Liar Liar

by Donna Alam

  ‘There’s a shake, Big Mac, fries, and twelve chicken nuggets,’ she says, rubbing her hand against her forehead. ‘I didn’t know what you wanted—’

  It wasn’t greasy fast food, and I’m sure my expression conveys this perfectly. The only thing I had any intention of eating this afternoon was her.

  ‘—but maybe you can share or something.’

  ‘I don’t want fast food.’ I’m aware how petulant I sound, but this isn’t faked disappointment. Fast food or a slow screw—or even just a few minutes with Rose in his arms—which would any man choose?

  ‘Yeah, well, I don’t want to spend today pandering to rich people, but here I am anyway.’

  ‘That’s your job,’ I point out, none too nicely, I fear, judging by her expression. But the way she’s looking at me doesn’t keep me at bay.

  ‘Lucky me, huh? I get to nanny for babies in grown-up bodies. Babies in control of a large portion of the world’s wealth, yet they can’t even order a salad or a sandwich for themselves.’

  ‘You don’t have a dog and bark yourself.’ That was an unpleasant analogy and one I wish I could inhale, dispel, but fuck it, this isn’t how I planned my day to go. She said she was too tired to spend time with me Sunday and can barely look at me right now. And now I’m being a bastard to her when all I want to do is take her in my arms and kiss the hurt from her face.

  ‘Rose—’ Even her name doesn’t sound as gentle as it should.

  ‘No one could ever accuse you of having a silver tongue,’ Rhett mutters. ‘Ignore him. He must have low blood sugar.’

  ‘I do not need you to make excuses for me.’

  ‘Your funeral. You can’t help some people.’ He holds up the flaccid looking burger as though in thanks. ‘If you ever want anyone killed, Heidi, just give me a shout. Anyone but him,’ he amends as her eyes flick my way again.

  ‘Everett, get out.’

  ‘No, you stay. I’m out of here.’

  ‘You’re not going anywhere,’ I growl, grabbing her arm as she turns.

  Her gaze flicks pointedly down to where I’ve creased the sleeve of her dress. ‘Let. The. Fuck. Go.’

  ‘Everett,’ I repeat.

  ‘Got it.’ He begins to gather the grease-stained burger bag in one hand, the half-eaten burger in the other. As the door closes behind him, I unfurl my fingers, almost surprised she hadn’t pulled away.

  ‘I am at a loss to explain what just happened,’ I begin as the blood in my veins seethes. ‘But this isn’t about lunch or the way you wear your hair, or your terse texts.’

  ‘My terse texts?’ she retorts, folding her arms. ‘Let me tell you, yours were hardly a barrel of laughs to read. Demanding and childish and—’

  ‘Let me finish.’

  ‘Was it one woof for yes and two for no?’ Her response is sweet yet full of malice, but I brought it on myself. And I won’t be baited.

  ‘I’m sorry, that wasn’t what I meant.’ Her lips purse, but I carry on. ‘But I was provoked.’

  ‘Pretty sure that’s the excuse all bullies use.’

  ‘I was provoked, and you are doing the provoking,’ I continue, not rising to her tone. ‘But more importantly, you’ve been avoiding me.’

  ‘I am not avoiding you,’ she replies immediately. ‘I told you, yesterday I had a headache. I was tired.’

  ‘That’s not it.’ And I feel it in my bones as I step into her, forcing her to tip her head back to look at me. Is that confusion in her eyes or regret? ‘Friday was, as always, wonderful. Yesterday? Today? You’re not the same.’ I wrap a wisp of her hair around my finger as she angles her attention away. ‘What’s going on, Rose? Are we done here?’ My words are cool, yet my insides burn. I both desire and dread her answer as something inside me screams that this isn’t the end. It isn’t over because I’m not ready to let go. ‘Tell me what I can do.’ To make this go away. To make you look at me like you did before the weekend.

  ‘I’ve done something.’ The words fall in a rush, her eyes rising slowly to mine, this time full of tears. ‘I know everyone does it sometimes, but it doesn’t stop me from feeling terrible.’

  A fist suddenly twists my innards in its grip. ‘Tell me. What did you do on Saturday?’ As my hands grip her shoulders, I’m surprised my tone sounds so even given the sudden eruption of violence bursting in my head.

