by Donna Alam
‘Consider it the price of information.’ The investigator had set up a meeting with the head honcho crim. But if you’re not interested . . .’ He allows his words to trail off, like a carrot dangling from a piece of string.
‘I told you, I no longer care.’
‘But this has nothing to do with Rose,’ he says with such gravitas that my mind ceases to whirr. ‘Two accidents in five months, or two attempts on your life? You already know which my money is on.’
‘Tell me,’ I demand. ‘Tell me everything.’
‘The owner of the shop isn’t your run-of-the-mill criminal. He’s not some thug for hire and is mixed up in some pretty heavy shit.’
‘I don’t give a fuck who he is or what he does. What I want to know is what happened.’ Has someone tried to murder me twice?
‘In which case, you don’t want to put the investigation on ice, right?’
I narrow my gaze at some cost.
‘It doesn’t have to be about her. Or it might. But do you really want to leave it to a third successful time to find out?’
‘Bring me the information. All of it.’ Better it’s in my hands than anywhere else.
‘That’s more like the twisty fucker I know.’
I shrug off his words. Even that hurts today. I’m left to ponder my decision for the rest of the afternoon, and though I know Rose has nothing to do with any of this intrigue, the echo of Rhett’s voice takes up space in my consciousness.
No one tried to kill you before she came into your life.
You still don’t know how she came to be in the will.
The fact that she found you that night could mean she’s in on the whole thing.
It’s all bullshit of course. And I can see he barely believes it himself, but I understand his reservations, because he doesn’t know Rose like I do.
39
Rose
The days pass and as the doctor suggested, Remy’s health improves steadily. Headaches lessen, dizzy spells dissipate, and the lethargy he suffered from seems to disappear almost overnight. Which means he’s back to work and no longer complaining about me doing the same.
Honestly, I did get his point. The company pays my salary, and he owns the company, so in effect, he pays me. But that doesn’t mean he gets to say where I’ll spend my days. There are a whole host of managers between him and me. Besides, I have colleagues to think about. Even if one of those colleagues would dump me in a heartbeat should Remy suddenly decide he prefers dick.
But things at work are good. It seems Olga has decided to stop being a mega-bitch to me, which certainly makes the days more pleasant. As for the accident itself, Remy remembers little about it, and the couple of attempts I’ve made to discuss it with Everett have fallen on deaf ears. I thought we’d reached a kind of understanding in the hospital, but I guess not because he still insists on being a pain in my ass every time I see him.
It’s a little after seven when my phone rings. I’m expecting Remy home around now and wonder if it’s him as I hop down from my stool and hurry across the kitchen, swiping it from the countertop next to the fridge.
Amber’s number flashes up on the screen.
‘What are you doing up?’ I know it’s later and I mentally calculate the time difference, coming to the conclusion that it’s three a.m. in Sydney. Late or early?
‘I’m on baby duty,’ she answers. ‘Byron has a meeting in the city tomorrow at sparrow’s fart.’ Sparrow’s fart is Aussie speak for early morning. ‘I don’t want him up half the night with the baby . I like him a little too much to risk him falling asleep at the wheel on the freeway.’
‘You’re sure embracing the language,’ I say, a smile leaking through my response as I make my way over to the island bench, hopping back up onto one of the velvety high-back stools.
‘I am raising my own little Aussie and living in a house full of the ratbags. I figured if you can’t beat them, join them,’ she says, using the insult as a term of endearment. I think.
‘How is beautiful baby Beryl?’
‘You know that’s not her name,’ she replies fondly.
‘Maybe not. But you know it’s going to stick.’ Given the whole family is already calling her Beryl and has been almost from the day she arrived. Byron had even sent a photo to my phone last week of her blowing spit bubbles, the accompanying text had read: Beryl loves bubbles as much as her mum.
But I think I’ll keep that to myself right now.
‘We won’t let it, will we Ruby-Roo?’ From somewhere nearby, a baby coos.
Mattie, Edie, and Ruby. All the “e”names together, and individually, all very cute.
‘Because Ruby-Roo is such an improvement on Beryl.’
