Liar Liar

by Donna Alam

  ‘So, I kissed you and crept from the bed. I made a call. And visited a jeweller at five 0’clock this morning.’

  ‘You must’ve been very persuasive.’

  ‘Aren’t I always, Roísin Samira Ryan?’

  The way he says my name. I melt! No one has ever made it sound so perfect. I find myself dashing away happy tears.

  ‘Don’t cry. At least let me ask you first.’ He pulls a ring from the pocket of his shirt, the diamond setting roughly the size of a quail egg. I’m exaggerating, but it is big. And sparkly. And oh-so beautiful. A platinum band with delicate filigree accents.

  ‘Do you like it?’ I nod as he twists the band between his forefinger and thumb, sunlight dancing across the stone’s facets. ‘I do, too. As soon as I saw it, I knew it was the one.’ Because there’s something rose-like about it he doesn’t have to say.

  ‘I love you more than I love my beautiful Chanel dress,’ I find myself whispering. ‘More than my Piaget watch. More than our gorgeous home, and more than the car sitting in the garage I’m not supposed to know about yet. Because they’re just things. Beautiful things, but I’ve lived without them before. You I love so much, Remy. It’s you I couldn’t live without. Now, please get to the point and ask me to marry you.’

  And so he does.

  ‘It’s so beautiful!’ Fee tilts my hand to the light, marvelling at the ring on my finger.

  ‘Si belle,’ Charles agrees, albeit with a slight frown. ‘And you are not . . .’

  ‘Santa Claus?’ I ask as he makes a fat-ist gesture with his hand.

  ‘What?’ Fee asks, her head swinging to Charles.

  ‘He’s asking there’s going to be a shotgun wedding.’ My mouth twists. ‘What do you think, Charlie?’

  ‘I think nothing. I say nothing. I see nothing. I speak—’

  ‘Too much,’ Olga says, striding into the office. ‘So, you will be leaving us soon?’

  ‘Nope. Unless you know something I don’t.’

  ‘I only know a rich man will not want his wife running around after other rich men. Or women, for that matter. It is not done.’

  ‘Well, I’ll let you know when I’m a rich man’s wife. But for now, I’ll be at my desk, like always.’

  I’d find it hard to describe the look she sends my way before her door slams.

  ‘She’s jealous,’ Fee whispers. ‘Charles told me she used to have a thing with Remy’s dad, Emile?’

  ‘Really?’ I’m not sure why I’m pulling a face. Pot, meet kettle much?

  Charles glances up from his laptop and sort of shrugs. ‘I only know I saw her wis him once.’

  ‘That doesn’t necessarily mean anything, does it?’

  ‘It depends on what she was doing on ’er knees.’

  I roll in my lips to keep myself from laughing.

  ‘That is so bad,’ Fee whispers, her gaze sliding to Olga’s office door. ‘Oh, bloody hell!’ she says, glancing at her watch. ‘I’m going to be late for my afternoon spin class. I just wanted to pop in and offer you my congratulations!’ she squeals a little again, throwing her arms around my shoulders and giving me one heck of a hug. ‘Let’s catch up soon, yeah? And you can tell me all about your wedding plans.’

  ‘Sure!’ Not that there’s much to tell so far. All I know is Remy’s keen to get married sooner rather than later, and I’m all for that. We’ve even talked about the idea of honeymooning in Australia so I can introduce him Amber and her little tribe and, of course, Aussie wines.

  ‘Urgh,’ I find myself complaining as my phone buzzes with a text. ‘I have to schlep out to Monaco One.’

  ‘Why?’ Charles looks up and pulls a face. ‘It is too ’ot outside today for shopping. Go to a mall not outdoors.’

  ‘I can’t. I’ve got a pickup at Max Mara for a client.’

  ‘Too bad. You will get big hair, but you can bring me back a bubble tea? Kiwi, please.’

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ I reply, grabbing my purse from my desk drawer.

  As I’m on my way out of the office, my cell rings with a withheld number.

  ‘Hello, Rose speaking.’

  ‘Rose, this is Benoît. Congratulations! Remy just told me the good news.’

  ‘Thank you.’ My smile spills from my words as I glance down at my ring again. I’m just so happy! Maybe I should get engaged every day. ‘What can I do for you, Ben?’