  Has she—I can’t contemplate it.

  Whoever it is, I swear I will fucking kill them—I’ll make her watch as I ruin them.

  ‘Saturday?’ A tiny line forms between her brows.

  ‘Tell me,’ I grate out, my grip tightening as I ignore the hypocrite I am.

  ‘But what has Saturday got to do with anything?’

  ‘Remy. Avez-vous un moment . . .’

  At the sound of Benoît’s voice, Rose springs from my arms and moves toward the wall of windows as though she’s discovered something of great interest there.

  ‘No, Ben, I don’t have a moment. And I don’t quite know why my office has suddenly become la Gare du Nord!’ With each word, my voice becomes louder until the name of the Paris train station roars across the office.

  ‘My apology. But your assistant isn’t at her desk,’ he offers, unmoved by my outburst. ‘And I did knock. Perhaps you didn’t hear it.’ His eyes move to Rose; a silhouette in the window. ‘Perhaps you were busy.’

  ‘I’m going to have a better lock put on the door. One that engages immediately upon closure. ‘I don’t have time—’

  ‘Rose?’ Benoît fills her name with such surprise. ‘What a place to find you!’

  She stiffens, though she begins to slowly turn.

  ‘Where did you disappear to on Saturday?’

  She raises her chin, her arms still folded, and I notice how her fingers make deep indents in the sleeve of her dress. ‘I went home. With Fee. You remember Fee? And Charles?’

  As her attention moves to me, I bite back the torrent of recrimination forcing it back down my throat. I don’t give a fuck who she was with—who will swear blind she had nothing to do with him. I refuse to have this conversation with him here, though I will have answers. She’s done something. Something everyone does. I know deep in my gut that my cousin is involved somehow, and nothing good can come from that.

  ‘I do remember them. Such a shame we didn’t finish our talk.’ He’s all agreement and openness; an act he’s thoroughly perfected. ‘Remy, you remember when I said there was a beautiful new member of staff?’ His attention skates back to Rose, to where she stands as still as a statue. ‘I think someone has been hiding you. What department do you work in, chérie?’

  ‘This is my office, not a coffee shop,’ I bark, my hands gripping the back of the chair. ‘Pick up girls elsewhere unless you want to find yourself facing a sexual harassment suit.’

  ‘Elsewhere or someone else,’ he murmurs, his expression like a hyena sniffing for a weakness. ‘I’m sensing a lot of tension, cousin.’

  ‘You’ll be sensing the arrival of my fist if you don’t get out.’

  ‘Really, Remy? You can’t have all the toys.’ Our eyes lock, and I feel my lip curl, seconds away from forgetting we were friends as boys.

  ‘I’m no one’s plaything.’ Rose’s voice rings out across the room. Though I hear the waver in it, I can’t look at her. Not when I know where this is going.

  ‘You haven’t told her, have you?’ His voice is pitched lower, but the triumph in it is detachable under the sham.

  ‘Told me what?’

  Benoît’s shoulders sag with a sigh, his head dropping between his shoulder blades. At least, that’s what the outside world would see. But I know him, and I saw the flickering of delight in his gaze. When he looks up again, his expression is one of contrition. My gut tightens again, this time my fists, too. What is the bastard up to?

  ‘I’m sorry, Remy. Seeing Rose here made me lose my train of thought.’ A lie on top of other lies. ‘I came to tell you that Amélie’s car is in the parking lot. I thought you’d want to k
now.’

  This . . . is not a lie but perhaps the Fates dealing their hand. I thought I could ward this off without lowering myself. Ward off the lies and twist it into a truth that didn’t need to be heard by her.

  ‘Who is Amélie?’

  Neither of us answers, though Ben’s barely concealed delight seems to ask, do you want to tell her or should I?

  It should never have come to this. I should’ve come clean from the start—but where would I have started? I’ve built a lie upon a lie until I’m sitting behind the walls of a fortress of falsehoods, first driven by mistrust and then by fear.

  And now? Now I risk everything. I risk her love.

  ‘Amélie is . . .’ I cannot stop him. I can no longer hide. ‘How do you say femme à être?’

  Though directed at me, I don’t answer, just glared. Glare hard enough that he should at least have the decency to turn to salt for looking back.

