Liar Liar

‘Men are not so complicated.’

‘Yeah, I’ve heard that, too,’ she replies cynically. ‘You have two settings. Hungry and horny. If you haven’t got a hard-on, I’m supposed to feed you a sandwich, right?’

‘Would you like to know which of those I am now?’

‘Nope,’ she retorts as she reaches for the cheese, plucking then throwing a grape my way with the words, ‘Just in case.’

I’d like to say I suavely caught it, but unfortunately, it glances off my nose, making us both laugh.

‘Thank you, but I’m not hungry. Do you have anything to help the second state?’

‘You mean Pennsylvania?’ Cupping her chin, she props her elbow on the table.

‘That’s a strange word for an erection, but I can go with it. Same with the glittery penis.’

This time, she groans, her hand moving from her chin to cover her eyes. ‘I might’ve been drunk when I ordered that.’

‘And when you hit me with it?’

Her fingers separate as she shoots me a glare. ‘Frightened.’

‘I know. But it’s all been worth it so far, no?’ A quirk of her plush lips is her only answer. ‘Can I show you something?’

‘If it’s hard or purple or sparkling or currently in your pants, then the answer is no.’

‘Take a risk.’ I grasp my glass by the rim and round the table, holding out my hand. ‘Bring your glass, if you’d like.’ My stomach tenses as the tips of her fingers touch mine. Dieu, her dress appears as though it were painted on, like someone took a delicate brush to her skin to detail the intricate swirls of lace. My gaze is drawn to the golden sheen of her toned legs, farther still to her red painted toenails. ‘Rose, are you wearing my shoes?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she answers. ‘My feet are much smaller than yours.’

But she’s smiling. And those sandals with heels the height of the Eiffel Tower are the ones I bought. Which begs the question, what else is she wearing under that dress?

‘I can hear you thinking. Stop it.’

I tuck her hand into the crook of my arm. ‘If you can hear me, the decent thing to do would be to tell me.’

‘It’s impolite to ask a lady about her undergarments,’ she murmurs primly, and through a smile. My laughter resounds through the courtyard.

‘Bon. Let us go into the house.’

We begin in the salon, working our way through the dining room, the small library, and into the family kitchen; the commercial kitchen already being occupied by the catering staff.

‘This is like an entertainer’s dream,’ she says, running her fingertips across a silver vein in the marble as she wanders around the space. ‘I asked you if this place was yours. You didn’t answer.’

‘I know.’ I fold my arms and lean a shoulder against one of the cabinets as I watch her marvel at the place. She liked the library, which she called the den, and the grand staircase. But it’s this room she likes best, I can tell. ‘Do you like it? The house, I mean.’

‘It’s like something out of Cribs.’

‘Pardon?’

‘You know, like MTV. Lives of the rich and fabulous.’

The gaze she slides me over her shoulder can only be defined as provocative. I push away from the cupboards and come up behind her, our bodies almost touching, my lips coasting her ear. ‘I am the rich, you are the fabulous.’

A tremor runs through her, though she tries to hide it by stepping away and raising her glass to her mouth.

‘You didn’t answer.’

‘Yes, of course, I like it,’ she says, turning to face me now.

‘You haven’t seen the upstairs.’ I don’t miss the tiny catch in her throat and the way her eyes darken, though I force myself to turn. ‘This way.’

We pass the cinema room, the entrance to the gym and the indoor pool, none of which I mention as she follows me up the stairs.

‘The tiling looks original.’

‘Yes, most of the features are. It’s unusual in a property as old as this.’

‘This staircase has probably seen a lot of debutantes.’ Brides, too, I almost answer. ‘See how it curves at the bottom?’ she says, tipping her head over the bannister as she points. ‘That’s the kind of place where kisses are stolen.’

‘Well, I missed that.’ Too busy watching her climb the stairs, too engrossed in the flare of her hips and the sinuous arch of her lower back

‘How many lives must these walls have seen.’ The moment is oh, so perfect as she reaches the top of the stairs and turns. ‘Love affairs and heartache and every emotion in between.’

I was going to wait. I fully intended to show her around the upper floors, to tell her the stories my mother told of her childhood. Of how she sat at the top of the stairs listening to music drifting up from the salon, along with the faint scent of my grandfather’s Gauloises cigarettes and the chink of glasses. I was going wait until she’d seen it all. Until I’d explained all. But now I can’t.