Liar Liar

I guess it must be for a meeting somewhere.

‘Vite!’ I drop the cloth quickly, startled by the chef’s bellow from the other side of the gleaming kitchen. ‘You are late. Take the envelope. Use the service élévateur.’

With a nod, I pick up the printed directions and wheel the trolley out, tout de suit. What is it about men who cook? The short-order guy at the Pussy Cat was also an asshole. If they don’t like their jobs, they should find something else to do.

I use the smart key in the envelope to access the lift, pressing the button for the forty-seventh floor. I use the key again at the door to the room, though it’s not quite the room I was expecting. It’s not a meeting room. At least, not the kind with a smartboard, or a table and chairs, but rather an apartment. More to the point, the penthouse—it’s so large and so stylish it makes my new place look like a broom closet!

‘Hello?’ My voice echoes in the cavernous space as I linger in the entryway. ‘Hello?’ I pinch my lips together to resist adding ‘housekeeping!’

Who the hell gives a stranger a key to their home? I wonder, glancing once again at the printed instructions, then again at the open door.

Seems I’m in the right place.

‘Hell.’ The wheels of the trolley squeak as I wheel it across the onyx marble floor, glancing around as I wonder where I’m supposed to set this all out. I start by unloading it onto the twelve-seat dining setting, relocating it to a low coffee table between two modern sofas as the covers come off, and I realise this is an afternoon tea for two, complete with two dainty silver cake stand, which I have to assemble before filling with goodies. Tiny fancy iced cakes and finger sandwiches with the crusts cut off. A chest with a selection of teas; Darjeeling, oolong, lapsang souchong, and a selection of herbal and fruity teas. And champagne.

Once satisfied with the position of the china, silverware, and napery, I wonder what comes next. I mean, I guess I’m supposed to wait. Maybe serve? After standing around for a few minutes, I decide to investigate. Not investigate investigate; I don’t want to be caught rifling through bedroom drawers or anything. But I take a wander around the living space. I gaze at the modern art on the walls, stormy, and sort of masculine. Run my hand over the velvet sofas and leaf through the coffee table books; mostly architectural and art. Then I take a peek at the kitchens, yes, plural; one Calcatta marble and high-end units, the other commercial grade, and probably for the use of the chef. There’s a silk-covered cocktail bar that would look more at home in a fancy hotel, a small library with a pair of very slouchy yet very uncomfortable looking leather chairs. And, no surprise, staff quarters. Two rooms, you know. Just in case you need more than one person to pick up after you.

How the other half do live with their mezzanine floors, which, if I stand on my tiptoes, I can just about see the floor of. Beyond the wall of glass lies a resort-style pool area with loungers and a table setting or two, plus an inviting infinity-edge pool, providing views to the horizon, I’ll bet.

Back in the living area, I poke one of the dainty sandwiches, wondering how long before the bread starts to curl. Dipping forward, I inhale the delicious aromas; the almond marzipan coating the petit fours, the zesty lemon iced cakes, and the glaze of chocolate on the tiny cream-filled eclairs. My stomach rumbles, and I’m tempted to help myself to a piece, my hand hovering over a succulent looking sugar dipped strawberry.

‘Fruit, as if,’ I snigger, popping a pistachio-encrusted chocolate square into my mouth. The burst of flavours is glorious. Butter and chocolate and sugar and nuts and just the best thing I’ve tasted in ages! ‘Oh, my stars,’ I mumble, swallowing it down. Of course, like Noah’s Ark, these treats come in twos. Which means I have to hide the evidence of having already eaten one . . . by eating another one.

Who says crime doesn’t pay? Not me.

‘Ventre affamé n’a point d’oreilles.’

You know that saying, I almost jumped out of my skin? That’s pretty much what I do, my body springing immediately straight, my hand retracting to my hammering heart, but it’s not just the fact that I’ve been busted helping myself, it’s more who I’ve been busted by.

‘Jesus, Remy! You scared the tar out of me.’ I press my hand to my chest, the sensation beneath my palm like runaway hooves. Only, I’m not sure it’s entirely shock. It’s almost as though my body remembers his.

‘Désolé.’ I’m sorry. ‘I thought you heard me come in.’