Liar Liar

I open my mouth to come clean when the man in the bed reaches for my hand, and a swirl of ink peeks from the sleeve of his hospital gown. He has tattoos? My eyes trace up his arm as I wonder what else he’s hiding under there. As I glance up at him once again, he shoots me the kind of smile that makes blood hum in my veins.

But it’s one thing to have waited around, to let the staff assume, even if my intentions were good. It’s another to continue this charade. Except, he’s alone, and he’s hurt, and I find I can’t abandon him. Especially as I might be partly responsible for him being here.

Concussion by sex toy, and not a headboard in sight.

‘His girlfriend,’ I murmur, almost to myself. And I’m pretty sure he just tried to nod. Though now he’s grimacing.

So, was that a smile yes, or a grimace no?

If I come clean now, I’ll look like an idiot. Or worse still, maybe I could be charged with impostor-ing. Maybe even assault.

‘If you’d prefer, I can contact the interpreter service?’ the doctor prompts.

‘No, that’s okay,’ I find myself answering. Or maybe that should be absolument?

And then the magnitude of my mistake dawns on me; of what I’ve just done.

Not only am I not this hottie’s significant other, but I also don’t speak French.

3

Rose

Merde! Merde on a stick!

I seem to have no issues remembering French curse words.

Fils de pute! Son of a bitch!

My mind rapidly runs through the snippets of French I remember from a week spent in a backpacker’s hostel in Paris, my stupid brain only offering up profanity.

Encule toi, Salaud! Fuck you, bastard!

But what else? There must be other words—phrases? Sensible things to say?

Café au lait, une croissant, un grande vin. Coffee, croissant, and wine; what else does a girl need for a week in Paris?

Casse-toi! Piss off! Now, this I remember came in useful one Saturday night, but it’s not helpful right now.

‘If we could start by asking Remy if he knows what day it is today?’

‘What? Oh, it’s—’ My mind preoccupied, it seems my mouth seeks automatically to answer him.

‘We may know what day it is,’ the doctor replies tolerantly, ‘but we need to know if Remy knows.’

‘Oh. Right. Of course.’

My mind begins to race as I draw closer to the side of the bed. His black leather wallet has been placed on the hospital nightstand, a tired-looking masculine watch lying open across it. I begin to wonder how he’ll pay his hospital bill, given the lack of bank cards. A translating service would only add to the cost, and I don’t want the bill delivered to my mailbox, no matter how pretty he is. The ridiculous thoughts rotate through my head in an attempt to drown out my internal freak-out. Why have I put myself in this position? And now it’s too late to say there’s been some mistake.

Well, here goes nothing.

‘Quelle . . . quelle . . .’ Quelle is the French word for “day”, again? My palms begin to feel sticky, and my heart races. I can’t remember being so nervous since a spelling bee in sixth grade. I feel like I’m on stage again. But then in a blinding flash, the phrase comes to me—another blast from my middle school past.

‘Quelle jour il est!’

‘Quel jour est il?’ the patient repeats in a deep baritone. And with a smirk.

Okay, pretty boy. So your French is better than mine—big whoop.

‘Oui,’ I reply with the hauteur of a Parisienne grande dame, earning me the kind of smile that makes me feel unnecessarily giddy.

‘Dimanche.’ The patient’s eyes flick briefly to the clock on the wall. ‘Non. C’est maintenant Lundi.’

I have no clue what he just said, but if he says it again, I’m climbing in the bed with him, hospital or not. Why does everything said in a French accent sound so sexy?

‘What was his answer?’

I find myself frowning as I glance the doctor’s way. How could I forget he was there?

‘He said yes. I mean, he got it right.’ Hopefully. I think? I turn to face Remy again as I contemplate how I’m barely sure what day it is myself. How is a man with a concussion expected to know in either language? ‘Did the nurse ask him how this happened?’ I enquire carefully, though he’s hardly likely to confess to being felled by a rubber dong. Not that I think I’m wholly responsible for the things that happened to him tonight.

‘He fell from a bike, as I understand.’

That makes sense, I suppose, but—

‘From a bike? Like a bicycle? Or a motorcycle?’

‘I thought he didn’t speak any English?’ The doctor points at Remy, his expression bland.

‘Actually, I was asking you. Last night there wasn’t any kind of bike or any evidence of there being a bike—wreckage or helmet—where I found him.’ Or where he found me, I suppose. As I speak, Remy’s green eyes glitter dangerously, almost as though in recognition. Maybe the word for bike is the same in English, and he’s pissed at it.