Liar Liar

Consider it booked.

Or else I might consider joining the unemployment lines. At least, according to Olga, head of the concierge department.

Speaking of which.

‘Charles, you already see to the Petrov’s dog?’ The woman herself strides into the office in her skyscraper heels. And what a delight she is. She never smiles, probably because her lips have so much filler, she can barely close her duck bill, I mean, mouth. Which I suppose is efficient because she never stops complaining—usually about me. I don’t know why, but I am not her favourite person, yet I have no idea what I’ve done to deserve her ire. Although, come to think of it, yesterday she was slightly less caustic after lunch. She must’ve had champagne with her food. Or maybe edibles.

‘I engagé a new dog walker.’ Charles doesn’t move his attention from his computer screen. ‘A male dogwalker,’ he adds meaningfully. ‘Per’aps Alexi can keep on the trousers this time.’ The latter he adds in an undertone.

‘It is not for the likes of you to comment on how our clients spend their time.’ Someone ought to explain to Olga that Ice Blonde is just a hair colour, not a personality type. I’ll bet she was really pretty once, before the intervention of Botox, fillers, and silicone. Other than the flotation devices disguised as breasts, she’s tall and willowy and looks like she’d snap in a strong wind. But her appearance belies a caustic tongue and a will of steel.

‘Wasn’t she paid to walk the dog, not run around the kitchen island fighting the owner off?’ I ask, referring to the highpoint of last Friday afternoon. A distressed dogwalker and the millionaire Russian pervert—excuse me—businessman who both descended to the concierge desk, one in a dreadful panic, the other bullish. ‘I think he’s lucky she didn’t call the police, oligarch or not.’

‘That would not happen at the Tower. At Wolf Tower—’

‘Discretion is everything.’ Neither me nor Charles is enthusiastic in our recital of the concierge dogma.

‘Bon.’ With a decisive nod, she turns to her own office leaving her minions to run the show. ‘I forgot.’ She pauses at the doorway without bothering to fully turn, her hand on the frame. ‘L’hôtel requires assistance in the catering department this afternoon.’ Her smile is a touch malicious as she adds, ‘I have told them that you will help, Rose. I believe you have experience waiting tables.’

Anger burns like acid in my veins immediately. She’s been digging through my resumé and googling my previous places of work? But then I remember I’d listed waitressing as one of my duties while working at Riposo Estates in Australia, Byron and Amber’s place, along with a very vague description of my duties at my last job.

If she thinks she can embarrass me, the woman needs to think again.

‘Waitressing? Sure, I have experience. I can work a function like nobody’s business, from casual drinks to silver service good enough for a queen. Hell, I can even do it in heels and booty shorts,’ I retort with a slap to my ass.

‘Cherié,’ Charles sniggers as Olga’s office door slams, ‘you have, ’ow you say, pissed on her fireworks.’

‘I tell you, Charlie, I thought about adding in a slut drop, but I was worried I’d rip my pants.’ I twist at the waist, trying to get a better look at my butt. ‘They’re a little tight. I’d better lay off the croissants.’

‘Pfft! You eat like a bird.’

‘Yeah, Big Bird.’

‘And I don’t like Charlie,’ he says, pronouncing it, surprise surprise, as Sharlie, which sounds kind of silly.

‘Hey, but does this happen often? Being called to the hotel, I mean?’

‘Non. But waiting tables might be better than dealing with Alexi when he finds out his new dog walker is an amateur boxer.’

17

Rose

It’s not until I’m making my way across to the hotel, and my stomach starts to fizz that I consider I might somehow cross paths with Remy. And if I do, how would I greet him? How would he greet me? Would he ignore me after what passed between us last week? Could I be civil to him knowing just a few days ago he had his hand in my panties? My nipple in his mouth? No, probably not. Not when my head tells me I need to stay away from him. Against the better judgment of my body.

I’m directed to the kitchens, though they aren’t in need of a waitress and have no idea what I’m talking about, even after finding someone who speaks my language perfectly. Calls are made as I wait, and I’m eventually directed back to Wolf Tower to report to the kitchen there. Who knew there was a commercial kitchen there, too.

When I finally find where I’m going, I’m chastised by the chef for being late, I think. One of the few perks of not being proficient in the language. I’m then pointed to a room service cart covered with a white starched cloth. As he returns his attentions to his minions, I take a peek under the cloth to find a prettily printed china tea service, dishes covered with silver tops, and on the bottom shelf, a hot water urn along with a bottle of champagne in a silver bucket.