Liar Liar

by Donna Alam

  ‘Would you like to know which of those I am now?’

  ‘Nope,’ she retorts as she reaches for the cheese, plucking then throwing a grape my way with the words, ‘Just in case.’

  I’d like to say I suavely caught it, but unfortunately, it glances off my nose, making us both laugh.

  ‘Thank you, but I’m not hungry. Do you have anything to help the second state?’

  ‘You mean Pennsylvania?’ Cupping her chin, she props her elbow on the table.

  ‘That’s a strange word for an erection, but I can go with it. Same with the glittery penis.’

  This time, she groans, her hand moving from her chin to cover her eyes. ‘I might’ve been drunk when I ordered that.’

  ‘And when you hit me with it?’

  Her fingers separate as she shoots me a glare. ‘Frightened.’

  ‘I know. But it’s all been worth it so far, no?’ A quirk of her plush lips is her only answer. ‘Can I show you something?’

  ‘If it’s hard or purple or sparkling or currently in your pants, then the answer is no.’

  ‘Take a risk.’ I grasp my glass by the rim and round the table, holding out my hand. ‘Bring your glass, if you’d like.’ My stomach tenses as the tips of her fingers touch mine. Dieu, her dress appears as though it were painted on, like someone took a delicate brush to her skin to detail the intricate swirls of lace. My gaze is drawn to the golden sheen of her toned legs, farther still to her red painted toenails. ‘Rose, are you wearing my shoes?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she answers. ‘My feet are much smaller than yours.’

  But she’s smiling. And those sandals with heels the height of the Eiffel Tower are the ones I bought. Which begs the question, what else is she wearing under that dress?

  ‘I can hear you thinking. Stop it.’

  I tuck her hand into the crook of my arm. ‘If you can hear me, the decent thing to do would be to tell me.’

  ‘It’s impolite to ask a lady about her undergarments,’ she murmurs primly, and through a smile. My laughter resounds through the courtyard.

  ‘Bon. Let us go into the house.’

  We begin in the salon, working our way through the dining room, the small library, and into the family kitchen; the commercial kitchen already being occupied by the catering staff.

  ‘This is like an entertainer’s dream,’ she says, running her fingertips across a silver vein in the marble as she wanders around the space. ‘I asked you if this place was yours. You didn’t answer.’

  ‘I know.’ I fold my arms and lean a shoulder against one of the cabinets as I watch her marvel at the place. She liked the library, which she called the den, and the grand staircase. But it’s this room she likes best, I can tell. ‘Do you like it? The house, I mean.’

  ‘It’s like something out of Cribs.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘You know, like MTV. Lives of the rich and fabulous.’

  The gaze she slides me over her shoulder can only be defined as provocative. I push away from the cupboards and come up behind her, our bodies almost touching, my lips coasting her ear. ‘I am the rich, you are the fabulous.’

  A tremor runs through her, though she tries to hide it by stepping away and raising her glass to her mouth.

  ‘You didn’t answer.’

  ‘Yes, of course, I like it,’ she says, turning to face me now.

  ‘You haven’t seen the upstairs.’ I don’t miss the tiny catch in her throat and the way her eyes darken, though I force myself to turn. ‘This way.’

  We pass the cinema room, the entrance to the gym and the indoor pool, none of which I mention as she follows me up the stairs.

  ‘The tiling looks original.’

  ‘Yes, most of the features are. It’s unusual in a property as old as this.’

  ‘This staircase has probably seen a lot of debutantes.’ Brides, too, I almost answer. ‘See how it curves at the bottom?’ she says, tipping her head over the bannister as she points. ‘That’s the kind of place where kisses are stolen.’

  ‘Well, I missed that.’ Too busy watching her climb the stairs, too engrossed in the flare of her hips and the sinuous arch of her lower back

  ‘How many lives must these walls have seen.’ The moment is oh, so perfect as she reaches the top of the stairs and turns. ‘Love affairs and heartache and every emotion in between.’

  I was going to wait. I fully intended to show her around the upper floors, to tell her the stories my mother told of her childhood. Of how she sat at the top of the stairs listening to music drifting up from the salon, along with the faint scent of my grandfather’s Gauloises cigarettes and the chink of glasses. I was going wait until she’d seen it all. Until I’d explained all. But now I can’t.