  ‘Rose.’ I’ve done something. A hundred somethings. But the words won’t come because where do I start?

  ‘What is it?’

  I curse, this time at the door. The blood in my veins turns to ice water as it opens, a sultry purr preceding her appearance. Her. Amélie. The first of my pigeons come home to roost.

  ‘Bonjour, mon amour. Did you miss me?’

  Her eyes remain on me though she reaches Benoît first, languidly grazing his cheeks with air-kisses. Like recognising like, no doubt.

  ‘Bonjour, Amélie. Remind me, what is the English for femme à être?’

  Her hand slips from his shoulder, her sights set on me. ‘It means wife-to-be. Hello, my future husband. Did you miss me?’

  25

  Rose

  For a moment, I think I’ve misheard because that just doesn’t make sense.

  Wife-to-be? Her future husband?

  It’s almost laughable. Isn’t it? It has to be. Except I’m not laughing as he allows her to slide her hands around his neck. As he accepts the kiss she presses to his cheek.

  As he refuses to look at me.

  Oh, God. I think I’m going to be sick. And not because of the lingering smell of McDonald’s but because it’s all true.

  I’m a fool, and he’s a lying, cheating . . . heartbreaking tool.

  ‘If you’ll excuse me,’ I find myself uttering, not sparing a glance for anyone as I move in the direction of the door. My legs are unsteady, and the phrase heartache is suddenly something very real. Like it’s being torn apart, the pain of it a scream choking in my throat.

  ‘Allow me.’ He’s at the door, pulling it open, allowing me to pass through—not the him I want but the other sleaze. The one I left on Saturday night. The one who almost forced me to confess I’d lied on my resumé today. I was so determined that I wouldn’t tell Remy I’d worked at a strip club, concerned what he’d think of me. He was right, I was avoiding him. I knew I’d have to tell him, but I didn’t know how.

  I made myself ill just thinking about it.

  What a fucking joke! And I am that joke.

  How dare he question me. How dare he look at me with such betrayal when the man has a wife!

  To be.

  Semantics.

  All the same, he’s been stringing me along. And how!

  Yes, how? Exactly how? Hasn’t he spent almost every moment with me? How can he be promised to another when he looks at me like he does?

  I stumble past the bank of elevators, pulling open the door to the stairs no one ever uses this far up. The door clunks shut as I press my forehead to the cool concrete wall and choke back a sob of hysteria. My entire body shakes as the result of this emotional tsunami, a situation coming out of nowhere; unforeseen, uninvited, unbelievable. But I won’t cry. Not here. He doesn’t deserve my tears. He doesn’t deserve the steam off my piss!

  Amélie. Even her name is sexy. She sounds like a sex phone operator and looks like a gazelle—a really good-looking, caramel-toned, shiny gazelle. One with really expensive shoes and a Chanel handbag dangling from her arm.

  Do gazelles come with thoroughbred pedigrees?

  I bet this one does.

  And he didn’t even look at me.

  ‘That fucking fuck! Ow, that hurts.’ I stare at my reddened palm, the wall no worse for my anger-fuelled slap. ‘At least I haven’t broken a toe.’ Along with the inane whisper, I sink to the stairs and push my head into my trembling, taking a series of deep, shaking breaths.

  Breaths over broken glass.

  I swallowed tears like salt on an opened wound.

  The door creaks open. I stop breathing, not daring to hope, not daring to think yet doing it anyway.

  ‘There you are.’

  The voice is deep and the accent French, but the intonation, the person, isn’t the same.

  Ma Rose.

  Ma fucking douchebag.

  ‘I’m sorry you had to see that.’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’ My words tremble with contempt. Contempt for him. Contempt for the situation of Remy’s making.

  ‘You think I orchestrated it?’ His arm bumps against mine as he sits next to me. ‘I’m not to blame. I didn’t know you’d be in his office. I didn’t even know you and he were—’

  ‘We’re nothing!’ I spit, my gaze rising to his. Nothing at all.

  ‘I don’t think that can be true, but I am sorry you had to find out that way.’

  ‘Why are you being nice to me?’ An accusation, not an enquiry.