‘Ruby’s a lovely name,’ Amber retorts.
‘Oh, agreed. It’s so pretty it doesn’t need the additional kangaroo suffix.’ Even if it’s a little cutesy.
‘Ah, listen to Auntie Rose sniping, Rubes.’
‘Urgh. I give up. But I will say you’re taking these early mornings very well.’ When we travelled, Amber was not a fan of early mornings, as I recall.
‘I’ve had four months to get used to it. Besides, I can’t complain when I get to wake up to this gorgeous smiling face, can I, baby girl?’
‘I’m assuming you’re not asking me.’ Not in that babying tone, at least.
‘What are you up to?’
I lean back in the chair and stare at the crystal chandelier that wouldn’t have been hanging there back in the day. In fact, I’m pretty sure this kitchen wouldn’t have looked anything like this. I’m not just talking about the fancy cabinets and appliances but how airy and light the space is.
‘I suppose I’m partaking in a little self-care,’ I reply, swinging my feet.
‘So, you’re drinking.’
‘I also have snacks.’
‘Cheese?’
‘Camembert,’ I confirm, twisting my barely touched plate a little straighter.
‘That’s it?’
I eye my cheese and wine party for one debating the merits of telling the truth. ‘I also have a little Roquefort that can be described as plus fort, or in other words, it smells to high heavens. But I’m told it tastes almost celestial.’
‘Nice,’ she responds. ‘What else?’
‘I have a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon, aired for, oh, at least three minutes.’ No need to tell her that selecting a bottle from the cellar was not a fun experience. What if I picked a thousand-euro bottle, or something that wasn’t really wine at all? Because other than the usual wine terms—Pinot, Merlot, Chardonnay, Sauvignon, rosé, rouge, and blanc—I don’t really know what the labels say at all.
I need to take French lessons.
I also need to get over myself. So what if, back in the day, olden day Rose would’ve been a scullery maid and not the lady of the house. I decide I’m not sharing any of this with Amber today. Not the cellar, not the house with twenty rooms and a legion of staff—okay, a housekeeper, a cleaner, and a gardener don’t quite amount to a legion, but it’s still a lot—and not the shitty stuff that happened to me today.
As far as Amber is concerned, I’d planned on staying with Remy in his house during his period of convalescence, that we’d enjoyed the arrangement so much, I haven’t yet moved out.
‘You wine philistine.’ She giggles. ‘Byron would have an absolute fit to hear that. He’s already drawing up a list of wines he wants you to bring when you visit. You know, so he can prove to the world that Australian wines really are the best.’
‘I don’t know. I’ve had some pretty tasty wines out here.’
‘Don’t let him hear you say that,’ she says with a chuckle.
‘Anyway, a year out here and maybe I’ll be cultured enough to hold my own at your dinner table.’ I’ll also have saved enough for a business class flight. Because I pay my own way.
‘Our table? If you can cope with chicken nuggets, you’ll do,’ she replies, obviously referring to the little Phillips people. ‘Now
, go ahead and pleasure me with more of your cheese porn, please.’
‘That sounds so wrong.’
‘I didn’t say anything about dick cheese!’
‘Amber,’ I whisper, faux-scandalised. ‘Not in front of the baby!’
‘With Byron for a dad, her first words will probably be fuck.’
From different time zones, we set off laughing.
‘Tell me what cheese you’re eating, please. Oh, next time you visit, I’ll take you to this tiny boutique dairy I’ve recently found. Edie went there for a school trip last term.’
‘To eat cheese? That doesn’t sound very educational.’
‘To see how it’s made, but mostly she was just pooped on by the cows on the farm.’
‘Oh, man. I can’t imagine how she’d have taken that.’
‘She’ll probably still be having nightmares when she’s twelve. Cheese!’ she demands. ‘Breastfeeding has turned me into a cheese beast.’
‘Well, I have a little Pélardon,’ I say, moving it around my plate. ‘It’s a goat’s cheese from the Languedoc. Plus, a small bunch of grapes—’
‘For decoration, of course. What about crackers?’
