Liar Liar

by Donna Alam

  ‘You did. Like a magpie about to peck the glass and flee the scene.’

  ‘Well, I do like sparkly things,’ I reply, adding a little confusion to my embarrassment.

  ‘Carson Hayes.’ He holds out his hand for me to shake. He’s tall and blonde with swimmers’ shoulders; the kind of all-American golden boy movies love to depict.

  ‘Rose,’ I offer, meeting his hand briefly.

  ‘Could I ask you to do me a favour?’

  I eye him like a very sensible eight-year-old who’s just been offered a peek at some puppies. ‘That all depends.’

  ‘Well, I have to buy a gift, and I’m really terrible at it.’

  ‘Oh? Well, sure.’ I am, after all, kind of an expert these days.

  ‘All ready for you now.’ Yuri appears once again, holding out a glossy bag and my card. I sign the tiny slip of paper and turn back to Carson.

  ‘How old?’

  ‘I’m thirty-two,’ he answers with a cocky half-grin.

  ‘Not you. How old is the person you’re buying the gift for? Also, gender. Though I guess you’re buying a gift for a woman.’

  ‘And what makes you say that?’ Now he’s trying to be cute.

  ‘Well, you were looking at the women’s watches,’ I reply, pointing out the case behind us.

  ‘You’re right. It’s for my grandmother. It’s her birthday.’

  ‘Happy birthday to her!’ I smile widely, covering the hope that he was about to say his girlfriend because I’ve no time for cute. ‘Well, I’m kind of on a schedule, so shall we?’ I turn and wink at Yuri. Maybe I should ask for a commission, but I guess one good turn deserves another.

  ‘Does she like silver or gold? What about the one with the blue face?’

  ‘I think the dial is too small,’ he says, frowning down at the glass case. ‘Did you get what you were looking for?’ His words are so mild in their delivery that I know he overheard. Whatever. What are the chances he overheard everything? Not high, I’d guess. Besides, it’s not like he just caught me slipping diamonds into my pockets.

  ‘Yep, I totally did, thanks.’

  ‘Did I hear you say you work for Wolf Industries?’

  I play back my earlier conversation with Yuri. Did I mention the company name? I don’t think so. I don’t even think I mentioned the word concierge.

  ‘I do,’ I answer carefully. ‘But I don’t recall saying so.’

  ‘Busted.’ He smiles all white teeth and aw-shucks. I bet it works for him plenty, too. But not with me. ‘I overheard you say mention Remy and then the thing with the watch.’

  I feel myself frown. Damn.

  ‘Well, this is a watch shop, sure,’ I answer, refusing to admit anything else.

  ‘Exactly. You were picking up his watch.’ And if I’m not admitting anything, I guess he’s playing along, too.

  ‘Do you know Mr Durrand?’

  ‘Oh, it’s Mr Durrand now.’ He smiles again, but I’m tiring of his repertoire.

  ‘Well, he is the boss. Now, shall we get back to this watch?’

  We browse a few more minutes, and I recruit the assistance of Yuri, and it isn’t too much longer before she’s ringing up a five-thousand-dollar sale. Lucky grandma.

  ‘It was nice meeting you, Carson. I hope your grandmother has a great birthday.’ I mark to turn when he speaks again.

  ‘I hope you don’t think I’m being too forward, but would you allow me buy you a coffee to thank you for your help?’

  ‘Oh, no. That’s fine. You really don’t have to do that.’

  ‘But I’d like to. Not just to say thanks but because, well, I also think you’re very pretty.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Accept the compliment, then move on. ‘And I’m sorry, but I’m already seeing someone.’

  ‘Lucky him.’ He pulls out another smile, this one a touch more insincere. ‘Let me give you my card. Just in case.’

  Nothing like suggesting to a girl; I hope your relationship fails!

  He pulls out a tiny silver case, handing me an embossed piece of finery. Business cards. How old-school. It reads,

  Carson Hayes III

  COO Hayes Construction

  ‘Who are Carson Hayes the first and second?’ I muse.

  Oops, I probably should’ve mused a little quieter, judging by the quirk of his mouth.

  ‘My grandfather and my father,’ he answers equably. ‘You should ask Remy about us.’

