Liar Liar

‘Brains and eggs?’ Fee’s nose wrinkles.

‘Best not to ask.’

‘I wasn’t going to. But I was going to say it’s obvious he wants to make amends.’

‘By ordering me to jump when he says so?’

‘By getting you in the same room in the hope of making you remember the things you like about him.’

‘Comme sa bite.’ Like his dick. As Charles titters, Fee frowns across at him.

‘He does order two of everything,’ I say, refusing to be drawn. ‘And insists I stay with him.’ The first day, I refused to even sit down. He might’ve blocked out my time with Olga, but I didn’t have to sit or eat. Or even talk. By the third day, it became clear he was intent on wearing me down so I decided I’d sit and eat my sandwich, because you don’t make friends with salad, while just ignoring him. But even that didn’t last long because the man is infuriating. He seems to take a perverse kind of pleasure in goading me.

‘I think that’s sweet,’ Fee coos. I’m sure she wouldn’t say so if she knew exactly what he’d hidden from me. But telling her serves no one, least of all me. ‘But do you want to see him?’

‘I don’t know. It’s complicated.’ I get butterflies still when I’m on my way to see him, but then I remind myself of his lies, and the butterflies turn to pterodactyls that swoop and gnaw at my insides. When he’s not in front of me, he’s easier to hate. Okay, dislike strongly. And I think he knows that, or why else would he call me to his office multiple times a day?

‘You were out for a long time yesterday,’ Charles remarks, bringing my attention back.

‘Yeah, his tailor was there. He wanted me to help him pick cloth for a bespoke suit or four. I suggested the green tartan but changed my mind at the last minute when he’d said if that’s what I liked, then he’d order three. He’d probably wear them, too.’

‘That is love,’ he says through a wistful sigh. ‘For I would not look ugly for anyone.’

I’ve had worse afternoons. I got to spend it ogling his broad shoulders and solid thighs while pretending not to be interested in his innuendo and wicked half-smiles. We kept the arguing to a minimum for the sake of Monsieur Veilleux, the elderly white-haired tailor. Which basically means Remy behaved as he liked, as always, while I refused to be riled. I, Rose Ryan, took the high road. While thinking low thoughts because, when Monsieur Veilleux commented on the increase in the width of Remy’s bicep since his last measurement, he’d glanced over the man’s head, shooting me the most suggestive look as he murmured something to the effect that he might need a little more space in the right sleeve as he anticipated that arm getting more workouts over the coming weeks.

The man has no shame.

At least his right hand isn’t infidelity.

And I’m not going to admit to knowing which side he dresses on, even if Charles asks.

‘Some people have all the luck. While you were watching a beautiful man being touched, I ’ad to add ’z final touches to a birthday party for twelve Pekinese.’

‘That sounds like so much fun,’ giggles Fee.

‘Not when I tell you what the cake is made from.’ His nose wrinkles with distaste as he stands to top up our glasses.

‘Nope, you’ve got that wrong. My job is much worse. I have to look daily into the face of the man I have to remind myself I’m no longer allowed to love. The way things are going, Remy will be calling me to his office next just to pick up his dropped pen.’

‘Yes, and you will bend over, and he will make like this!’ From the other side of the coffee table, Charles thrusts his hips lewdly.

And in a nutshell, that is how the rest of the evening goes.

* * *

‘Rose, before you go . . .’

Week three post-Remy, I pause at the door following lunch number twelve, meeting number twenty-four, by my count, because there have been no accidental meetings in the hallways and mumbled greetings. No awkwardness, not beyond the tailor’s visit, at least.

I let go of the handle and turn as though I’m about to face a firing squad.

Oh, Lord. I know what’s coming. I bite the insides of my lips as I try not to smile.

‘Yes?’

‘I wanted to ask you about this.’ He pulls on a drawer in his desk, reaching deep inside.

I can explain, maybe I ought to say, but I won’t. Because I wouldn’t know where to start. Plus, I wouldn’t be standing here all calm and shit, instead I’d be garbling and red-cheeked because I’ve been dreading this moment since I woke up and realised what I’d done. But it’s been almost three weeks since I placed the order.