  ‘I wondered if you’d have time to meet me for a coffee this afternoon.’

  Really? Pourquoi? Or in other words, why?

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ And I hope that sounded sincere. ‘But I’m at work until five and we have dinner reservations for seven.’

  ‘Maybe I could visit before you leave?’

  I feel my expression twist. Remy has been pretty clear about his feelings about Ben. I think he’s still smarting a little he took it upon himself to explain Remy’s involvement with Amélie, even if his cousin was trying to do him a favour, I’m sure.

  ‘I’m not sure that would be a good idea,’ I hedge. ‘By the time I get home, the turnaround time isn’t great. You know, with us living outside of the city these days.’

  ‘Ah, yes. I forgot. Why don’t I meet you at the restaurant, then? It would save me the drive. It really is quite important.’

  Not so important that he’d try to save himself the inconvenience of a little drive out of the city.

  ‘Look, I’m on my way to Monaco One now. Can you meet me there?’

  ‘Perfect. The café near the apartments? Say, thirty minutes?’

  ‘Sure.’

  I hang up and make my way to the mall, reaching it in plenty of time to visit Max Mara first. When I get to the café, Ben is already sitting at a table in the far corner. He stands as I approach and, his hands resting on my shoulders, he presses his lips to my cheek. Once, twice.

  ‘I ordered,’ he says, pushing a tiny espresso cup and saucer across the table towards me. ‘Café crème. That’s right, yes?’

  I nod even though it isn’t my go-to order. As I bring it to my lips, I repress a shiver at the bitter taste. ‘What was it you wanted to see me about?’ I ask, bringing the large Max Mara bag under the table and placing my purse on the floor next to it.

  ‘This is quite difficult for me to say.’ He sits straight in his chair, his lips firm. ‘But I feel I must. You see, I came across some information recently and I didn’t really know what to do with it.’ His expression is troubled as he glances up. Is that . . . sympathy? ‘I was going to ignore it, but then Remy told me this morning that he had proposed, and you had accepted.’

  ‘You’ve kind of lost me.’ I bring the bitter beverage to my lips again, Ben’s next words taking some time to comprehend.

  ‘Remy hasn’t told you the truth, Rose. About how he came to find you. About why you are here. About everything. Your relationship is built on a lie—a mountain of them. You deserve better than that.’

  The coffee turns sour on my tongue as I watch him angle his head, his eyes filled with pity. I don’t have a reply. Just a sickness washing though me.

  ‘Of course, you should see the truth of it,’ he says, reaching for a dark document wallet behind him. He begins to unpack the contents, the items dropping to the table in a blur. Some I understand. Some I can’t make sense of at all. What I do know is, the document and photographs and emails are about me.

  Paperwork detailing my name. My old address. My hours at The Pussy Cat.

  An email trail between Rhett and someone who works for a company called BDT Security Solutions.

  Photographs—dozens of them. One a close up of my face. I’d painted freckles against my cheeks with an eyeliner. I’m wearing my blonde wig with the braids over my own dark hair. As I flip the image over, there’s a name in an unfamiliar hand scrawled on the back.

  Heidi.

  Instinctively, I know this is Everett’s writing.

  More photographs. Some grainy, taken from a distance, so perfect. Like the one taken in The Pussy Cat. I have a silver t
ry in one hand as the other removes a customer’s hand from my ass cheek as I smile. You’d be forgiven for thinking I was enjoying myself. Another at the grocery store, my coat wrapped tight around me as I buy bread and milk and a newspaper.

  But maybe this isn’t all about me. There’s a photograph of a couple; a glamorous blonde and an older man with his arm wrapped around her. He’s wearing a dark suit and a crazy tie while she wears a tiny dress with spaghetti straps, fashions from decades ago.

  ‘I don’t know who this is,’ I whisper, pushing the image back across the table even as I realise my denial is ridiculous.

  ‘That’s okay.’ My skin crawls as leans forward and covers my hand with his own. ‘I don’t know if this is all about you. But what I do know is Remy hasn’t been honest with you. This is you, no?’ He holds up a photograph. I’m wearing my Pussy Cat uniform. Knee high socks and stripper heels, my ass practically hanging out of my shorts, my boobs sitting almost under my chin.

