by Donna Alam
‘Viagra,’ I answer impulsively, my attention caught by Benoît’s soft chuckle. ‘Am I right?’
‘A good guess. Should we find a pharmacist to ask?’
‘If you don’t know, why ask the question?’
‘Oh, I know what the answer is.’ He sits forward quite suddenly, taking my hand. I try to pull away, but his fingers tighten, his other hand coming to cover it. To those looking on, it must look like a tender moment, not one where his grip is almost punishing. ‘The answer is sex. Sex is the commodity traded most here.’
‘I’m not sure why you’re looking at me like that. I’m not for sale.’
‘Oh, I think you are, though perhaps your rates have risen now that you no longer work at the Pink Pussy Cat.’ My stomach sinks at the utterance, a sudden flash of strobe lighting turning his features demonic. ‘I might not have found you, but I found your file. I also discovered that when you noted you had worked for Highland Holdings, you were actually working at a strip club.’
‘Gentleman’s club,’ I find myself countering ridiculously.
‘There are no gentlemen in a place like that.’
‘Something you’d know all about?’ As his fingers tighten, I try not to wince.
‘Clever of you to name the company rather than the name of the place.’
‘So you found my resumé.’ I’m almost surprised my voice sounds so normal because inside, I’m quaking. I haven’t lied on my resumé. Not exactly. Anyone who cared to dig a little would’ve found what he has. ‘I worked as a waitress. I served drinks. I don’t see how that’s the same as selling sex.’
‘While dressed as a schoolgirl, you sold watered down, overpriced drinks to men who wanted to fuck you. Such moral high ground,’ he taunts. ‘But I do wonder if that’s the only thing you sold.’
I find myself leaning forward, peeling his fingers from mine. ‘Fuck you.’
‘I thought we’d already established I’d like to. Just name your price.’
‘Fuck you and the deaf, dumb, and blind horse you rode in on. If you don’t let go of my hand—’
‘You’ll what? Cause a scene? Go ahead. I think my reputation can survive it.’
‘I’m sorry to interrupt.’ Fee’s voice is like sweet relief. It seems his reputation might survive a run-in with me, but not in front of another of Wolf Industries employees, and that fact would be kind of interesting if I could gather my thoughts. But I can’t right now. I’m too shaken up.
That’s kind of interesting. ‘Rose, our cab is here.’ She turns to Ben almost apologetically. ‘It was pre-ordered. You see I have a spinning class at some ungodly hour in the morning, and Rose is helping me.’
‘Well, I guess we’d better get going.’ As I stand, I find I can pull my hand from his now. I don’t spare him a glance as I tuck my arm into Fee’s as we hurry to our phantom cab.
24
Remy
Are you joining me for lunch?
Monday, eleven in the morning, and I’ve yet to hear from Rose. It’s not a huge concern but rather an irritating niggle, especially as it’s become our usual manner to have exchanged at least a couple of texts by nine. It should seem a little hypocritical to be suspicious, considering I’m the one keeping secrets, but nevertheless, there it is.
When I don’t receive a response, suspicion turns to concern, concern that I brush aside as I decide if anything untoward has happened, I’d already know. Whether I think I’d know instinctually or from the position as her boss, I don’t care to examine as I pull up the Wolf Tower concierge app on my phone and place a request. Or rather, an order. An order that’s denied immediately.
I go directly to the instant message function.
Rose, my request for lunch was returned with an error code. Any idea why?
Restart the app. That’s what we usually advise, comes her immediate response. It’s hardly flattering that she’ll ignore my texts but answer my questions regarding the app. I consider the fact that I’d intervened with her line manager, who seemed hell-bent on catering to me herself. Catering for me in kind like she did my father, no doubt. I told the woman in no uncertain terms that I wanted the newest member of staff to attend to my app requests, the implication being that the least experienced member would be the weakest link. She took the bait, insisting that all members of her team were trained to the highest level. That I would find no fault.
