LIAR LIAR

by Alam, Donna

  Monday morning—my first real day at work—and the blonde sitting in front of me on the bus turns my way with a smile.

  ‘Bonjour.’

  I hesitate for a moment not because I’m rude but because my mind freezes. I can say bonjour in return, sure, but I don’t want her to start babbling in French, thinking I speak the language or anything.

  ‘Hi,’ I eventually settle on. I’m a scintillating conversationalist, right?

  ‘What did you think of Monaco?’ Thank God, an English speaker! ‘I saw you on the bus on Friday.’ Her accent is British and her expression open and friendly. ‘You must’ve gone to sign the paperwork for your work permit.’

  ‘Yeah, I did.’ After, I had a few hours to kill before being bussed back with the rest of the staff, giving me a little time to explore, not that I went far. ‘I think Monaco is beautiful, though I’m pretty sure I prefer Nice so far.’ I think I’d eventually end up feeling hemmed in, living in a country that’s no bigger than Central Park. ‘To be honest, I’m still trying to process that I’m here.’

  ‘Don’t worry, it takes time,’ she answers kindly. ‘I’m Fee, by the way.’ She points at her name badge on her blue polo shirt which actually reads Fiadh. ‘Ignore this,’ she says, glancing down. ‘No one can ever pronounce it anyway.’

  ‘Fiadah,’ I reply with the correct pronunciation. Fee-ah. I also know it means wild, though she looks anything but wild. Her fair hair is pulled back in a neat ponytail, her complexion peaches and cream. Besides, no one who wears a polo shirt could ever be wild.

  ‘An Irish American?’ she asks, her eyes sparkling.

  ‘Róisín.’ I hold out my hand along with the introduction. Róisín, said Row-sheen, means little rose in Gaelic, so I’m told. I have an equally interesting middle name because I’m what you might call a bit of a mixed bag. Poor Irish Lebanese Kentuckian born little girl. ‘Guilty as charged.’ Second generation Irish, third Lebanese. Culturally confused AF.

  ‘What are the odds!’

  ‘Very slim,’ I reply, chuckling, her delight almost infectious.

  ‘I can tell we’re going to be firm friends.’

  ‘United by our parents’ love of unpronounceable names?’

  ‘Oh, God, never say that in front of my mother. She may have lived in London for thirty years but cut her and her blood will probably run green. Did you grow up hating that no one could ever say your name?’

  ‘Yup,’ I agree emphatically. ‘There are only so many times you can be called raisin without losing it a little. By the time I turned twelve, I refused to answer to anything but Rose.’

  ‘Raisin? That’s hilarious.’

  ‘For at least a hundred times.’

  ‘And after that, it’s just annoying, right?’ I nod. ‘I used to get called Fido a lot myself. Or some bloody awful variation. Fi-dada, Fi-yar-dar. So I put my foot down. Only my parents are allowed to call me anything other than Fee.’

  My mother died when I was a teen, so few people know my real name is Róisín at all. But I don’t mention any of this. Mentioning you’re an orphan, even as an adult, only makes for awkward conversations. Also, my Irish roots aren’t so fierce. Not with a middle name like Samira.

  ‘What do you do at Industries du Loup? Am I saying that right? Du Loup,’ I repeat, trying to inject my voice with a little YouTube taught French flair.

  ‘You don’t speak French?’

  ‘No.’ But by her expression, I’m beginning to think that maybe I should.

  ‘Oh. Okay.’

  You know what kind of “okay” that sounds like? The kind of okay that isn’t okay at all.

  ‘Do you think so?’ I ask, swallowing a little bubble of panic. What if there was a mistake? Maybe they didn’t see my ridiculous video interview at all. ‘I mean, the agent seemed to think so.’ Though I’m pretty sure she’d have sold my soul to the devil to get her hands on the commission. ‘It’s not like I lied on my resumé or anything.’ At least, not about speaking French. ‘Do you speak French?’ I can’t help but hear the note of panic in that.

  ‘Well, yes.’ Fee shrugs as though worried the admission might make me uncomfortable. We both fall silent, and I begin to notice how the conversations going on around me all sound like they’re being conducted in French.

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to worry you. In fact, I’m sure whatever position you’ve been hired for doesn’t need you to know the language.’