‘Mon Dieu! The French don’t eat their cheese with crackers They eat it with bread.’
‘Good. You passed the test. And, oh my God. Une baguette, une baguette! My kingdom for une baguette!’
‘I thought you said if you’d seen one baguette, you’d seen them all.’ Talk about innuendo.
‘Taste is a different experience altogether,’ she answers a little primly. ‘And the smell is almost heavenly.’
‘Unless the baguette is in sweatpants that haven’t been washed in three weeks.’
‘I’m talking about bread. French bread. I love, love, love a trip to the boulangerie!’ The bakery. ‘And the patisserie.’ Also known as the bakery not for bread.
‘Ew, stop with the sex groans. You’re in charge of an impressionable child, remember?’
‘Airy macarons, mille feuilles, and the dacquoise I ate in Pierre Hermé in Paris,’ she continues, completely ignoring me as she runs through her list of patisserie porn. ‘Oh, hazelnut meringue! Chocolate ganache, and Chantilly crème—seven layers of delicate deliciousness that just melts in the mouth!’
‘I got the bread from le marche,’ I admit. Basically, the grocery store.
‘That bread is no substitute! Get thee to the boulangerie!’
‘I’ll take it under advisement.’ I usually ignore the aroma as I pass the boulangerie nearest to the office. My ass needs less carbs. Besides, it’s not like I have to do the grocery shopping myself these days.
‘It’s got to be dinnertime there, right? And you’re eating cheese all alone?’
‘Remy will be home soon. Dinner’s cooked’—though not by me—‘but I decided I couldn’t wait.’
‘No, sweets. In French terms, you’ve just switched the courses around a little.’
‘I like that idea. It’s better than stress eating any day.’ The explanation rolls off my tongue before I can bite it back.
‘Stress eating? Is it the job? The boyfriend? Do you have too much glamour in your life these days?’
‘Do you know French women don’t get fat?’ I say airily instead, flipping over the book I’ve placed next to my plate. The title in a bold font reads:
French Women Don’t Eat Cake
And Other Reasons French Women Aren’t Fat.
I wasn’t going to say anything to her but find I can’t help myself.
‘They don’t? Maybe I should apply for a passport.’ Amber’s answer is accompanied by a snort. ‘This baby weight is proving a little harder to shift than I imagined.’
‘Puh-lease. You are hot!’ And still slim. I’ve seen the proof on Facebook. ‘Also, you cooked a whole human in your goddess bod.’
‘Let me tell you, it still looks like I’m cooking something in there. Maybe a cake.’
‘Well, French women don’t eat cake,’ I grumble, flicking through the pages.
‘Then they’re living very, very boring lives. What exactly is this about?’ Her tone turns a little militant. ‘There are women who would kill for your figure. And men who’d kill to get their hands on it.’
‘Easy for you to say when you don’t have to shove your fat ass into an evening gown soon.’
‘Ohhh!’ she trills. ‘Who’s having a party?’
‘Remy’s mom.’
‘Is she nice?’
‘I’ve no idea.’ But if she’s half as nice as Amber’s mother-in-law, I’ll be happy. Sally Phillips must be the gold standard.
‘You’re going to her party, but you haven’t met her?’
‘Apparently, she’s been busy.’ Too busy to be told about her son’s accident while she does whatever she’s doing in the Bahamas. ‘So I’m told. And it’s not a party. It’s a benefit gala.’
‘That sounds kind of scary as far as first meetings go.’
‘It gets worse. Remy’s ex has been her right-hand woman through the planning.’
‘Far out!’
‘I think the word you’re looking for is fuck.’
Fuck is as good a word as any to use right now, even if my bestie doesn’t know about the whole business-deal-fiancée-fiasco because I figured it’d be something easier explained face-to-face, at a time when it doesn’t smart quite so much. We’ll crack open a bottle of wine and tell war stories about how we were both pursued by gorgeous and determined men, men who hadn’t the sense to wait for us to turn up first. Gorgeous men who had pasts that lingered and hung around like a bad smell. Or maybe that’s just my take on things, I think as I glance at the book once more.