But it was just a way to get her off my back, perhaps getting Rose onto hers. The thought makes me smile because that has yet to happen in my office. Rose is particularly conscientious of what occurs during her hours of work. But back to the app, all enquiries are time-critical and monitored, response times part of the staff key performance indicators. Poor response times to initial enquires count against both the team and the individual and count towards a financial bonus scheme. The result? Rose might not answer my texts this morning, but she’d protect her colleagues.
Restarting the app is not something I have in mind.
Perhaps you should come and show me how to do that.
Sure. I mean, it’s not like I have anything more pressing to do among the other hundred requests that have come through this morning. Whoever said words on a screen come without emotion never took part in this kind of exchange. You’re not the only resident I attend to.
Care to rephrase that?
Fine. You’re the most demanding of my patrons.
And you’re trying to make me angry. Why would she phrase it this way? I’m not her patron—that’s not the kind of relationship we have. I can barely get her to take a thing from me. She didn’t want the membership to Papaya Beach on Saturday, preferring to slum it at the public beach.
How would I explain that to Lea? she’d asked. Or was it Tee? I can’t remember, but I do remember a pinch of annoyance that she was happy to keep things between us secret still. Which is ridiculous, considering the secrets I’m keeping myself.
Can it be she has changed her mind about us in this short time? I push the thought away in favour of another. I’d offered to buy her a watch she was admiring online last week when she went a little crazy, insisting she was looking at it for a client.
Why won’t she let me look after her?
See? Demanding, she retorts.
Says the woman who begged me for my cock on Friday when I’d scarcely cleared the front door.
REMY! This is a work app. Do you want to get me fired?
What I want is to see you this afternoon. Why is she fighting this?
Give me until about twenty-five o’clock, and I should be through.
I think I take precedence.
Think? To hell with that. I know I take precedence.
Because you have friends in low places?
Ma Rose, you have that the wrong way around. You are a highly esteemed friend who I happen to like to take low places on occasion.
Again. Work app!
She’s certainly making me work for it.
Remy, I’m swamped, comes her response this time. Try Deliveroo or UberEats. Or whatever the Daddy Warbucks Monaco equivalent is.
I stare at the phone in my hand, wondering where the resistance is coming from. I haven’t seen her since Saturday morning when we parted with plans to catch up on Sunday, plans that didn’t come to fruition because she said she wasn’t feeling up to it. Was she lying then? Now? Is she too much of a coward to say we’re through?
Through? Fuck through. We haven’t even started.
My stomach twists, but I push away all analysis, typing out my reply. If she won’t accept an invitation, I can always issue a command.
I’m not sure who Daddy Warbucks is, but if he lives in Wolf Tower, he’d use the concierge service, which I believe is you today.
You know, none of the other residents has their lunch delivered to them by us.
Good. As the owner of Wolf Tower, I think I should be the only one. An abuse of power? Who gives a fuck.
Fine, I’ll deliver your lunch, but I can’t stay. As I�
�ve said, I’m super, super busy today.
I’m sure I can persuade her otherwise once she’s here, even if sex is off the table.
And if it is off the table, then I’ll just have to make sure it’s on the desk, conscientiousness be damned.
Resisting the urge to adjust the flicker of interests in my pants, I put down my phone and return to the mound of documents to be signed and begin skimming through them. We’ve recently broken ground on a development that will become a boutique hotel just outside of Menton Old Town on the edge of the Côte, the first of its kind in decades. Pen poised over the contracts, I consider taking Rose on a trip down there sometime. Nestled between the mountains and the Mediterranean, the little town has a charming old-world feel and is full of buildings from the Belle Époque period that almost seem to turn rose gold at sunset.
Maybe she’d like to go to the lemon festival next spring?
