Liar Liar

‘Your tan is great,’ I tell her, taking in the golden glow of her arms as they retract.

She looks down, then holds her arm against mine to compare. I’m olive skinned while Fee is fair, though after spending this morning at Larvotto Beach together, we’re both a little tanner than we were. Charles refused to come with us for fear of premature sun-induced wrinkles.

‘I thought for sure I’d be sunburnt after we laid out so long.’ I’m pleased to report I did not. I’d also began topping up my tan last weekend by spending a little bikini time out in Remy’s penthouse pool in the sky. And now I know why the man has no tan lines. And the view. It was good.

‘You looks tres glamorous, my darlings,’ Charles offers with a pout.

‘Well, you look super glamorous, too. And I see you started without me,’ she quips as the waiter arrives with our bottle of Pinot. Before he leaves, she orders herself a vodka tonic.

‘You could have a glass of wine with us,’ I suggest. ‘Especially as you’re our best biche.’

‘Biche? You mean as in doe?’

I nod. ‘Are you impressed? I’m working on expanding my vocabulary.’ Thanks to Remy mostly. ‘Though much of it isn’t appropriate for the ears of polite company.’

‘Then it is a good thing you choose us as your friends.’ Charles inclines his head in the manner of one all-knowing, reaching for his empty glass. ‘We can teach you all the good sex words.’

‘I didn’t say they were sex words. I’ve been learning some pretty good insults, too. You know, so I can mutter them under my breath when one of the residents says he needs to find someone to fill his bath with jellybeans or something equally ridiculous.’

Charles puts down his glass and brings his hands to his shaking head. ‘This has happened to me when I worked in Paris. Worse, I had to pick out the red ones. I never want to work in a ’otel again.’

‘I’ll drink to that,’ Fee agrees. As her vodka hasn’t yet arrived, I reach for the bottle intending to splash a little into the spare glass.

‘No, thank you. I can’t have a wine hangover tomorrow. I’m leading a spinning class at seven a.m.’

‘On Sunday?’ I splutter a little incredulously. ‘First of all, what kind of person exercises on Sunday, and second of all, who the hell is out of bed at that time?’

‘Mon chère, you live in Monaco now,’ drawls Charles.

‘People be cra-zy!’

‘Monaco is the home of the rich and the cra-zy,’ adds Fee.

‘No doubt ’zis class will be full of trophy wives and girlfriends.’ Charles wrinkles his nose in distaste.

‘While that’s not necessarily untrue, I do have some men who attend regularly.’

‘Gay men,’ he asserts, ‘because le cyclisme is good for le buns!’ He lifts a little from his chair, tapping his own ass.

‘The only buns I want to see at seven on Sunday are the kind that are filled with chocolate. Seven a.m.,’ I repeat with a dramatic shiver. ‘No thanks.’

‘I’ve always been an early riser,’ Fee answers mildly, watching as Charles fills our glasses—finally!

This isn’t the sort of restaurant where hovering waiters wear a uniform of black or pristine white aprons, rather it’s a little place off the beaten path where the clientele is mostly Monégasque; those native to Monaco. In other words, the ordinary folk, not the uber-rich. The décor is less fancy and a little more hodgepodge with scarred bistro tables and leatherette booths. The walls are painted magnolia and covered with framed prints and old photographs. There’s a garden seating area outside for those warm summer nights, or for when you don’t mind your hair to growing in volume due to the humidity. Tonight is not one of those nights, and the tables are free of linens, napery arriving in the form of red and white chequered napkins. The food is hearty rather than fancy, the wine mostly French and the beer Belgian, and importantly, all are reasonably priced. In short, I’d recommend!

‘As my dad likes to say,’ Fee continues, ‘the early bird catches the worm.’

‘Ah, but Rose already has a worm in her bed—one that keeps her up all night!’ Charles titters. ‘That is why she is reluctant to get out of bed, n’est-ce pas?’ Right?

‘Really? A worm?’ I echo, though not in the same tone.

‘Non. Not a worm. Plus gros!’ he amends, miming like a fisherman describing the one that got away.

‘You mean a snake,’ Fee adds, raising her glass. ‘Here’s to huge trouser snakes!’

‘I drink to that,’ replies Charles, clinking his glass against hers. ‘And I will buy champagne if Rose tells us about her mystery lover.’ He annunciates the final word ridiculously, all teeth and lips, his lashes fluttering manically.

‘Ah, but then it wouldn’t be a mystery,’ I hedge. ‘And what would we have to talk about in the office, then?’ And by talk, I mean gossip.