  Should I frown a little fake confusion for the sake of propriety? Remy? Who could that be again? We’re hardly a secret anymore, but there’s something a little strange about this exchange. In the end, I say nothing, mainly because he speaks first.

  ‘Well, Rose, I’m sure I’ll see you around.’

  ‘Absolutely.’ Though, not if I see you first. ‘Monaco is a small place.’

  With that, I shove the damn card in the bag with the watch, give the man my own version of a disingenuous smile, and get out.

  41

  Rose

  Friday morning, my email inbox yields another surprise: an appointment this time.

  ‘Charles, do you know anything about this?’

  He lifts his head from his screen, swinging around in his ergonomic to face me. ‘Bien sûr.’ Of course. ‘I make the appointment for you wis Glenna. Please confirm the time. Fee is driving me to your new house to watch the magic ’appen.’

  ‘It’s not my house. It’s Remy’s.’ But Glenna Goodman? The stylist in Monaco? Olga recently hauled my butt over the coals for being unable to get an appointment for one of the residents. ‘Did he put you up to this—Remy?’ Is this another gift?

  ‘He asked.’ Only Charles could lift and drop his shoulder with such an attitude. ‘You have a gown to buy for the gala next weekend.’

  ‘I can shop for myself.’

  ‘H&M won’t do, mon petite canard,’ he answers, full of condescension as he makes as though to tap my nose.

  ‘I’m not your little duck,’ I retort, knocking his hand away. ‘I’m perfectly capable of picking up a gown for next Saturday. In fact, I found a cute little vintage designer store in Monaco-Ville last week.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I tried on a couple of dresses that might work.’ Maybe. With a little alteration. ‘Plus, there’s a rent-a-gown place in Nice that Fee told me about. You can go to the store to try the dresses on or order online for delivery.’ So Fee said.

  ‘But your poitrine généreuse?’ he asks with such distaste, indicating my chest. No, not indicating but rather rubbing the air in front of them as though they were drawn on a whiteboard he’s trying to scrub clean.

  ‘They’re called boobs, Charles. Or breasts. You can use your big-boy words.’

  ‘I only say you need the help.’

  ‘I must need psychiatric help,’ I mutter, swinging my chair away from him. ‘Some friend you are.’ I begin to tap the keys of my laptop a little viciously.

  ‘You will see,’ he answers, unconcerned.

  ‘Anyway, what do you mean you and Fee are coming?’

  ‘What I said,’ he replies without turning. You will need moral support. And Fee and I want to see the magic ’appen. Glenna normally only styles for rich or royalty. You should be grateful.’

  Maybe he’s right. Instead, I feel railroaded.

  I don’t hear from Remy that morning so I assume he’s too busy for lunch today. Instead, I grab a sandwich and work through, trying hard to ignore my grumpy mood. More money. A house. A driver to take me to and from said house. What’s next? A elephant on a gold chain? A magic carpet?

  With the last of those thoughts, I find myself sitting back in my chair with a wry grin. My life is a fairy tale—this is my once upon a time and maybe even my happily ever after. There are a lot of things to fight in this world; discrimination, gender equality, homelessness, poverty, and food security. As I sit, I realise, each of these has touched my life in some way. I’ve lived hand to mouth as a child, and as an adult, there have been times where I almost didn�
��t have a roof over my head. I’ve been touched and spoken to in ways no person should have. I am literally complaining my diamond shoes aren’t a good fit.

  If my Prince Charming wants me to see Monaco’s most selective stylist, then I’ll make sure my underwear matches, open a bottle of champagne, and pretend I damn well enjoy it.

  Pretend to enjoy it. Pretend, pretend, pretend.

  Glenna Goodman and I, well, we don’t hit it off exactly. She complains about having to travel out to “the sticks”, as she puts it, and is mighty unimpressed when I don’t have someone there to help her wheel her wares into the house, despite having an assistant all of her own who followed her car here in a black Mercedes van brimming with fashion goodies. Tall and austere looking, she is, as you would expect, the kind of effortlessly stylish that reminds me of an older-era Lauren Bacall.

  ‘Usually, I spend the day with a new client getting to know them better, getting a feel of their lifestyle,’ she says in drawling, laconic tones. ‘How do they spend their day? What kind of movement their wardrobe requires?’