‘Yes, totally. Fuck her. You’ll look ravishing, and you’ll have the man on your arm. And she won’t.’
Or maybe I didn’t confide in Amber because I couldn’t bring myself to explain it all.
‘Anyway, French women do eat cake. That’s just the title of some book from a few years ago.’
‘Yeah, I know. I just found a copy on my doorstep.’ Not here, but back at the Tower. I’d gone to collect some clothes after work to find a wrapped package lying next to my door. I thought maybe a neighbour had dropped it on the way past because mail isn’t delivered this way. But when I’d picked it up, I saw it was addressed to me.
‘You found a copy on your doorstep? Is it, like, a failed Amazon delivery?’
‘Nope,’ I reply with a bitter sounding chuckle. ‘It was addressed to me, gift-wrapped, and lying on my welcome mat.’
‘You do not have a welcome mat.’
‘You’re right, I don’t.’ But I think I might get one for this place. You know, while I’m pretending it’s mine. Something totally kitsch and maybe just a little bit tasteless. ‘But if I did have a doormat, that’s where the book would’ve been.’
‘And your theory as to who left it there is what?’
‘I don’t know.’ Not for sure, at least.
‘Have you made any enemies at work?’
‘I’m not super close with my boss, but I don’t think she’s the subtle type.’
‘I can tell you have your suspicions, so go ahead and say it. You think the ex left it for you, right?’
I squish a wedge of camembert between the cheese knife and the plate feeling more than a little mutinous. I can’t believe I’m allowing her to put me off my little cheese platter, but it’s like the tasty fun has been sucked out it. ‘Yeah, I think so. If not her, who else?’
‘Fat is a feminist issue, so they say. But it sounds like, in this case, fat is an issue of insecurity.’
‘Don’t ever go into counselling, babe.’
‘I’m not talking about you, dummy. You are gorgeous, even if your brand of self-deprecating is a little old.’
‘Amber, the woman looks like a Victoria’s Secret model,’ I answer, uncomfortable with how plaintive my words sound.
‘So? You think skinny girls don’t have insecurities? Believe me, anyone looking at you would n
ever believe you think your ass is fat. We all have our issues. While you’re cursing her skinny ass, she’s probably cursing your curves. The grass is always greener, even when it’s really not.’
‘You must really be sleep deprived.’ Because she’s not making sense. No one who looks like Amélie could be in any doubt of how attractive they are.
‘You are every bit as gorgeous as she is, I’ll bet. You are everything you’re trying to convince yourself you’re not.’
‘I own a mirror, Amber.’ I’ll never be in the same league. ‘I don’t have blonde hair, and I will never fit into a size two dress unless I get a bad case of dysentery.’
‘You don’t want to be a size two. You want to be you. Remy wants you to be you. If he’d wanted you to be her, he’d be dating her—or some clone of her. The bitch is trying to get in your head, and what’s more, you’re letting her.’ In the background, Beryl, I mean, Ruby begins to fuss. ‘See, even Rubes here knows you’re being an idiot. And she’s not happy about it.’
We chat a little more as Amber feeds the baby. We keep our voices low as she tells me what’s going on in Riposo Estates, regaling me with tales of her little ones. Man, I miss their antics and their cute faces.
‘Oh, goodness!’ Mid-sentence, Amber stretches the exclamation out over several syllables and an almost jaw-cracking yawn.
‘Why don’t you go back to bed?’
‘Because it’s nearly time to get back up again.’ But her protest is half-hearted, and we begin to say our goodbyes. I top up my half-empty glass and contemplate throwing the cheese in the trash when Remy appears in the kitchen with a genuine smile on his face.
If he wanted her, he wouldn’t be looking at you like you’re the winning lottery ticket, idiot.
I give myself a mental shake and slide my napkin over the book. Yes, napkin. Because this is the kind of house that brings out the napery in me. But concealing the book means we don’t have to have this conversation, and if we don’t have this conversation, I won’t end up sounding super needy. Independent girl for the win. Or at least the appearances of.