  ‘Because I’m sorry. And because I owe you an apology for Saturday evening. I wasn’t myself. I’d been drinking and . . .’ He vacillates a moment and I instinctively know what’s coming next. ‘I’d had a little coke. You didn’t deserve my mind games, and you didn’t deserve this. My cousin has always had many women—’

  ‘I really don’t want to hear this,’ I utter, planting my face in my hands again.

  ‘—not since he and Amélie announced their engagement.’

  ‘Please go away.’

  ‘I can’t. I can’t leave you like this, not when I feel so responsible for you finding out this way.’

  But there’s only one man responsible, and he’s not here.

  He didn’t come looking for me.

  I guess that’s it. No explanation. No apology. Maybe even no job.

  He can shove his job up his—

  ‘I feel so terrible for my part in this. Can you at least forgive me for Saturday? For behaving so terrible.’ Terr-e-b-la. Urgh. I suddenly hate the French accent as he hurries on. ‘I won’t tell him about your job in the—your waitressing job, I mean.

  As if that matters now.

  ‘Whatever.’ Like I care. Who worries about stubbing their toe when they’re bleeding out? ‘So you found out I worked in a strip club,’ I say, suddenly sitting straight. I’m a little lightheaded, and the heat in the stairwell is suddenly stifling. ‘I only waited tables, not that it matters. I’ve got to get back to work.’ Pressing my hand to the warm concrete, I stand, Benoît following suit and suddenly reaching out to steady me.

  ‘Non. Not work. Let me take you out for a drink.’ As I shoot him the stink eye, he holds up his hand as though to ward me off. ‘Only to talk. To gather your thoughts. You have had a shock.’

  ‘So I shouldn’t drive or operate heavy machinery. I think I’m fine to work a laptop.’ Even if the last thing I need is to go back to the office. I haven’t the bandwidth to deal with the wrath of Olga or the concern-cloaked delight of Charles, who loves a hot topic of gossip twice as much as the next man.

  Come to think of it, the last thing I need is to lose my job. But that might happen anyway, now that Remy’s dirty secret is out.

  Oh my Lord, I realise with a sickening lurch. His dirty little secret is me.

  ‘You cannot work like this, Rose. Please let me help you. My assistant will call your line manager and tell them I have need for you today. One drink. A coffee, or perhaps a brandy for the shock. Then you go home, d’accord?’ Okay?

  I don’t want to work.

  I don’t
want to be alone.

  I don’t want this to be the shoulder I cry on.

  But I also didn’t want to discover that the man I’m falling for belongs to another, and look how that worked out.

  ‘I will tell you about Remy.’ He sighs deeply, as though it pains him to offer.

  ‘One drink.’ Was I always such a sucker for pain, I wonder as I hold up a finger as though to convince him? Or maybe myself. ‘But a drink, not brandy.’ Brandy can kiss my ass. When you’re looking at a breakup, there’s only one thing for it, and it starts with a te and ends in quila.

  ‘Bon.’ His hand grasps my elbow. Maybe I look as fragile as I feel. ‘Something else. Something strong for shock.’

  ‘Just don’t get any ideas.’

  Is it wrong that his scoffing nonreply isn’t exactly music to my ears? I mean, I don’t want him to think he has even the slightest chance with me, but come on, give a discarded girl a break!

  ‘I will tell you this. I looked for you after seeing you in the office your first day. But Remy found you first.’ Much earlier than you think, I almost say. ‘This complicates things too much for me. But perhaps we can be friends.’

  Is it a line or the truth? Who the hell knows. It’ll be some time before I can trust myself again.

  ‘Café?’ Ben asks me as the waiter approaches the table once more.

  ‘What did I tell you about coffee, Benny?’ One eye closed, I try to focus on the man in front of me.

  ‘That it does not help heartache,’ he says with a wince. I think it’s the name I’ve christened him with rather than his fear of catching feelings.

  ‘What else?’

  ‘Tequila does. But this is too much.’ He gestures to the scarred wooden table between us, littered with tiny shot glasses and my abandoned lunch. I’ve stacked some of the glasses into towers and placed a napkin over the sandwich because the smell of the accompanying fries made me feel ill.

  If I’m lucky, maybe I’ll never eat a fry again.

  ‘Hey, you helped,’ I protest, sitting straighter. Whoa. Woozy head. And a flat butt and sore back after sitting on this damned bistro chair for too many hours.