The thought is like a dart to the psyche because spring is months away—next year, in fact. I’d be a fool to think this thing between us could carry on as it is now. The secrets between us can only fester and gnaw, and when the truths eventually surface, could I forgive her if our positions were reversed? Forgive her for hiding the truth from me, for intruding on my past by paying for an investigation. For keeping the balance of power in her favour and forcing me to continue to work for her when I’d already be rich in my own right.
At least this I know the answer to.
‘I wouldn’t—couldn’t—forgive her,’ I recount quietly, pen still in hand, my gaze unseeing. In the same breath, I know I’m not prepared to let her go. The past three weeks have been unlike any other time in my life and Rose unlike any other woman. She requires nothing but my attention for the time we’re together, yet she invades my mind continually.
‘Fuck,’ I exhale, dropping my head into my hands.
‘What’s wrong with you?’
My head jerks up, swinging sharply to Rhett. What I’d prefer to be swinging is my fists.
‘Don’t you ever knock,’ I complain, looking down at the annotation I’m supposed to initial for at least the third time.
‘The dragon said I could come in.’
‘You’re talking shit again.’
‘She did, honestly. She said, Everett, my boy, go right on in because God knows when you’ll see him next.’ In the periphery of my vision, he folds his arms across his chest, leaning his thigh against the table at the centre of the room. ‘You missed a meeting last Friday, I hear.’
‘Madame Bisset—’
‘Paulette, to you.’
‘Madame Bisset would no more tell you I missed a meeting than she would flash you her underwear.’
‘I think I just vomited in my mouth,’ he says with a grimace. ‘Never, ever say the word underwear in relation to your assistant in my hearing again. They’re probably like . . . huge, grey tents.’
‘The woman is the size of a sparrow.’
‘With the viciousness of a pterodactyl, but she’s old.’
‘And?’
‘It stands to reason she wears ugly underwear.’
‘I can’t believe we’re having this conversation.’
‘You started it. You and your malingering ways.’
‘Even the chairman of the board is entitled to take a few hours off.’
‘Yeah, but you’re not by yourself, are you? You can’t entertain yourself for that length of time.’ No need to ask what he means by that as he unfolds his left hand, beginning to shake his curled fist in the air.
‘Don’t confuse my free time with yours,’ I answer witheringly.
‘They seek him here. They seek him there. Those Frenchies seek him every-fucking-where.’
‘You’re not French.’
‘I don’t go looking for you. I know where you are when you’re not with me. If they’d picked up the phone to me, I would’ve told them.’
‘Which is where?’
‘With your latest squeeze.’
‘Jealous, Rhett?’
He chuckles unpleasantly. ‘Not a fucking bit. You’re tying yourself up in knots so tight it’s only a matter of time before you come a cropper. Or as my delightful niece would say, before you get effed in the a.’
‘You don’t have family, do you? I thought you were made in a lab somewhere.’
‘No, I think you’re confused. What I said was that my mother is a bitch, that she’s more pitbull than Lab.’
‘I sometimes wonder why I keep you around,’ I find myself grumbling.
‘Maybe because I can kill a man with one hand without spilling my pint. Or maybe because of my sunny temperament and my charming personality.’
‘You wouldn’t know charming if it bit you on the head.’
‘Speaking of heads, your problem is that your little head has been getting all the action, but it’s your big head that’s suffering. You know there’s such a thing as thinking too much, right?’
‘An affliction you don’t suffer from yourself.’
‘What’s to think about? The way I look at it, you’ve made your bed, you’ve just got to lie in it now. Or shag in it, as the case may be. Make the most of it, mate, because it’s only a matter of time before she finds out the many ways you’re a total bastard.’
‘Don’t let me stop you,’ I drawl, sitting back in my chair. ‘Please, educate me on my failures.’
Why indulge him? Because introspection is something I’d like to be distracted from. Because he’s right, though he probably doesn’t realise quite how right he is. But the more time I spend with Rose, the less I want to give her up. And the less I want to give her up, the more I complicate things. I’m so fucking aware that I could lose her the minute I tell her the truth. Would she do something rash for revenge when she knows the whole sordid story, like run out and marry the first man she meets to get her hands on her shares so she can be rid of me?
