem to bypass my brain, my response to the sight of him purely visceral. ‘Thank you for saving me the trip. Everett and I are fencing this evening.’
I try not to imagine Remy in those tight, white fencing pants, mainly because there’s a time and a place for those kinds of thoughts. Fencing has to be the ultimate posh-boy sport, or maybe that’s polo. I can also claim to have had one other boyfriend who fenced, though that was more the stolen goods kind. Needless to say, he wasn’t on the scene long.
‘Cool,’ I answer, starting as I mean to go on. Disinterested. I can’t keep allowing him to seduce me into conversations because the next step is being seduced out of my panties. I’d be lying if I said I haven’t enjoyed sparring with him. Enjoyed. Obsessed over. Left his office feeling confused. What I don’t need, however, is to do it with an audience, as I note his security guard in my periphery. Even if the man was an audience to something that almost happened on that desk.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says again. ‘I should’ve asked Everett to pick up my bag. You remember Everett, the head of my security team?’
‘Hey.’ The apathetic greeting is delivered over my shoulder on my way to the door.
‘Nice to see not quite so much of you.’ My steps falter, and though I think about turning around, I don’t. Rise above, Rose. Rise above. ‘I told you she can’t stand to be in the same room as me.’ The asshole chuckles.
This time, I turn, and I could kick myself because, by his expression, that’s exactly what he planned on.
‘Well, bless your heart.’
The man’s gaze flicks to the other man in the room. ‘That’s like being told to go forth and mu
ltiply, right?’ Quaint that he doesn’t want to curse in front of me. In anyone else, I’d probably say it’s good manners.
‘You don’t know me, and I don’t even know you.’ Subtext: I don’t want to know you. I get that he’s here to protect Remy, but seeing as my five-foot four proves no threat, I don’t get why he’s here now.
‘Come on, Heidi, relax. Cop a squat,’ he says, pulling out the chair next to him. ‘Remy here’s been jonesing for a little Rose all day.’
‘Oh, so you do know my name.’ I swing around to face him, the only thing rising above my blood pressure now. ‘My actual name, that is.’
His eyes flick briefly to Remy. ‘’Course I do. Didn’t he tell you I’m Team Rose.’
‘This is what happens when you feed him carbs,’ Remy murmurs, his words delivered through a reluctant smile. ‘Undying devotion bought for the price of a burger.’
‘I wouldn’t like to see how he treats his enemies in that case.’
‘He’s just jealous.’ Rhett leans back in his chair, his hands clasped to the back of his head. ‘Because you haven’t had a burger since 2015. The man’s a slave to his image,’ he adds in an undertone that we’re all meant to hear. ‘Got to think about all those girlies who’ll watch him lounging on his yacht. Alerte chaudasse!’ he adds, his words pitched in a higher octave.
Hottie alert. Something slithers in my gut. I tell myself it’s not jealousy as Remy utters the man’s name in a tone more weary than warning. Myself, I hope to appear unaffected.
‘When are you gonna put him out of his misery?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Come on. You know it’s only a matter of time before you give in. Look at him.’ As though my brain has no sway in the matter, I find I do. Gorgeous, as always; broad in the shoulders and handsome in the face. The truth is, he could eat plenty of burgers without the consumption changing any of those facts. His shirt is blue today, the colour deepening the green of his eyes, and he wears his shirt sleeves rolled, the skin of his arms almost the same colour as the strap of his battered old watch.
Someone’s been getting a little sun. Hanging out on yachts?
Naked?
The slither of jealousy in my stomach turns to the size of an anaconda.
‘Are you really gonna let him slip through your fingers because of an error in judgment? All men in love make mistakes. Love makes idiots of men.’
Love makes idiots of women, too. But am I an idiot in protecting myself . . . urgh! Belatedly, my brain processes Rhett’s insinuations. Let this hunk of handsome slip through my fingers? Like I’m the kind of woman who prefers pretty over substance—who would forgive pretty over substance.
‘This has got nothing to do with you.’ My words are icy, the look I send him arctic.
‘I’ve told him he should just chuck you over his shoulder and drag you to the Gulfstream. A week of forced proximity on a luxury remote island somewhere would do you both the world of good.’
‘I think you’ll find that’s called kidnapping,’ I snap, my annoy-o-meter creeping into the red.
‘He’s fucking lovesick. In bits. And you’ve barely looked at him. You haven’t even said hello.’
So I turn to him. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Durrand. You’re kind of quiet today. Could it be because you can’t get a word in edgewise for him?’ As I hoick my thumb in the security guy’s direction, and Remy’s responding smile is a little like standing in a tiny patch of sunshine.
‘That’s more like it.’ I find Everett’s smile however, more like a deluge of rain. ‘I do love a good working relationship.’
‘Yeah?’ I snort my disinterest, at the same time as my hands turn to fists.
‘Especially when the subordinate does as she’s told.’
My head turns to him like the turret of a tank. ‘Well, I don’t work for you so you can kiss my ass.’
‘That’s not in my remit, Heidi.’ Why does it sound like everything the asshole says is through a smug grin?
‘Urgh! Do me a favour.’ I rotate back to Remy. ‘When you go fencing tonight, poke him for me.’
‘And that’s certainly not in my remit.’ There’s an almost playful curl to his words.
‘Told you, Heidi. This is a poke-free zone.’
