by Donna Alam
‘He couldn’t keep his mouth shut if you wired his jaw.’ But I know what he means. ‘I think the least I’m going to need is a drink to get through this myself.’ I glance behind me, hoping for a passing waiter. As I glance back, Remy is doctoring the place settings. ‘What are you doing?’
‘You need a drink to get through this, which we’ll take care of very soon, and I need you near me,’ he says, placing my name card next to his. ‘There. Let’s go and find the champagne and make some ridiculous bids on some useless items.’
I don’t know about useless but there are some pretty swanky things on offer in the silent auction part of the evening. Around the periphery of the room, stations have been set up with items to bid on. Rather than a traditional auction model of public bids and a banging gavel, this is much more sedate and civilised. Remy and I are given numbers to use, rather than our names, and we wander from station to station, examining the lots and placing anonymous bids.
A spa day here at the hotel.
A hot air balloon ride.
A cooking class with a Michelin starred chef.
A tasting session with a leading sommelier.
A piece of art from a Paris gallery that’s a little depressing.
A golf lesson with a PGA star
Electric items: iPads, laptops, new phones, and other tablets and gadgets.
Jewellery.
A day for twelve on a superyacht.
Sailing lessons.
Tickets to an upcoming opera.
Plus, an afternoon appointment with Glenna Goodman, that seems to be causing a bit of a stir. The list goes on and on and on.
‘What about the necklace,’ Remy suggests, pointing to a diamond pendant in a glass case with its own security guard.
‘No thanks. I’m thinking more about the cooking class.’
‘Sounds good.’
‘Not for me. For you. That way you can dazzle me with more than just a cheese sandwich.’
‘A Croque Monsieur is a French classic. Besides, my cooking skills are not how I aim to dazzle you.’
We wander a little more, placing a bet here and there. I have no expectation of winning anything tonight, considering the net worth of the room’s inhabitants. Eventually, we wander back to our table, and as the evening begins, there is one chair unfilled.
Amélie’s.
Dinner is served, candelabra’s burn, crystal gleams and china chinks. And of course, champagne bubbles and flows. The conversation is mostly in French, though the man to my left, an elderly industrialist I’m told, involves me in conversation lots. Ben sits at the far side of the table, remote but friendly, I suppose. I guess I should be pleased he hasn’t tried to cultivate a friendship between us, given what happened in Wolf Tower that day.
Remy introduces me as his girlfriend throughout the evening, translating for me where he can in French, Monegasque, and Italian. The show-off. And even more surprisingly, his mother makes a point of apologising for the misunderstanding with the table placements. Albeit in a cool way.
All in all, I’m having a good night, especially as Amélie’s chair remains unfilled.
‘It must cost a fortune to run an event like this,’ I muse as my glass is filled with once again. The remains of our sumptuous dinner have been cleared and people have begun to drift away to speak with other friends or join in the casino games being run in adjoining rooms.
‘Yes, it’s very expensive, as I understand it. It’s largely my mother’s concern.’
‘What does it cost to get a seat at one of these tables?’
‘Four thousand euros,’ Remy answers without missing a beat.
‘What?’ I almost choke on my bubbles. ‘Wow. Why don’t people just donate to the foundation—cut out the middleman?’
‘Then they don’t get to be seen doing good, decked out in their finery and quaffing champagne.’
‘Rich people are weird.’
‘Does that include me?’ he asks, full of good humour.
‘No, honey.’ I press my lips to his cheeks. ‘You’re so rich you passed by weird a long while ago. You get to be classified as eccentric.’
‘Lucky me.’ After another halting conversation with the little old man industrialist, I turn to Remy’s voice once again. ‘Do you dance?’
‘What, you mean like that?’ I tip my glass in the direction of the couples waltzing very properly around the room, the orchestra now playing The Second Waltz, if I’m not mistaken.
‘There will be other dances later in the night, if you’d like. Though I’d hoped we’d be home by that point.’