  I’m smiling in this one, too. A smile that says I need the tips.

  ‘You are Heidi?’

  ‘Just stop it.’ I begin to gather the photographs, the emails and whatever the fuck the rest of this stuff is. ‘Put it away. I don’t want to look at it anymore.’

  ‘You don’t want to know who you’re marrying? Why he’s marrying you?’

  ‘I don’t want to look at it in here,’ I grate out. ‘For Christ’s sake, let me think.’

  But thinking is something I’m beginning to struggle with. More than anger and upset, more than pain and embarrassment, I feel sick. Dizzy. Like I’m wading through glue.

  ‘I don’t feel well, Ben.’ I reach for my cup, my hands knocking it over in the saucer.

  ‘It’s okay. You’ve had a shock,’ he says, examining the dregs in the tiny vessel before righting it. He waves away someone from behind me. I suddenly very much want to ask them to stay because, though his manner is mild, the word sinister rings through my mind.

  Sinister. Sinister. It’s all I can think. But I can’t say it.

  Because nothing will come out of my mouth.

  ‘I can see you find this all very upsetting. Let me put everything away and take you to Remy. I’m sure he can explain, okay?’

  Yes. Remy.

  I need him.

  48

  Remy

  ‘Rose?’

  The house is dark. No music. No dancing. No tuneless singing.

  The kitchen is empty. The outer kitchen, too. Then I remember we’re going out for dinner. Everyone has the night off.

  Except for security, but I won’t go there yet.

  Because that would be admitting something is wrong, and I refuse to let my mind run with such thoughts.

  ‘Rose?’ I take the stairs two at a time, my heart lodged in my throat when I realise it’s dark up here, too. Our bedroom door rebounds from the wall as I open it. The bed is made, clothes scattered across it. Her clothes.

  Underwear. Shoes discarded on the floor. Cosmetics lying spilled.

  I move to her dressing area to find coat hangers empty. Clothes lying dropped on the floor.

  ‘Merde.’ I turn and swipe my hand through my hair. Pull at the ends. My reflection in her mirror shocked yet not at all. Didn’t I deserve this? ‘Fuck! Fuck it all.’

  I seem to take the staircase in one leap as I drag my phone from my pocket and dial her number.

  ‘Pick up. Come on, pick up!’ It cuts out. I dial again, this time the automated message informing me that the subscriber is unavailable.

  I send her a text—more than one—panic invading my chest until it aches.

  Where are you?

  Please call.

  Talk to me, Rose.

  I check the rooms once more as I make my way to the office she doesn’t use.

  The desk lamp is on, the low light illuminating a mess of paperwork.

  Photographs.

  Documents.

  Things she would never have seen if it were up to me.

  I step closer, my heart filling with cement because what I’m looking at is betrayal.

  My betrayal of her.

  My phone is still in my hand. I hit call.

  ‘Rhett. She’s gone.’

  ‘Who has?’

  ‘Rose has left. I don’t know how, but she’s seen everything.’

  ‘How the fuck can that be? You haven’t even looked at everything.’

  I didn’t want to. Like a child, if I’d closed my eyes, I wouldn’t be party to it all.

  ‘I’m looking at it all now.’ All of it as I begin to sift the things I know and the things I’m now learning about.

  ‘I’m on my way.’

  The phone cuts out.

  49

  Rose

  My head aches and my limbs feel like they don’t belong to me, my feet numb yet tingling.

  ‘Remy?’ I push myself up to sit, the sensation under my palm as hard as stone.

  ‘Good. You’re awake.’ A figure swims in and out of focus in the gloom. ‘I worried for a moment that I might’ve given you too much.’

  ‘Ben? Is that you?’ He steps away from the corner, his arms folded across his chest, his expression grim. I feel like I should be wary. Like something important has happened, but I can’t think what.

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Like I’ve had the flu.’

  That’s benzodiazepine for you. It can take you to heaven or make you feel like hell.’

  ‘Benzo . . .’ I can barely wrap my mouth around the word.

  ‘Easier just to say roofied.’