  ‘I don’t have a very physical job,’ I reply, just in case she thinks she’s getting me into something with elastic at the knees. ‘The most strenuous aspect of my day might be picking up something from Gucci for one of my clients. I slide Marco, Glenna’s assistant, a sympathetic smile.

  ‘I meant how often you’re required to move from the office to meetings, to functions in the evening.’

  ‘Oh.’ I nod, eyebrows riding high on my forehead. ‘My mistake.’

  ‘May I top up your champagne, Glenna?’ Fee asks from the sofa. I’m not sure if it’s a sense of awe or fear that has her sitting so primly; straight-backed, knees together, hands placed carefully on her lap.

  ‘No, thank you,’ Glenna answers. ‘One glass is sufficient when I’m working. I’d also like to take a look in your closet while I’m here. To see what we have to work with.’ Her eyes flicker over me, from my ballet flats and skinny black jeans to the silver-blue square-necked blouse I’m wearing. I can almost sense her disappointment.

  ‘Actually, Glenna, right now, I just need something for the gala.’

  ‘As I understood it, Monsieur Durrand required more outfits for your perusal?’ She turns to Charles, who begins to speak in rapid French, the older woman deigning to nod in several places.

  ‘I explained you do not have your full wardrobe at this house.’

  ‘Yes, that’s true.’ I shrug; whatcha gonna do? There’s no way I’m letting this woman get a hand on my drawers. Also, Monsieur Durrand can “require” all he likes.

  ‘Then this selection will have to do for now. Perhaps at a later date, we can book in your shopping consultation. I am available in Monaco, of course, but also for trips to Milan or Paris, as you wish.’

  I wish not to go shopping with you anywhere, least of all for a little continental hop to shop. Plus, with me, you’re more likely to get a lift on the back of a bicycle than a Gulfstream even if I own neither. When I don’t reply beyond a benign smile, she gestures to Marco, who begins to unzip a dress cover lifted from a gleaming gold-coloured garment rack, glossy shoeboxes sitting underneath, a dazzling array of brands. Dior, Louboutin, Manolo Blahnik, Chanel; the stack of labelled boxes goes on and on. I’m handed a garment of tissue-thin silk and gestured into something that looks like a windowless sound booth, which is actually Glenna’s portable fitting room.

  Have van . . . will bring the kitchen sink!

  Inside the box, I slip into the dress, happy I’m not flashing my (matching) underwear as originally feared. I pull up the concealed side zipper and take a look in the mirror. I look like I belong in a box of Valentine’s chocolates picked up at Bergdorf. There is also the possibility it might cut off circulation to my heart because it’s so tight.

  ‘Oh, pink.’ Fee is the first to speak. Diplomatically.

  ‘Well spotted,’ I find myself answering.

  ‘No, this is not the dress for you,’ Glenna decrees. ‘The Valentino.’

  And so it goes. I try on six dresses in colours of a kid’s painting palette. A red from Valentino. A yellow from Givenchy. A blue from YSL. A black from Off-White. If you’d asked me a month ago if I’d enjoy an evening of trying on designer wear or statement dresses, I would’ve said hell yeah! Until I came to Monaco, I’d never even been close to this kind of luxury. But right now, I’m hot, and I’m antsy, and I’m beginning to think I just don’t have the body type for designer dresses. Too tight in the chest, or the arm, the waistlines too long. According to Glenna, some of these can be altered in the right dress. But we’ve yet to find “the one”.

  She’s not taking it well . . .

  ‘Marco!’ she snaps. ‘The Chanel. Not the orange but the white.’

  White and I are not friends. White is an invitation to spilled spaghetti sauce and splashes of red wine and sitting through a dinner with a napkin tucked in your neck.

  Stylish, yes?

  ‘I’m . . . not sure,’ I begin as the woman turns her gimlet glare my way, but I won’t be browbeaten. Doesn’t she know who the customer is here? But as Marco’s arms begin to slowly retract the offer, I see the look on his face. I hear you, my friend. There are better ways to spend a Friday evening. ‘Okay.’ I make a grabby hand in his direction, my words unenthusiastic. ‘Pass it over.’ What’s one more wrong dress added to the total?

  The dress flutters over my head, my arms gliding effortlessly through the armholes, the fabric settling at my waist where it falls to the ground in luxurious swathes.

