Liar Liar

‘But this time, it won’t end the same way.’ No, ma Rose. Not this time because . . .

‘No, this time, it ends in Charles losing his job.’

‘No!’

‘I can’t condone indiscretion.’

‘That’s rich coming from you.’

‘Heavy is the head that wears the crown,’ I murmur sadly, dragging my fingertips from her knees to her hip, two pairs of eyes watching them traverse.

‘You can’t fire him. Not because of me.’

‘I think you’ll find I can. Misconduct is misconduct, after all.’

‘Don’t be a hypocrite.’ Her laughter is hard as she stills my hand.

‘We can’t help being the things we were born to me.’ Blood will out and all that.

‘Remy, don’t.’

‘But this is who I am. What I do. How can I expect to be different without you?’

‘Oh, so it’s emotional blackmail now?’

‘No. Not just emotional blackmail.’

‘I don’t know what you mean?’ She looks wary. She should be.

‘You don’t want Charles to lose his job, but what I’m wondering is, what is it worth to you?’

‘What?’ Was it shock, horror, or perhaps a little excitement that crossed her face?

‘You heard me. What is my discretion worth to you, Rose?’

‘What do you want?’ she asks suspiciously, pressing her palm to my chest, stilling my descent.

‘I want you to understand how much I miss you.’ With her hand trapped between us, my lips coast the shell of her ear. ‘It takes all of my willpower not to kiss you.’

‘You can’t fire him,’ she asserts, turning her head. ‘Or if you do, you’ll have to fire me, too.’

‘I think HR will disagree.’ Especially when I tell them to.

‘Not when they find out I lied on my resumé.’

I know, I almost answer, awaiting her confession, as something inside me cracks, cool and sweet like a watermelon. I don’t deserve her, I know. This woman who is good and kind and honest and true—everything I don’t deserve. I’m having her anyway. I just need to persuade her that she needs me, too.

‘I didn’t work in a restaurant in San Francisco. I worked at a strip club. I got this job under false pretences, so if you want to fire anyone, go ahead and fire me.’

‘How about I just kiss you instead?’

I hadn’t meant to but find myself dragging her against my chest, banding my arms at her back as though she’d escape. She could try, I suppose.

‘I worked at a strip club. Are you listening to me?’ She shoves at my shoulders, and I pull back with a reluctance I feel in my bones.

‘I heard you, and I don’t care where you have worked or where you have come from, or even why you are here. You’re not going anywhere because you mean everything to me.’

She shakes her head as though refusing to intuit my words. ‘I can’t trust what you say. Not when you’ve lied to me.’

‘So, we make a good pair. I’m a liar, and you’re a thief.’ Her shocked expression is almost comical though the fun quickly dissipates

Never give anyone power over you. Don’t offer love. My father’s words rise as though from the grave. As though I’d ever listen to him.

‘You’re a thief because you’ve stolen my heart.’

29

Rose

‘Well, that’s not gonna work.’ I put my iPad down on the sofa without logging out of my banking app, then yank out my employment contract from under it. ‘Dammit. I need to learn to read the small print.’

Small print like he loves you and wants you to stay.

I swallow the thought, push it down and stamp on it, but it floats to the top anyway.

Maybe it’s Monaco I shouldn’t want to leave because to do so would mean going back to clipping coupons and slapping away wandering hands. To cold winter winds and wearing outdoor clothes to bed just to keep warm.

I flip over the paper to examine the rows of numbers I’ve scribbled in an attempt to understand my finances. I shouldn’t stay, but I must. I should leave, but I can’t. At least, not yet. Because it costs too much. If I leave before the end of my probation period, I have to pay not only for my return flight—my repatriation—but also for my original flight out. There’s also a daily charge for my accommodation I’ll accrue if I leave before then. And it gets better; my probation period is six months.

Six months!

My little row of figures confirms what I already know. I’m going to be here for at least that long. Here, working out of the same building as Remy, maybe even still living here. Maybe there’s a chance I’ll be able to get a transfer to one of the hotels on the Riviera, or even just move back to one of the little studio apartments in Nice. Because the more I’m around him, the closer I am to my resolve dissolving like the sugar in a hot drink. It’s been two weeks, and every day gets a little harder. Every day I get closer to breaking down. To giving in. To admitting I feel the same way about him.