Security for me has been, up until now, concentrated on securing my estate, my property, and my information, not close personal protection.
Of course, I’m mindful of those who might like to exact revenge for business decisions that have affected them, events that they may deem unjust or unfair. And there have been threats. But no action. And in Monaco, I’ve always felt safe. I’ve required close personal protection only while travelling and only ever as a precaution. But it seems all of that should change.
I have someone now I don’t want to lose.
Someone I would like not to cause any more pain.
Any more pain than I have to.
I close my laptop and look up as I answer, ‘Yes, I think we should.’
43
Rose
‘I got you one of those disgustingly healthy green juice things, and protein bowl.’
I push the door closed with my butt, sliding the key card to Remy’s office into my pocket, my nose almost in the brown paper bag. I’m so hungry my stomach thinks my throat has been cut. ‘I also got you extra chicken,’ I sing, my words heavy with meaning as I smile to myself thinking about what he’d said last night. We were in bed, legs tangled in the sheets and chests still heaving, when he’d made a very un-Remy like comment about his testicles being drained.
‘I figured a little extra zinc might . . .’ My words trail away as I look up and realise not only is Remy not sitting at his desk, but he’s also not alone. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. Miss Bisset wasn’t at her desk.’ I take a step backwards. Abort! Abort! ‘I didn’t realise you were busy. I can just come back later.’
‘Rose.’ Remy stands from the ultra-modern couch setting, gesturing me closer. ‘I don’t believe you’ve met my mother, Josephine.’
Ah. That would be no. And here comes the meeting I’ve been dreading. His mom smiles as she glances my way, but not before I see the particularly eloquent look she gifts Remy. They’ve been talking about me. Oh, boy. That’s a conversation I would not like to hear about.
Here goes nothing.
How did you meet my son, Rose? Well, you see, I scraped him off the pavement in San Francisco. He had a head injury, and I screwed him so hard I think I might’ve made it worse because apparently, he’s in love with me. Crazy, right?
‘No,’ I squeak. ‘I have not had that pleasure.’ I put down the bag containing our lunches, mourning the fact that my chicken pesto wrap will be mush before I get to it. ‘It’s so lovely to finally meet you,’ I positively gush. ‘Remy’s told me so much about you.’
‘You have that advantage over me, my dear,’ she says, proffering a dainty hand. A dainty hand with buff coloured nails and a grip like a WWE wrestler. Her voice, like her person, is very refined. Perfect English with just a tiny inflection of an accent. ‘My darling son has told me nothing about you. In fact, it was only this morning I heard he’d been in the hospital.’
Someone’s in trou-ble!
And for the record, what Remy has told me about his mom I could write on the back of a postage stamp and still have space for my signature.
‘Yes, that was frightening. But I did suggest someone contact you, right?’ My gaze flicks to Remy, his eyes sparkling with mirth. Yeah, I know. Brownie points for Rose. Or maybe brown nose points. ‘But you’re all healed now, right, babe?’ With the exception of those empty testicles, maybe.
‘Yes, absolutely.’ The corner of his mouth hitches, but if he asks me if I’ve seen the movie, I’ll give him a concussion myself. Urgh, babe! Where the heck did that come from?
I make my way to him—strength in numbers, right—and his hand rests against my waist as he kisses each of my cheeks. It’s a very warm yet “dialled down for the audience” kind of greeting before we sit.
‘Remy tells me you’re from Kentucky, Róisín.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ Originally, at any rate. I cross my legs at the ankles and slide them to the side, my hands clasped in my lap. No low-class fidgeting here.
‘Are you any relation to the Kelly family?’
‘Not that I’m aware of.’ Yes, because Kentucky is such a small place that all the people with Irish names are related. Sheesh!
‘That’s a beautiful watch, my dear. Is it Piaget.’
‘This? Yes, it is.’ I clamp my lips together in a closed-lipped smile, resisting the urge to admit the watch was a gift from Remy. It’s almost a compulsion; someone pays me a compliment and I follow it up by telling them where the thing came from, along with the price. Though admittedly it’s usually more along the lines of: you like my skirt? Thanks! It’s from Gap. I got it on sale for twenty bucks. And look, it has pockets!