  ‘Would you like to live your life within these walls?’

  ‘What?’ Her word bubbles with laughter, like vintage champagne. ‘Sure. Who wouldn’t?’

  I take the next few stairs seemingly in one, taking her hands in mine. She doesn’t need to know this is the house my mother grew up in, or how my father sold it from under her when their marriage turned sour. She doesn’t need to know my connection to it, which really isn’t much of a connection at all now that I’ve found her.

  ‘This house is yours. Please let me finish.’ The words fall from my mouth, my fingers tightening on hers to make her still. ‘It’s yours because you love it. And because I love you. You said once that your childhood lacked the permanency of a home, but that it never lacked love. Fill this house with love, ma Rose. Make it a happy home.’

  ‘Remy, please be serious. I can’t take a house from you.’

  ‘You cannot refuse me. If you cut me out of your life tomorrow, I’d still want to give you this gift. Because I can. Because you deserve it. Because of all you’ve done for me.’ And because, contrary to my words, I believe this is the home where our story will truly begin.

  ‘I don’t know what to say. Except you’re crazy. Just because I’m wearing the shoes you bought me’—don’t look down, don’t—‘it doesn’t mean I’m going to accept a house.’

  ‘The shoes come from a different place. Everything in those bags did.’ I incline my head. Sometimes, the truth only comes with a little difficulty. ‘They came from the place of, I’ll admit, wanting to annoy you. But more than that, each item wrapped in tissue and ribbon, every single thing, I harboured thoughts of seeing you in. The dresses, of course. The shoes, the underwear, the watch. I hoped I see you in those the most.’

  ‘Do you have a thing for wrists I don’t know about?’

  My cock twitches; the sweetest of percussion. ‘I have a thing for your wrists.’ Along with my answer, I rub my thumb over those dainty contours. Who knew this part of the body could be so erotic? This part of her body. ‘But in truth, I hoped to see you in the watch and nothing else.’

  ‘Same with the shoes?’ she says, her words sieved through a soft chuckle.

  ‘What can I say?’

  ‘Nothing. Best to say nothing at all.’

  I allow her hands to fall as I step away. ‘Go. Take a tour of your new home.’

  ‘Stop that.’ But she’s still smiling as I step down one stair. ‘You’re not going to come with me?’

  ‘Non. I can’t be in the same place as those wrists and a bed.’

  ‘Really?’ Her smile is small and wry but threatens to blossom.

  Bringing my fingertips to my lips, I kiss them then utter, ‘Irrésistible.’

  ‘You’re ridiculous.’

  I am ridiculous; ridiculously in love with her.

  There’s a bottle of champagne on ice waiting in the kitchen, our glasses replaced with new. This is the magic that happens when you treat staff well. I pop the cork and pour out two glasses, not exactly savouring mine as I try to drown the unfamiliar unrest running through me, though not because I expect she’ll refuse me because I know she will, just like she fights me for everything. She’s worth the fight. Worth the work. So why am I restive? Beca
use every molecule of my being wants to go to her.

  Eventually, I hear her heels in the hallway.

  ‘Well, she’s a stunner,’ she says, leaning half in and half out of the kitchen, her hand wrapped around the doorframe.

  ‘She’s a she?’ I ask, taking her glass to her.

  ‘Yep.’ She takes it from my hand, leaning her shoulder against the doorframe instead. ‘Definitely. You should buy her, but for you.’

  ‘She’s already mine.’ Rose watches me from over the rim of her glass, almost as though she’s examining the meaning behind my words. She does well to. ‘And I’m gifting her to you.’

  Another decorous sip, and she twists, placing the glass on the countertop. I watch almost in slow motion as she steps into the room, into me, her arms feeding around my neck. The height of her heels make her taller than usual, her soulful eyes turning liquid gold as I take her hips in my hands.

  ‘I’m not doing this because you want to buy me a house—’

  ‘There’s no want to about it. It’s happening.’

  Undeterred, she carries on. ‘I’m doing this because I’ve had the best evening and because no one has ever said such perfect things to me.’

