Liar Liar

‘Bienvenue, Mademoiselle Ryan. Welcome to Wolf Industries.’

As she slides the badge across the expanse of quartz, I note how it reads Visiteur. It almost seems like a bad omen, one quickly pushed to the side as another employee introduces herself.

‘Bonjour. I am Alice.’ There are so many more syllables in her name than regular old Alice. Al-ee-sss. ‘Please, come this way.’

I follow the tap of her heels to the bank of shining elevators.

‘That’s a very pretty scarf. Do all the staff wear them?’ I gesture to the blue and white striped scarf around the woman’s neck, noting how the receptionist was also wearing one. Along with a pale fitted shift dress, nude pumps, and a stylish chignon, there’s something very “uniform” about their look.

Or maybe cloned.

‘Oui,’ she answers happily. ‘It is not, ’ow you say, compulsory but it is encouraged.’ Wow. So many syllables in that last word. ‘This is the company logo, see?’ She fans the edges to show the stripes are actually a row of W’s and I’s intertwined.

‘It’s très chic.’ Argh! I’m such a dork.

Alice smiles indulgently, and as that’s about the extent of my French fashion commentary, I step in silently behind her when the elevator doors open. I suppose the scarf must be handy for hiding hickeys, if you’re lucky enough to be getting some. But other than that, I feel kind of dowdy standing next to her corporate self. My hair is braided loosely, and I’d chosen to wear my sand-coloured shirt dress and strappy heels. Earlier this morning, I thought I’d looked a little business and a little bohemian, but as I glance down, I realise my dress now resembles a burlap sack.

Linen and bus rides don’t make good partners.

The elevator doors open, and I follow her out and along the marble hallway, the joint click of our heels echoing through the space. But then a door slams somewhere nearby, the loud crack making me jump. I tighten the grip on my purse as a man begins to shout, his anger apparent even to someone who doesn’t speak the language.

Some lessons are a little hard to unlearn.

‘Il a l’air furieux.’ The woman in front turns her head over her shoulder, shooting me a cautious smile. ‘He sounds furious, no? Do not worry. He is not always in a bad mood.’

‘Who isn’t? I mean, who is it?’ I trot a little to catch up with her. Despite working in a strip joint, heels are not my go-to footwear. Slow and sedate is the only way I can move in them.

‘Monsieur Durrand, the CEO.’

A fist squeezes around my heart. His name was Durrant not Durrand, I remind myself, not sure if I’m self-soothing or commiserating.

‘You won’t see him too often,’ she continues. ‘Though I expect you will remember the first time you do.’

‘Because he’s so terrible?’ I try to keep the derision from my voice. Working within these shiny walls can’t be as bad as working in a grimy strip club, where hands wander places they shouldn’t, and the soles of your shoes stick to a beer-stained floor. If I can put up with that shit, I can put up with anything.

‘Non.’ The word is more tinkling laugh than anything else. ‘That is not it.’

Fine, you be all enigmatic. I don’t reply. See if I care.

I guess she must read my expression as she then offers, ‘Le petit loup, how you say, his bark is worse than his bite.’

Le petit loup? The small wolf? It’s not exactly a recommendation of the shouting asshole, but something is making her smile. Maybe she’s one of those girls who thinks any kind of attention is good. I don’t ponder it for long as the shouting gets louder and more distinct. Someone is definitely being ripped a new one, and what’s more, the dressing down has switched to English.

Another door slams and, all of a sudden, a man appears in front, heading in the opposite direction. There’s nothing little about him, which makes me think that Alice means something else. Something a little more personal, like a pet name. Maybe that’s why she’s smiling. Maybe she’s been banging the boss’s little loup.

The one he keeps in his pants, I mean.

I rein in my runaway brain as the man draws closer. Head down, focussed on his phone, there’s something familiar about him. Which is stupid, I know. Unless he’s been near The Pink Pussy Cat in San Fran lately.

As if, my brain supplies. The Pussy Cat is a million miles away, figuratively and almost literally. It’s more spit and sawdust than champagne. Yet something continues to poke at me, tugging the very edge of my attention even as I try very hard not to look at him.

‘Bonjour, Monsieur Durrand,’ the women next to me murmurs deferentially.

The asshole doesn’t look up.

And the second squeeze of my heart is just as strange, only this time, the fist seems to catapult that muscle to the pit of my stomach, bringing me to a stop at the same moment his shoulder almost brushes mine.