Liar Liar

‘Yep. We get dropped off at the employee entrance to Hôtel de Loup, the group head office is housed in the nearby residence tower.’

‘I don’t know what that is.’

‘You’ve never heard of Wolf Tower?’

‘Can’t say that I have.’

‘Wolf Tower as in Wolf industries?

I shake my head, one shoulder rising and falling in a half-assed shrug.

‘Loup being wolf,’ she adds with an indulgent smile.

‘Oh, so we work for Wolf Industries—Industries de Loup?’

‘Exactly!’

‘And Wolf Hotel and Wolf Tower are owned by the same company?’ Fee nods again. ‘These wolfs, I mean wolves, aren’t very imaginative.’ What’s next? Wolf Beach? Wolf Mall? Wolf FroYo?

‘So I guess you don’t know that Wolf Tower is the tallest building in Monaco, as well as one of the most expensive places to live, given that it’s within minutes of the Place du Casino and the port?’

‘And the Place du Casino is . . . ?’

‘Just the most iconic place in Monaco.’ Her words waver with amusement.

‘And the port is where the rich keep their toy boats.’

‘Something like that.’ This time, she can’t hold her amusement back. ‘Million-dollar toys.’

‘Huh. Look at that, I’m learning already.’ I’m sure I’ll be learning more than just one thing new every day while I’m here.

‘Wolf Industries is the biggest player in property development out here. They say the business has doubled in the last couple of years alone. I mean, there’s the market for it. There is just so much wealth. Monaco is a little mad at first glance. Just take a look at the cars. Every second one that passes is a Bentley, Ferrari, or a Maserati.’

‘Well, they can throw a little of that wealth my way. I won’t complain.’

‘Oh, most of us aren’t going to get rich here, unless we snag a wealthy husband or something. Unfortunately, we’re here to cater to the whims of the rich and powerful. Or, in my case, to make the bums of the rich and powerful not jiggle quite so much.’

‘A fat ass is about the only thing I have in common with these people.’

‘I’ve got to drop something off at reception this morning. I’ll walk in with you, if you like?’

‘That’d be great.’ My usual go-to or immediate response would be a polite refusal, though it would come from a sense of independence and stubbornness rather than frostiness, but I recognise that not only would her company be helpful, it would also be welcome. I need to start making friends, and Fee seems like the ideal candidate.

I’m grateful for the air-conditioning in the little bus as the sun streams in through the window, heating the side of my face. Conversation flows freely between the two of us, occasionally interrupted by our fellow travellers, not that I understand them, of course.

‘They’re complaining about the journey time,’ Fee says as a dark-haired young man bursts into a voluble explosion of French. ‘It usually takes us around forty minutes to get from the apartments in Nice to work, but there are roadworks going west so we have to take the coastal road.’

‘Touristes!’ another complains from behind us.

‘This is the touristy route, huh?’

She nods. ‘But it’s a much nicer view, at least. And a good start to your first day at work.’

And she is right. The view is pretty special. Narrow streets lined with towering palm trees widen to stretches of road with views across the Mediterranean. To the left lies a mountain range, the very top of which is capped by snowy white clouds, even on a sunny blue-skied morning such as this. Through a tunnel and the urban sprawl starts to thicken, signalling we’re drawing closer. As we travel, Fee confirms that the company owns several hotels in the tiny principality alone, all catering to an elite clientele. She also says that many of the billion-dollar construction projects in the country belong to Wolf Industries. It seems they’re expanding their properties and holdings, not only in the Côte d’Azure area but also worldwide.

Chatter from our fellow travellers is subdued, and though Fee is a good companion, I begin to feel more and more tense the closer we draw to the hotel. Before I can say sacré bleu, we’re there, and Fee is leaving me in the vast glass and sparkling quartz foyer, a space so bright I almost feel like I need to wear sunglasses.

An attractive twenty-something receptionist smiles, then begins speaking to me in French.

‘Pardon. Je ne parle pas Francais,’ I begin haltingly as I explain I don’t speak French. ‘My name is Róisín Ryan. I was told to report to reception this morning?’

She nods as she taps away on a keyboard I can’t see. I suddenly feel prickly and hot, and I’m so caught up in how silly and inadequate I feel at my lack of French that I almost miss the lanyard and badge she issues me.