  Oh my God. ‘By who?’ But even as I’m asking, my mind is whispering the answer.

  Sinister.

  ‘I’d like to tell you it’ll all come back to you, but it doesn’t usually.’ His voice is even, like we’re talking about the weather or the soccer results, as he pulls out a chair from the darkness. Darkness, yes. We’re in a room. Windowless. But the air is cool. There’s a lamp plugged into the corner on my right, and though the light spilling from it is poor, it still hurts to look.

  ‘That happens sometimes, too,’ he says crossing over to the lamp and tilting the shade to make less glare. ‘Sensitivity to light, headaches, a lack of memory. It sounds like you got all the unfun stuff from your trip.’

  ‘Why did you do this to me?’

  ‘Quite simply because I need you incapacitated for a little while.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’ll tell you, but you need to understand first that if I do, there’s no chance of me letting you go. There will be too much at stake. So, the choice is yours, Rose. Do you want to know all? Know everything?’

  ‘No,’ I answer immediately. ‘Don’t tell me. I don’t want to stay here. Let me go, Ben, and I promise—I promise you on my life—I won’t breathe a word to anyone.’ Images begin to swim through my head. The girl in the blond wig. An old photograph.

  ‘Do you promise you’ll leave? You’ll go far, far away and never come back to Monaco?’ His words are earnest, his expression as solemn as any I’ve ever seen.

  ‘I promise—I’ll go. I’ll leave.’ I’m not entirely sure why I need to leave but I’m pretty sure the first place I’ll go to is the police precinct. ‘I won’t cause you any problems if you just let me leave.’

  ‘You’re either much stupider than I thought, or I dosed you a little too hard. Non.’ His earnest expression falls, like the curtain falling at the end of a play. ‘Maybe you think I am the stupid one.’ In two steps, he’s towering over me. In one frightened heartbeat, he’s crouched in front of me, his hands on my knees. ‘You’re going nowhere. So, I’ll tell you everything.’

  ‘No! I don’t want to hear.’ I recoil from his touch, cold tendrils of dread wrap like vines through my insides, filling my veins with ice water—the sensation seeming to wake me the fuck up.

  ‘Of course you do. Fear lurks in the unknown, Rose. Better to face your future. Make friends with it. Accept it, I think.’

  ‘My fut
ure is not here with you.’

  His smiles indulgently. I almost expect him to reach out and ruffle my hair.

  ‘How long do you think that Austrian man kept his daughter underground?’ My heart jolts, my spine stiffening. ‘Years, certainly. You see, I’m going to keep you here for as long as I see fit. Or until I get bored of your company. Whichever comes first, I think.’

  ‘I don’t want to hear this!’ Like a small child afraid of the dark, I screw my eyes closed, my hands pressed tight to my ears. ‘You’re not keeping me here.’ I kick out, pushing to stand when he’s suddenly towering over me, his hand at the back of my head, yanking me by my hair.

  ‘You will listen, putain.’ His breath is as hot on my cheek as my knees are weak. ‘You remember the coffee shop?’ He smiles as I try to nod.

  Sinister, sinister, my smile screams out.

  ‘I’ll give you the abridged version. ‘Emile fucked your mother for a time, and she must’ve been a very good fuck because, almost thirty years later, he left you shares in the company. You! Who did nothing to deserve or even earn them! Bad enough that he promised me the running of the company, bad enough that he left Remy the majority share, but he has to go and leave an interest to you. All this time, you’ve been fucking your brother. How’d you feel about that, ma chérie?’

  ‘That’s not true. I know it’s not.’ Even through my denials, I feel like I’m going to throw up. It can’t be true—it can’t!

  ‘And the worst of it is, Remy has known all along. Beautiful, tortured Remy.’ Ben pouts, his brown eyes sad. ‘Sleeping with his sister. So wrong.’

  ‘I-I don’t believe you.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No.’ Remy might be a lot of things, a lot of things I don’t yet understand, but he isn’t that. He isn’t that kind of corrupt, I know, as the image of him flickers to life in my head.

  His broad shoulders blocking out the sunlight, his face smiling down at me, shining with such love.

  But that’s not a reasoning I’ll share as, from my scrambled brain, one thought rises above the morass.