‘Would you stop calling me that? Please,’ I add with extra snark. It’s really beginning to become annoying, as well as freaky. Is it a coincidence, or has he somehow intuited the name of my waitressing alter-ego? Unless . . . Oh, God. What if Remy told him about my waitressing gig? Only, Rhett’s been calling me Heidi for longer. So how in the hell does he know?
‘A Rose by any other name, and all that.’
‘You are not quoting Shakespeare to me right now,’ I retort with a tense laugh.
‘Rhett, get out. And if you don’t want to be pitched out of the window, I suggest you do it quickly.’
‘Got it, boss man,’ he says, drawing his long frame up from the chair. He saunters to the door, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like, my work is done here, anyway.
I bite back my retort of, who’s the subordinate now, asswipe? Instead calling,’ I hope your day is filled with people like you!’ after him. I even throw in a little wave.
‘You know he aimed to annoy you, Rose.’
‘Then he was trying too hard.’ Being in the same room is enough. ‘Did you tell him about the place I worked before I moved here?’ Remy maintains his even expression. Meanwhile, I am pretty disgusted with myself. When did I become a coward? ‘At the strip club,’ I add, almost choking on the words.
‘Would you like me to?’
‘Ha!’ So he can think up some other god-awful name? No thanks. ‘I’ve got to go. I’ve delivered your bag, patted your guard dog.’ And now I need to leave because I can barely stand myself.
‘I’ll see you at lunch.’ He makes it sound like a long-standing date, rather than an impersonal request through the app. ‘A little later today. I have a meeting.’ Worse than personal is high-handed. Does he think I’m his to command, in more ways than listed in my work contract?
‘I won’t be here for lunch,’ I find myself answering. ‘You can send me your request, and I’ll get Charlie or one of the others to deliver it.’
‘No, you will bring lunch.’
‘I can’t. I’m busy.’ Annoyance builds alongside determination.
‘We eat lunch together every day.’
‘For no other reason than I have to.’ The lie is out of my mouth before I can temper it.
‘You don’t mean that.’ His lush lips firming, his eyes are suddenly more agate than emerald as he pushes off the table, sending my pulse skittering.
‘It’s true. I’m here in no other capacity than your employee.’ Who reset my brain to uber-bitch today?
‘Ah. So that’s it? I hope you’ve been satisfied thus far by the scope of your work.’ His voice is made for seduction, the rasp in it reminding me of the roughness of his hands. When I can’t find the words to answer, he speaks again. ‘I for one have been more than satisfied with how you’ve performed under me.’
‘High praise,’ I find myself murmuring, a dozen images of just that flickering through my brain. ‘I wonder how many of your employees you can apply that to.’ Because screw his work-based innuendo.
‘It shouldn’t matter.’ His fingers skim my face in a shiver-inducing caress. ‘The important thing to acknowledge is—
‘That I always achieve the desired outcome?’ Because let me tell you, I’m prepared to lie through my teeth right now.
‘No, the important thing is that I undress you as my superior. Always.’
‘Remy, don’t.’ As I step back, I wonder if this is what a withdrawal to an addiction feels like.
‘Don’t what? Want you so much I can feel it in my fingertips? Because I’m afraid I can’t help it.’
‘I’m going now.’ Because, the truth is, I can see it happening all before me. I’ll lean into his hand, and he’ll
kiss me. Next, we’ll tear at each other’s clothes, mouths greedy and fingers grasping. I can see it all, the images playing out like a movie in my head, so compelling, I can’t stop them. But I can stop them from becoming reality, beginning with feigning an air of artificial boredom
‘No, Rose.’ His fingers find my chin, tilting my gaze to his. ‘Don’t look at me with indifference. I can take your anger but not your apathy.’
‘I’ve promised you nothing.’ My voice has a strength I don’t really feel.
He nods, his fingers falling away before he pushes his hands into his pockets. ‘No, but in time, you’ll give it all to me.’
31
Rose
‘Alerte chaudasse.’
For the second time today, I hear this phrase—hottie alert—though this time from Charles. I don’t lift my head, stabbing my fork into my takeaway container instead. I can’t even feign interest, my mind preoccupied with what happened in Remy’s office earlier. Was the mention of children a cruel ploy? Was he upping his game, or could it be that he’s serious about me?
I can take your anger but not your apathy. Why the heck does that sound sexy?
‘Coucou!’ Charles sings, impersonating a cuckoo in an attempt to get my attention. ‘Rose? Did you hear?’
‘No boy talk,’ I say, flicking him a look. ‘Not today.’ The grass tickles my legs as I point my toes, stretch out, the slight breeze plastering an errant wisp of my hair against my lips.
‘Oh, but you’ll want to see this one.’ Fee’s words sound delivered through a smile.
I slide the strands behind my ear before chasing the remnants of my couscous salad with my fork. I thought her joining us for lunch today might give me a break from Charles. I’m thinking of getting him a T-shirt with Team Remy printed on it because whatever was said during Remy’s I love Rose confession, it has plucked at the strings of “’is ’heart,” to quote my so-called friend.
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, look!’ Fee nudges me so hard, the much-chased grains fall off my fork and onto the picnic rug. A picnic rug for a picnic lunch on a tiny square of lawn at the rear of the hotel and tower complex. There are a dozen or so Wolf Industry employees with the same idea, some sitting on a picnic bench, others lounging under the shade of trees.