  ‘I’m not the first man to say he loves you. As long as I’m the last, I’m fine with that.’

  ‘You’re certainly the first to want to buy me a house. And Remy? I’m not saying it back.’

  ‘You’re not saying you’ll buy me a house?’ I ask, being deliberately obtuse, making her shake her head in a long-suffering fashion.

  ‘Do you want this kiss or not?’

  Out of the hundred things she could’ve said. The hundred denials, explanations, or promises, this answer I like infinitely best.

  ‘Want. Definitely.’ A feeling I’ve become familiar with since opening my eyes to her in the hospital in March. I’m not a perfect man, and I never will be, but I’ll try to be perfect for her.

  Her eyes seem to search every inch of my face before she tips up onto her toes. I meet her halfway, my lips slanting over hers. Dieu, it feels like it’s been a lifetime. Her lips are lush and sweet with the taste of champagne, and twice as intoxicating. But this kiss isn’t about me as she tastes and teases me, dancing her tongue between the seam of my lips.

  ‘I’ve missed this.’ Her admission is barely a whisper and tears at the centre of me.

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘No. No more. Just kiss me. Kiss me properly.’

  If there ever was a better direction, I’ve yet to hear it as I curl my hands around her hips, taking possession of this kiss, making it deeper and wetter and more passion-filled than any kiss in a kitchen has a right to be.

  ‘Kiss me again,’ she whispers, her voice taut as she tightens her arms around my neck. ‘Don’t stop.’ But I have no plans to, not as my hand spans her ribs to feel her breath tightening. I press my lips to her jaw and curve my thumb under her breast, the lace rough to touch as I slide it against the underside of the plump flesh.

  ‘I’ve missed the feel of you.’ The admission sounds as though dragged from the depths of my chest as she bows, pressing into my hand. I press my palm to her breast. My fingers. Soft swipes and pretty pinches, I alternate the sensations until she arches into my hand with the sweetest of sighs. My kisses traverse her jaw until I reach her ear. ‘But I’m not going to fuck you.’ She convulses against me; a revolt against my declaration or a want without words.

  ‘Why does that word sound so much more from your lips?’

  ‘No matter how much I ache to.’

  I don’t answer. Can’t. My hand slides to the curve of her rear, pressing her against me with a growl, a growl countered by a soft moan. Heat rushes through my veins as I stagger forward, pressing her hard against the doorframe.

  ‘Maybe I’m not going to let you.’ Despite her soft words, I hear the invitation and see the provocation in her languid gaze. A second later, a low groan rises from the depths of my chest as she sucks my bottom lip into her mouth, sinking her teeth mercilessly into the flesh as though she’d keep me there. Lips pressing hard, tongues thrusting, my hand moving to the hem of her dress as she tilts her head, giving me access to the skin of her neck.

  A crash like cymbals sounds from beyond the kitchen, a curse following. I don’t think I noticed any of it had Rose not stilled beneath me. But now that I stilled, I see that I’m ruining my own plans.

  ‘I can’t decide if your skin is softer here,’ I whisper, my fingers skimming her inner thigh. ‘Or here.’ I press the most teasing of open-mouthed kisses in the hollow below her ear, making her shiver.

  ‘You’re a tease, Remy Durrand.’

  ‘There’s pleasure in lingering. I’d like to show you again sometime.’ Sometime not now as I pull away. Her lips are slightly swollen and kiss pink, even if currently quirked mockingly. ‘Perhaps you’d let me linger in your kitchen again?’

  ‘You never give up, do you?’

  Taking her palms in my hands, I move my shoulders in the tiniest of shrugs. Not until I get what I want, I hope it says. ‘This house is yours, and I hope one day you’ll invite me to be here with you.’

  ‘And in the meantime?’

  ‘I wait. Until you’re ready to say you love me.’

  Until you’re ready to confess what your heart already knows.