‘Nah. What’s the point? You know you’re fucked.’
With a final withering look in his direction, I return my attention to the paperwork in front of me. Maybe if I ignore him, he’ll leave. I initial the page and flip to the next when the door to my suite of offices opens again.
‘Does no one in this building knock these days,’ I find myself roaring.
‘Hey, you called me, not the other way around.’ Rose stands on the other side of the office with an unfamiliar scowl painted across her face. One hand pressed to her cocked hip, and in the other, she holds a brown paper bag.
‘Rose, you’re early.’ I begin to stand as she walks a little farther into the room, dropping the paper bag to the boardroom table on the opposite end of where Rhett lounges.
‘Yeah, I know. I guess you can always call this brunch instead of lunch, but it’s the best I can manage.’
As I draw closer, the scent of hot grease seems to permeate.
‘What’s in the bag, Heidi?’ She presses her lips into a flat line at Rhett’s goading enquiry, an uncomplimentary look gliding his way.
‘What it is is not for you.’
‘Is . . . is that MacDonald’s?’ The question is barely out of his mouth when he almost launches himself across the table. Meanwhile, I can feel my lip curling in disgust.
‘That’s what it says on the bag, doesn’t it?’ She whips the bag away before he can reach it.
‘MacDonald’s?’ I repeat, my response oozing with disgust. Disgust that goes unheard as the pair begin to bicker over the contents of the trans-fat filled bag.
‘I didn’t bring lunch for you,’ she says, holding the brown paper bag tighter.
‘Heidi,’ he says, infusing this with what I imagine sounds like charm to him. ‘You know you’re asking for it.’
‘Ta guele,’ I snarl. Shut it.
‘Relax,’ he replies, unmoved. ‘Mickey D’s milkshakes bring all the boys to the yard.’
‘Yeah, well, this milkshake isn’t for you,’ she retorts.
‘You can’t get a boy all raring to go and expect him to turn it off lik
e that. Not when there’s a Big Mac on offer.’
Chin high, she swings the bag behind her. ‘A lucky guess. And why do you keep calling me Heidi?’ Though her voice is strong, the high colour of her cheeks gives away her disquiet.
‘The braid and the scarf thingy in your hair,’ he answers without missing a beat. ‘You look like you should be running through meadows with a St. Bernard at your heels.’
Rhett is usually pretty good on his feet, but it’s fortunate that she’s wearing her hair as she is, or perhaps fortunate that he chose to say it within her hearing today. Heidi isn’t meant as a compliment; it’s just a way that he gets to goad me. Remind me of where this all started. The knots he’s convinced I’m tying myself in. The fact that she worked in a strip club. Like I even give a fuck. ‘Come on, love,’ he resumes. ‘Give up the chips.’
‘No fries for you. Is he telling the truth?’ She angles her gaze my way, seeking my reassurance. This doesn’t come as a surprise. What does, however, is the sudden prick of conscience I experience.
One more lie I’m complicit in.
‘Would I lie to you?’ he asks, hands out like a priest giving a sermon. ‘Yesterday, you looked like a sexy assassin. You had your hair poker straight and tied up on top of your head. You know what I called you then?’
‘No, and I don’t think I want to.’ Despite her cool tone, he answers anyway.
‘Villanelle.’
My mind is still whirling that he called her sexy, though I somehow register his response. ‘Like poetry?’ Why does it feel worse to me that he thinks of Rose as poetry over sexy? Why? The man can barely recount a limerick.
Rhett glances my way, looking as confused as I feel. ‘Poetry? It’s a program on TV. Fuck hot Russian assassin? Lesbian undertones?’
‘Well, this has been . . . real.’ Rose shakes her head like a horse shaking off flies.
She dumps the bag on the table again as Rhett dives for it, sliding into the chair at the head of the table with a triumphant, ‘Yes!’