Liar Liar

An empty bottle of wine.

Two glasses, one of them with lipstick.

Discarded underwear.

Condom wrappers.

A girl still in his bed.

I find none of those things, on the ground floor, at least, and I plan to have a little snoop-de-snoop to discover if what he says is true. Namely, that he is living here and not in the house he shared with her. And he is living here, according to yesterday’s Le Monde newspaper discarded to the dining room table, the bottle of wine on the kitchen counter, along with the singular glass in the dishwasher, and the coffee stain on the fancy machine. They’re all small signs but enough to make me feel oddly gratified as I begin to climb the stairs, halting halfway.

You’re forty-seven floors up. No one is going to see you come.

No one but me.

The aural memory curls around my ear, causing a tiny explosion of fireworks deep in the pit of my belly. I know I’ll be old and grey and in a nursing home and I’ll still remember the way he held me against him. The way he carried me up this staircase as though I’d weighed nothing. I’ll never forget the way he made me feel like a goddess.

I shake away the memory and the sadness that always seems to follow and make my way to his room.

What if he’s here?

Shut up, stupid brain. Also, not helpful and not likely.

What if the room is filled with shiny balloons and rose petals leading to the bed and—

I should not have had that third coffee. Clearly, I’m high on caffeine. I push the door open, smiling to myself as I step inside, knowing that Remy isn’t lying in the centre of his bed with a rose clenched between his teeth.

His bedroom looks exactly the same, little signs of my presence still lying here and there. A hair tie lies on my—his—nightstand, a pair of my shoes placed neatly in the walk-in closet, which solves the weeklong mystery of where I’d put them. The oversized T-shirt I’d wear to bed, for at least the first few minutes, has been laundered since its last wear. Laundered, folded, and placed on top of the pouffe in the centre of his dressing room. Like a reminder, I leave it all there, along with my shoes, a spare toothbrush, my travel-sized moisturiser, and spare deodorant. I can’t bear to move them, and I suddenly realise I can’t bear to be here anymore.

I glance around for the sports bag, ignoring the almost coffin-sized bag sitting on the top of the bed covers. But there isn’t another bag anywhere. I unzip the thing flopping to the bed with a huff. This is it, confirmed by the sports shoes and a mask that resembles a teabag. If I don’t put my back out, I’ll be highly surprised, I decide as I pull on the handle and it hits the floor with a thunk.

It’s a short elevator ride down to the executive floor, not really long enough to prepare but long enough to recognise the fizz of excitement.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I mutter to myself. ‘You are not looking forward to meeting Remy Durrand, the man you thought you were in love with. The man you can’t be in love with. Because that fact would make you an idiot—just look at the size of the bag he’s got you towing around!

And now I can add talking to myself to the list of my lovesick maladies.

Madam Bisset barely raises her gaze from her screen as I stagger in.

‘Let me take that.’ Two sets of arms rush to take the bag from me, but not before I drop it to the floor once again. ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t even consider how heavy it would be.’

‘It’s not heavy. It’s unwieldy. But I managed, as you can see.’

Remy moves it to the sofa before half sitting and half leaning against the long table, the other man taking a chair at the head of it.

‘Rose.’ I love how my name sounds on his lips; the rolling R, the husk in it. I strive to ignore it as he continues with his apologies. ‘How could I have thought to ask you to bring this,’ he asks himself, all self-deprecating good nature. The man is no good for you, I remind myself. Matterless, the words seem to bypass my brain, my response to the sight of him purely visceral. ‘Thank you for saving me the trip. Everett and I are fencing this evening.’

I try not to imagine Remy in those tight, white fencing pants, mainly because there’s a time and a place for those kinds of thoughts. Fencing has to be the ultimate posh-boy sport, or maybe that’s polo. I can also claim to have had one other boyfriend who fenced, though that was more the stolen goods kind. Needless to say, he wasn’t on the scene long.