‘Doing the no-pants dance?’ He shakes his head indulgently as I add, ‘I can dance, and I can dance.’ My words are heavy with a comic kind of meaning. ‘One I learned in a class. The other . . .’
‘Yes?’ he asks, his lips wrapped in some semblance of a smile.
‘Probably underneath the bleachers,’ I admit. ‘But not with the math teacher.’
‘Not everyone learns to dance these days.’
‘No, some of us just stumble our way through it and hope we get better at it each time.’
‘I was talking about actual dancing.’
I begin to giggle, so much so, my cheeks begin to sting. ‘I guess not everyone’s mother forced them into a summer of cotillion classes in the seventh grade. God, I hated every minute of it,’ I confess. ‘The dress. The shoes. The stuffy atmosphere. But, yes, I learned to dance. What about you?’
‘Also at school.’ He scratches his head with his forefinger, his eyebrows riding high. He seems bashful, almost. It’s a look I like on him.
‘Are you going to tell me she was very thorough?’
‘I wasn’t about to say a word.’
‘She should’ve stuck to teaching math. Maybe you should ask me to dance,’ I add. ‘On the floor, I mean. Here.’
‘You’re giving in far too easily for me.’ He narrows his gaze playfully.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘With you, it’s almost as though your opposition is a pleasure all of its own.’
‘Then Remy Durrand, I will never dance with you.’
‘Never?’
‘Waltz,’ I qualify, because I’m not giving up the other kind. ‘Unless you ask. Nicely.’
To my amusement, though mostly my delight, he pushes back his chair and doffs a courtly bow as he addresses me. ‘Miss Ryan, would you please honour me with this dance?’
‘I’d be delighted,’ I reply, beaming as I place my hand in his.
‘And if you’d be so kind to permit me, I’d like to fill your dance card later. And by dance card, I mean—’
‘I know exactly what you mean.’
As the orchestra strikes the first chords of It Had to Be You, Remy rests his hands in places I’m sure Miss Pierce, leader of the cotillion class, would never have stood for. And as he leads us smoothly into the moving throng, I’m certain his touch is the only thing that grounds me.
We dance and we dance, until my heart is light and I’m breathlessly giggling.
‘What’s so amusing,’ he asks as he leads me back to our table.
‘I was just thinking of that saying. Dancing is the vertical expression of a horizontal desire.’
‘That’s just what I need to hear when I’m about to ask my mother to dance.’
‘You’re a good son.’ I angle my head to look up at him. ‘Besides, the waltz is a perfectly proper dance. No one watching you move so elegantly would ever guess what a beast you are in the bedroom.’
‘Beast?’
‘Totally in a good way. You’re safe to dance with your mom.’
And it does my heart good to see her smile up at him as he offers her his hand. It also makes my pulse skitter as, on the way to the dancefloor, he glances back, sending me a smouldering look.
I thank the waiter as he fills my champagne flute and ask him for water for the table, before flicking open my purse and pulling out my tiny compact for a quick makeup check. As
I sense someone behind me, I shift very slightly to the left, assuming it’s the waiter with a fresh carafe when something gold flickers in my mirror.
My spirits sink just a little and I slide my compact away. As my attention lifts, I come face to face with Amélie as she lowers herself into Josephine’s chair.
She’s a vision in gold, her dress covering every inch of her lithe body, clinging to her like a second skin from her neck to her wrists, where a diamond sparkles on the fourth finger of her left hand.
Deluded bitch.
Actually, I revise my first impressions. She looks like an Oscar statuette.
For the porn industry.
A brunette fills Remy’s seat, a blond sitting in the chair next to Amélie. I guess what we have here is the high school bully and her slightly drunken posse.
‘I don’t believe we’ve been introduced formally,’ she purrs, her mouth more pout than smile.
‘No, I don’t believe we have,’ I reply placidly. ‘I also don’t believe we need to be.’
Her blonde friend at the other side of her rattles off something fast and French under her breath, but I get the general gist.
