Liar Liar

He says he loves me but how can he?

But I’m not going to think about that right now as I make my way into my bedroom to tie up my hair, trailing my fingers over the cashmere throw draped over the bottom of the bed as I pass. A couple of months ago, I wouldn’t have even known it was cashmere without reading the label, but so much has changed since then.

I glance around the room. I’ll probably never get to live anywhere like this ever again. I’ll probably never meet another Remy, but that should feel like a good thing, right? I try to ignore the shiny stack of bags and boxes in the corner of the room; the designer clothes and gifts, also known as items of manipulation. As I tie up my hair, I refuse to indulge in the game of how much money would selling these gifts net and decide that as Charles is still showing up to the office every day, I guess my dramatic parting shot of I’ll never forgive you if you fire him must’ve worked.

For now, at least.

What was even that all about? Was he using Charles as a bargaining chip?

I really don’t know.

Back in the living room, I shove the tablet and paperwork in the drawer of the coffee table as the doorbell buzzes. Speaking of Charles, I’ve invited both him and Fee over because I cannot work another day in that office without answering at least some of Charles’s questions after Remy gave him the hard sell and a grain of truth. I also thought I’d tell Fee, presuming the news hasn’t already reached her. I’ll need all the allies I can get for when people start chanting ho bag as I pass.

‘Bonsoir!’ Charles practically vibrates with anticipation as I open the door. ‘Ça va?’

‘I’ve been better,’ I complain as he presses a kiss to each of my cheeks.

‘Salut.’ Fee is a little more tentative as she pulls me into a hug to accompany her quick Hi.

‘I brought la medicine,’ Charles sings, brandishing a bottle of red.

‘Come on in. Let’s get this over with.’

‘You don’t have to tell us anything.’ Fee tugs on my arm as Charles wanders deeper into the apartment, oohing and ahhing at the space.

‘It’s fine. Better you hear it from the horse’s mouth, I guess.’

A few minutes later, I’m curled at the end of one sofa, Fee and Charles sitting much more primly on the sofa facing me.

‘So.’ I take a long pull of the wine Charles had poured, then set it down. ‘What do you know about the torrid story so far?’

‘Torrid?’ Fee’s gaze slides Charles’s way. ‘He made it sound sweet. Ow!’ She rubs her arm, glancing to the side once more, but this time Charles refuses to meet her gaze.

‘She ’eard nothing from me.’ I imagine my expression tells him I know otherwise. ‘I just tell her you have a rich boyfriend.’ Nose in the air, his gaze makes another inspection of the living room. ‘A very rich boyfriend.’

‘I must say, this is such a beautiful flat.’

‘It is not ’oo you know, but ’oo you blow, n’est-ce pas?’

‘Charles!’ Fee chastises, shocked.

‘I make a joke only!’

‘Cut it out, Charlie, or I’ll dangle you over the balcony. Now, tell me, what do you know?’

‘I only know what ’e told me.’

‘Hang on. Who is he in this instance?’ Fee interjects.

‘The rich boyfriend!’

‘I don’t have a boyfriend, rich or otherwise.’

‘Bon. I will have him then.’

‘Charlie, you really do put the ho in homosexual.’

‘Thank you!’ He sends me a beatific smile.

‘It wasn’t a compliment.’

‘Not to you, per’aps.’

‘Can someone please tell me who this rich boyfriend is?’

‘Remy Durrand,’ he replies with a waggle of his eyebrows.

Fee’s eyes are suddenly the size of dinner plates. ‘Durrand? Not the Remy Durrand?’ Though her eyes dart back and forth between us, I neither confirm nor deny. ‘Oh my . . . wow. Just wow! How? When? But isn’t he engaged?’

‘He was.’ The admission still makes my spine stiffen, but I try to push all that away. He says he didn’t make an adulterer out of me, so if he doesn’t feel bad, why should I? But it goes deeper than that. It wasn’t an oversight that he didn’t tell me; a lie of omission is still a lie.

I pause, picking up my glass because I’ve no intentions of telling them about March, or even how I didn’t know about Amélie. I don’t want to add idiot to ho bag when the gossip machine starts to blacken my name. Stick to the plan, I silently intone. You don’t owe them all the things. ‘Well, you see—’

‘I want to tell!’ Charles claps his hands together like a performing seal, bouncing in his seat. ‘Monsieur Durrand, il m’a confié—he confided in me. I need to say before I burst! Also, the man is not so scary as his reputation.’ He presses a hand to his chest and sighs like a teenage girl with a crush. ‘The words ’e say? Such love ’e feels!’