  I suck in a breath as I pull up the zipper, tightening the braided silk belt before I dare to take a peek at my reflection. And ‘Oh, my God.’

  ‘Oh, that sounds exciting,’ says Fee from beyond the box.

  ‘I knew ’zis would be the one,’ Charles bursts out. ‘Let us see, Rose.’

  But I’m too busy looking at myself, though I think the actual word is admiring.

  I run my fingers along the ribbon-like wrap-around top. The neckline is low, the cowl cut somehow both minimising and bringing attention to my chest. It’s not exactly white in colour, maybe more oyster, and there’s something almost Grecian about it. Whatever the style, I’ve never had a dress make me feel like this. Look like this. And as I step out from the box, Glenna’s smile is immediate.

  ‘This,’ she announces. ‘This is why I love my job. Darling, you look divine.’ Her voice seems to drop a whole octave on the last word. ‘Marco, the shoes.’ She snaps her fingers. ‘Not those ones, stupide!’

  I’m handed a pair of matching sandals by her red-faced assistant. Spike heels and leather fashioned into silver ropes. I put them on, and the dress is pinned at the hem, and all the while, I can’t restrain my happiness. Glenna makes another few suggestions from her golden rack of gorgeousness, and as the dress is such a success, I find myself eager to try them on.

  ‘That’s gorgeous,’ Fee marvels, fingering the ruffle of a blouse by a French designer, Jour/Ne.

  ‘Why don’t you splurge?’ I suggest. But she just wrinkles her nose and shakes her head. While she’s not looking, I add it to my pile of purchases. Remy might be picking up Glenna’s exorbitant appointment fee, along with the dress, but the other things I’ll buy. Including my gift to Fee.

  Glenna sweeps off in her low-slung Jaguar a little while later following delivery of double air-kisses to all and an almost emotionally charged au-revoir. Probably because she earned a fortune in fees and commission tonight. Marco hangs back to exchange numbers with Charles, but before he leaves, I ask him if he has anything in the van than might be a little more masculine. And he does; boxed gift sets containing a tie and a matching pocket square. I take two of the exact same design. While Charles might be currently enjoying a little flirt with Marco, I know he’ll just die when I tell him Remy and he are tie twins.

  As everyone leaves, I deposit the last glass to the dishwasher when my phone buzzes with a text. A text from Monsieur Baguette, as I’ve saved Remy’s number in
my phone.

  Did you buy anything nice?

  One or two things, I reply. If you’re good, I might show you when you get home.

  If I’m very good, do you think you might take them off for me instead?

  Mr Durrand, what kind of girl do you think I am?

  There follows a series of short replies.

  A smart one.

  A stunning one.

  Delectable from head to toe.

  Not really a girl at all, but all woman.

  A willing woman, I hope.

  Also, mine.

  That volley of texts. Those simple characters typed into his phone, the knowledge they bring, causes a series of tiny explosions of delight deep inside.

  I missed you today, I type back, which is a pretty lame reply, compared to his.

  I’ve missed you, too. But I’ll see you soon.

  Any idea how long? Are you hungry at all?

  Forty-five minutes. I had dinner earlier, but I’m sure you can guess what I’m hungry for.

  I’ll see what I can rustle up ;)

  A winky face. What am I, twelve?

  A shimmer of anticipation washes through me as I place my phone down, and my eyes fall to the gift boxes of ties. And a spark of inspiration hits. I know just what my man needs after a hard day at the office.

  Me!

  42

  Remy

  Closing the door behind me, I resist the urge to call out honey, I’m home. I find myself smiling at my own ridiculousness, but if home is where the heart is, she is it.

  I twist my head to my shoulders, left then right, the satisfying click of joints and stretch of cartilage easing the tension in my shoulders as I slide my jacket off. A fresh bowl of lilies sits in the centre of the Art Deco era occasional table, their scent sickly sweet and reminiscent of funerals. I make a mental note to ask the housekeeper not to order them again as I quickly sift through the mail.

  Nothing of note. Also, nothing for Rose. Perhaps I should ask Paulette to sign her up to some circulars; mail in her name to tie her to the building that has already won her heart. She loves this old place, and I love seeing her here. I love us being here. Together.