  Hénri takes Rose home after a much more sedate kiss at the front door, the kind that left her giggling and complaining about being watched and feeling like a schoolgirl. Like a lot of things between us, our high school dating experiences wildly differ. While she speaks of chaste good-night kisses behind hedges and places her mother couldn’t see, I can only recall the young mathematics teacher who didn’t last at the school very long, though long enough for me to lose my virginity. Willing chalet girls during ski holidays who were possessed with what seemed like at the time, a world of experience, and weekends of sneaking local girls into the school grounds during term time. Our experiences may be very different, but Rose and I, we are not. We both want.

  ‘Kissing you goodbye isn’t what I want,’ I’d told her, brushing away the fallen strands of her hair. ‘I want to be able to kiss you good night every night.’

  ‘So you give me a house?’ Her voice held more than a note of cynicism, but her gaze was soft. ‘Maybe you should get a tent and pitch it in the garden.’ Her laughter vibrated through my chest, and I wanted nothing more than to keep her there. To take her upstairs, fall into the bed. Fall into her.

  It will happen. Just not tonight. Tonight, I gave her a lot to think about, and I hope she climbs into bed tonight and dreams of our future.

  The caterers leave, and the housekeeper retires for the evening while I top up my glass and wander out into the garden. Below, the lights of Monaco glint and gleam like fireflies, the sea beyond as motionless as dark-coloured glass. I wonder when exactly I should mention to Rose that her house comes with staff. That should be an interesting conversation. Maybe one that ends with a little more fulfillment than a fumble in the kitchen.

  Perhaps I should see it as delayed gratification. But she was so hot under my fingertips, and she’d watched with the kind of intensity that made my vision go hazy with need. There will be other times, I tell myself. A lifetime of moments; happy ones, angry ones, years spent in bed making it up to her. Because I envisage I’ll be the one at fault. As I am now. Because I can’t help myself.

  À chaque jour suffit sa peine. Trouble for another day.

  For now, I go to the marina.

  The night is still mild as Hénri drives me to Port Hércules with instructions to collect me in the morning. On the quayside, I find myself whistling as I weave my way between the parked Ferraris and Aston Martins as I head to the pontoon where Le Bon Loup, the three-hundred-and-fifty-foot super yacht registered to Wolf Industries, is moored. I’d grown up on boats, or rather yachts, and owned quite a few of them myself. If you want to live the life of the profligate rich, you have to have the toys. Meaning yachts to party on, high-p
owered motorcycles to race, and cars to cruise in. An apartment in every uber-cool city and the girl on your arm. It’s a life you bore of before long. That’s when I sold up and bought a piece of an island, where I learned to sail and to build instead of destroy. I tell myself I could have those days back, but the lure of business is still too great.

  But still, I enjoy owning the toys, even if this one is more a tax break, and Le Loup is the largest boat I’ve ever owned. So much so that she’s not the kind of vessel I could operate myself, requiring both crew and captain. She’s a status symbol; an indicator of wealth and power, rather than something you can take out on a sunny Sunday afternoon. Polished oak floors and designer bedrooms. A saltwater swimming pool, a jacuzzi, and space to lounge until your heart is content all on one deck. She has a formal dining room large enough to seat twenty and space to entertain, whether that be dancing or gathering around the baby grand piano or seated at the cocktail bar. Sleek, yet grand and imposing, she really is ridiculous but a good way to fox the taxman. And the place I’ll be sleeping for the next few nights.

  The vessel is moored at the very end of the wharf, stern to, which is reversed in, I suppose, with the port side almost parallel with the pier wall. I approach the passerelle, the gangway, and though I don’t have the prerequisite footwear, I don’t intend to go barefoot once on board. Boat rules are barefoot or boat shoes, but as I’m heading directly for the master cabin, my bespoke Berluti’s will have to do.

  I take a moment to watch the moon riding high as I contemplate how much more open Rose was this evening. It’s taken almost a month to get her to see how much I regret hurting her. A month for us both to realise how much I love her. I suppose the old adage is right; absence does make the heart grow fonder. Not that, strictly speaking, she’s been physically absent from my life, but I’ve felt the loss of her in my bed each and every night. Lord knows, or perhaps I should rather invoke Everett’s name, I’ve tormented her with my presence enough to drive her over the edge. But my plan is about to come full circle because tonight she looked at me with such a softness that I can believe she truly loves me, though she might not yet have said so.