  ‘Do you need to know the language for your job?’ Does everyone?

  ‘Well, I work in the health club at Hôtel du Loup, part of Industries de Loup.’ Her accent sounds flawless, as far as I can tell. And I can also tell I butchered my earlier pronunciation. Un-dust-tree de-loo, I recount to myself.

  ‘The exercise classes I hold are all conducted in French.’

  ‘You’re a fitness instructor?’ That explains the running pants I’d noticed she was wearing as she got on the bus, along with the kind of ass you could probably bounce coins off.

  ‘Try not to look so worried. You’ve been interviewed and hired, you’ve met the HR team and gotten your work permit. You don’t need to speak the language for whatever it is you’re doing. What is it you’ll be doing anyway, your job, I mean? If you don’t mind me asking, that is.’

  You know what? I have no idea. The job title mentioned on the contract was so vague.

  ‘Customer relations associate,’ I recount. Despite my unease, I deliver my title confidently. ‘I’ve got to report to the guest relations department in l’agence centrale.’ I fight off the feelings of inadequacy trying not to compare Fee’s accent to my own. ‘That’s just the head office, right?’

  On Friday, the head office was referred to as the head office, yet the email I received yesterday said l’agence centrale. Thank God for Google Translate because one of these things is not said like the other, even if they’re essentially the same department.

  ‘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 muc
h.’

  ‘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.

  ‘Bienvenue, Mademoiselle Ryan. Welcome to Wolf Industries.’

  As she slides the badge across the expanse of quartz, I note how it reads Visiteur. It almost seems like a bad omen, one quickly pushed to the side as another employee introduces herself.

  ‘Bonjour. I am Alice.’ There are so many more syllables in her name than regular old Alice. Al-ee-sss. ‘Please, come this way.’

  I follow the tap of her heels to the bank of shining elevators.

  ‘That’s a very pretty scarf. Do all the staff wear them?’ I gesture to the blue and white striped scarf around the woman’s neck, noting how the receptionist was also wearing one. Along with a pale fitted shift dress, nude pumps, and a stylish chignon, there’s something very “uniform” about their look.

  Or maybe cloned.

  ‘Oui,’ she answers happily. ‘It is not, ’ow you say, compulsory but it is encouraged.’ Wow. So many syllables in that last word. ‘This is the company logo, see?’ She fans the edges to show the stripes are actually a row of W’s and I’s intertwined.

  ‘It’s très chic.’ Argh! I’m such a dork.

  Alice smiles indulgently, and as that’s about the extent of my French fashion commentary, I step in silently behind her when the elevator doors open. I suppose the scarf must be handy for hiding hickeys, if you’re lucky enough to be getting some. But other than that, I feel kind of dowdy standing next to her corporate self. My hair is braided loosely, and I’d chosen to wear my sand-coloured shirt dress and strappy heels. Earlier this morning, I thought I’d looked a little business and a little bohemian, but as I glance down, I realise my dress now resembles a burlap sack.

  Linen and bus rides don’t make good partners.

  The elevator doors open, and I follow her out and along the marble hallway, the joint click of our heels echoing through the space. But then a door slams somewhere nearby, the loud crack making me jump. I tighten the grip on my purse as a man begins to shout, his anger apparent even to someone who doesn’t speak the language.

  Some lessons are a little hard to unlearn.

  ‘Il a l’air furieux.’ The woman in front turns her head over her shoulder, shooting me a cautious smile. ‘He sounds furious, no? Do not worry. He is not always in a bad mood.’

  ‘Who isn’t? I mean, who is it?’ I trot a little to catch up with her. Despite working in a strip joint, heels are not my go-to footwear. Slow and sedate is the only way I can move in them.

  ‘Monsieur Durrand, the CEO.’

  A fist squeezes around my heart. His name was Durrant not Durrand, I remind myself, not sure if I’m self-soothing or commiserating.

  ‘You won’t see him too often,’ she continues. ‘Though I expect you will remember the first time you do.’

  ‘Because he’s so terrible?’ I try to keep the derision from my voice. Working within these shiny walls can’t be as bad as working in a grimy strip club, where hands wander places they shouldn’t, and the soles of your shoes stick to a beer-stained floor. If I can put up with that shit, I can put up with anything.