‘I don’t know whether you know,’ I say, addressing the blonde, but Américain stupide pretty much stands on its own in English.’
Now who’s the dumb bitch?
Go ahead, glare all you want. I don’t give a flying fuck . . .
‘What a gorgeous dress.’ Amélie’s comment is seems sincere, but she’s not finished yet. ‘And such an improvement on the one you were looking at in Deuxième Amour.’ I find myself frowning as she turns her head over her shoulder, addressing her friend. ‘That’s the place in Monaco-Ville I was telling you about, Colette. Second Love, it’s called in English. The store that sells used designer wear.’
My skin prickles as her attention returns, this time with a sneer.
‘I don’t know why you’re looking so superior. You were obviously in the same place as I was.’ Apparently. Though I don’t recall seeing her.
‘Yes, but she was dropping off,’ her bitch of a friend replies on her behalf. ‘She wasn’t thinking of buying other people’s used clothes.’ She says used clothes as though I was trawling the bargain bins for something in the colour herpes.
‘I donate the resale value to charity,’ Amélie adds with careless shrug.
Sure. And I sell smack to kids at the local playground.
‘Well, bless your heart,’ I say, going all Southern on her skinny butt. ‘I guess that’s easy to do when you’re buying the stuff with someone else’s credit card.’
‘Yes, it is nice,’ she purrs. ‘And I’m sure Remy doesn’t mind picking up the cost.’ Her hand coasts down the long line of her sleeve from shoulder to wrist. ‘Especially when he gets to rip those clothes off me any time he wishes.’
‘Bat. Shit. Crazy,’ I mutter under my breath.
‘What did you say?’
‘I said your parents must be so proud.’ I pick up my glass, despite telling myself I’d take it easy on the stuff, but when you’re swimming with sharks you do what you can to not act like chum. Taking a decorous sip, I set it back down. ‘Well, apart from the fact you weren’t able to seal the deal with him, so there’s very little chance of him ripping anything off you. Except maybe that fancy black credit card out of your cold grasping hand.’ I throw in a tiny shrug, kind of oops, sorry. Not!
‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’
I sigh, allowing my gaze to roam over her. ‘I know you just don’t have what it takes.’
‘Encule toi Salaud,’ she spits. Basically, fuck you, bitch.
‘Well, I tell you, Emily,’ I say, getting a kick out of her ripple of indignation. ‘The way I see it, I am the only bitch between the pair of us that is getting fucked. By Remy at least.’
Leaning across the brunette between us she makes as though to grab my hand, her words low and furious and in French and really not making a lot of sense.
‘He will tire of you, you are vulgaire. Cheap! You have novelty value only. You want him for his money—the house and the jet. The dress that you wear! But he will come back to me.’
‘I guess that’s where our opinions differ. The fact that Remy is rich doesn’t interest me,’ I reply, sliding out of my chair. I’m so serene and so cool and proud of the way I’m handling myself, because what I really want to say is, bitch, please; I don’t live in no house. I live in a chateau! ‘The fact he’s hung like a horse and fucks me like the energizer bunny however, does.’
So that wasn’t exactly serene or cool and worse, as I turn, I find myself face-to-face with Remy’s mother. Her hazel eyes as wide as saucers while, behind her, Everett looks like he’s about to explode. With laughter.
‘I’m sorry you had to hear that, Josephine.’ I tilt my chin a fraction higher than its been all evening. ‘But it’s true. Or at least it was in the beginning. I also happen to love him. And sure, the house is very nice, and it keeps the mystery somewhat alive that I don’t have to wash his sweaty gym gear or his underwear, but I know I’d love him as much if we were living in a hovel. I’d just have to teach him to do his own laundry, I guess.’
With a nod in her direction, and though I may live to regret it, I take the arm that Everett offers.
‘Did you see her face? That was fucking hilarious, Rose.’
‘Stop. A compliment and you used my name. Are you trying to kill me?’ I keep my eyes straight ahead because if I look at him, I might be tempted to sneak a peek at the table behind us, and I’m not sure that will do me any good.
‘What happened to Remy?’
‘He was waylaid by one of the journalists from Le Monde. Publicity for a good cause and all that.’
‘Okay, so where are we going?’ I ask still tottering alongside him.
‘We’re going to dance. I reckon one quick spin around the dancefloor and the Weird Sisters will have pissed off elsewhere.’
‘The Weird Sisters?’
‘You know, double, double, toil and trouble. Fire burn and cauldron bubble. Get a black Amex card, then firm and good is the charm.’
‘Pretty sure those weren’t Shakespeare’s words. Anyway, I thought you were working tonight.’
‘I’m working it.’
‘Ha. Not with me, you’re not.’
‘Nah, you’re the job. At least until lover boy gets back.’
‘Does that mean I get to boss you around?’
‘Nope.’ At the edge of the dance floor, his hands move into the proper position; right hand at my back, his left resting on my shoulder, very unlike Remy’s earlier grip
‘Ooh. Someone knows how to dance,’ I tease as we join the revellers on the dance floor.
‘The army teaches a man many things.’ As I open my mouth to speak, he adds, ‘And most of them unfit for discussion in polite company, Heidi, so don’t ask.’
Urgh! And back to Heidi again. ‘It’s the braids, right?’
‘Something like that.’
‘You know, you’re like the kid in grade school who annoys because he doesn’t have the emotional maturity to say he likes a person.’ Oh my God, the man’s face is priceless as he glowers down at me. ‘That was a joke, Everett, not a dick. No need to take it so hard.’
On the downside, he doesn’t speak to me again once—not for the whole song. And as I’m deposited back to the table, or rather dumped, Remy still isn’t back.
‘Journalists,’ his mother offers with a shrug, breaking her conversation with the man to her right. ‘They can be so demanding. I’m sure he won’t be too much longer.’ She smiles kindly before returning to her tête-à-tête, leaving me to check my phone, as a girl does to fill in the time.
Since I last checked, I’ve received a text from an unknown number. There’s a video file attached. My thumb hovers over the file as I debate the merits of playing versus pressing delete, knowing in my heart and in my head that no good can come from pressing play.
A corrupted file?
A ruined phone?
It’s not enough that curiosity killed the cat as I press play anyway.
45
Rose
I take a sip of my drink and use the napkin it was served with to catch a tear at the corner of my eye, hating myself a little more as I hit play for the second time. Out here, in the hotel cocktail bar, Ella Fitzgerald croons quietly from concealed speakers about the wayward ways of a wayward town where love is bought and sold.
Love that’s lightly spoiled, she sings.
It’s something that sounds painfully familiar right now.
I turn up the sound on my phone, angling my body in such a way no one could mistake my desire to be left alone. Left alone to watch and listen this time.
The screen fills with the image of Remy’s bedroom; the one at the penthouse, which is strange enough, but not quite as strange as the sight of Amélie standing at the end of the bed in nothing but her underwear. A lace balconette bra, her long legs encased in matching black stockings. The tiny triangle of her panties. Probably a thong. A wine glass dangles from her hand, her expression one of extreme self-satisfaction.
The sound of the door pushing open.
Footsteps on the hardwood floor.
Her smile as Remy says her name, his tone low and husky.
His shirt is open, the ladder of his abs ripple in the light as he turns and sets down his own wine glass, his own expression giving nothing away as he watches her cross her legs at the ankle, cocking one hip. She drapes her arm across her body, all long legs and lithe beauty.
The sound cuts out, replaced by the hum of static, though her mouth moves as she lifts the glass to her lips, eyeing him expectantly over the rim.
She nods gracefully, probably in response to something he says.
Come closer.
I’ve missed you.
Take your panties off.
Get on your knees.
Let’s fuck.
My mind swims with a dozen suggestions, a dozen more answers as she struts across the room to him.
Just once more.
Once more to add to the total