  ‘Non.’ The word is more tinkling laugh than anything else. ‘That is not it.’

  Fine, you be all enigmatic. I don’t reply. See if I care.

  I guess she must read my expression as she then offers, ‘Le petit loup, how you say, his bark is worse than his bite.’

  Le petit loup? The small wolf? It’s not exactly a recommendation of the shouting asshole, but something is making her smile. Maybe she’s one of those girls who thinks any kind of attention is good. I don’t ponder it for long as the shouting gets louder and more distinct. Someone is definitely being ripped a new one, and what’s more, the dressing down has switched to English.

  Another door slams and, all of a sudden, a man appears in front, heading in the opposite direction. There’s nothing little about him, which makes me think that Alice means something else. Something a little more personal, like a pet name. Maybe that’s why she’s smiling. Maybe she’s been banging the boss’s little loup.

  The one he keeps in his pants, I mean.

  I rein in my runaway brain as the man draws closer. Head down, focussed on his phone, there’s something familiar about him. Which is stupid, I know. Unless he’s been near The Pink Pussy Cat in San Fran lately.

  As if, my brain supplies. The Pussy Cat is a million miles away, figuratively and almost literally. It’s more spit and sawdust than champagne. Yet something continues to poke at me, tugging the very edge of my attention even as I try very hard not to look at him.

  ‘Bonjour, Monsieur Durrand,’ the women next to me murmurs deferentially.

  The asshole doesn’t look up.

  And the second squeeze of my heart is just as strange, only this time, the fist seems to catapult that muscle to the pit of my stomach, bringing me to a stop at the same moment his shoulder almost brushes mine.

  ‘Remy.’ It’s no more than a whisper—a whisper of a whisper—a murmur of a denial as I try to convince myself otherwise.

  The man’s attention lifts slowly from his phone, every moment drawn out, seconds and milliseconds appearing to slow. His eyes meet mine, the jolt of recognition like being plunged into an icy cold pool. His head turns as he moves past me, as though he’s unwilling to release
my gaze.

  My God, it is him.

  My heart pounds solidly in my stomach, or at least I think that’s what’s thrumming down there, as his shoes suddenly scuff against the floor, and he stops, turning to face me.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  This really isn’t a question or even an apology from him, not with such a haughty delivery. Though it is delivered in faultless English. I know somehow I’m looking at the asshole who switched from yelling French to English so seamlessly. My mouth works soundlessly, words failing me because how? Why? And oh, hell no.

  ‘Alice?’

  My spirits sink to my sandals. He doesn’t even remember my name? I belatedly comprehend he isn’t speaking to me as the girl beside me almost jumps to attention, bullet fast French streaming from her mouth. It doesn’t take me long to realise she’s offering an introduction as I add one more to the tally of times in twenty-five years that I’ve been called Raisin Ryan.

  ‘Actually, it’s Rose. Rose Ryan.’ I smile, and I shrug as though he and I are perfect strangers, and not two people who’ve tasted each other’s genitals. Oh, Jesus. I did not just think that—just like the responding image did not just flash through my head. ‘No one ever calls me Róisín.’

  ‘Rose.’ The way he says my name is like a replay of an aural memory, even if the visual part of that memory isn’t quite the same.

  He was damn sexy in jeans and boots, and exuded a kind of rugged handsomeness. His charming nature was apparent even through our supposed language barrier. The man standing in front of me has the same self-assurance, minus the playful air. He’s made no effort to be charming, and he’s barely cracked a smile, but his presence is no less magnetic. He seems more somehow. Older. Harder. Darker. Urbane and self-assured. And the outfit he’s wearing the heck out of? It’s what the term suit porn was invented for, and even his pocket square is sexy.

  And I know what’s going on underneath. All that swirling ink. From businessman to bad boy in the shedding of a shirt.

  Bottom line? Remy version 2.0 is the off the charts kind of hot.

  His attention is intense and like a brush of hot fingertips before the look is replaced by a flash of annoyance. His gaze glitters with an almost olive hue, and something in his demeanour changes in that instant. His expression hardens, almost as though he’s come to some kind of conclusion. A conclusion that becomes perfectly clear as he turns and walks away without a backward glance.