I was hoping it might’ve gotten lost in the mail.
Angry girl music, a bottle of Sauvignon, and a credit card were my naughty companions following a particularly trying day at work where Olga called me into her office to tell me I’d be “taking care” of Remy exclusively while making it sound like I was to be his personal harlot. Then Charles wouldn’t quit badgering me, asking what misdemeanour I’d committed to be summoned to her office. Like I said, a very trying day which ended when I basically went home and . . . got shit-faced. I woke on the couch in the morning, my emergency credit card unearthed from the depths of my purse and an email from an Etsy store congratulating me on my purchase of a twelve-inch chocolate penis, along with my selected upgrade of a dip-dye in edible purple glitter, which I’d presumed I’d chosen for old times’ sake.
It’s basically a go fuck yourself gift that you can eat. Or choke on, I suppose is closer to the sentiment. In fact, that’s what I’d opted for the card to read, for the grand sum of an extra two euros. I even got a free bag of gummy dicks so I can gift someone with the words: choke on a bag of dicks. Go on, literally.
In my drunken state, I’d even managed to input Remy’s work address correct. So, when he subsequently pulls out a plain brown box from the depths of one of his desk drawers, and settles it on the desk between us, I know what’s coming.
Yes, the chocolate penis.
Is coming.
‘This . . .’ Something ripples across his face. I’m going to go with humour. ‘Is from you, I believe.’
I nod, my lip-biting doing nothing to smother my smile. ‘Don’t pull it out on my account.’
His eyebrow quirks at my unintentional innuendo, his gaze lingering almost speculatively. This wasn’t the exchange I had in mind when I ordered the man a purple penis, I’m sure. It isn’t an angry anthem made in the flesh, or rather confectionary, and more like a reminder of how we got together. In the end, he avoids the cheap laughs.
‘It’s quite an art project,’ he says, turning the thing in his hand as he examines it. ‘Is it modelled on anyone anatomically?’
‘Who knows,’ I answer airily.
‘It does have very impressive detailing.’
‘Someone takes their work very seriously.
‘And purple.’ As his eyes rise to meet mine, merriment dances there. ‘Like forget-me-nots. Not that I’m likely to forget.’ Ask he speaks, he grazes a finger across his left brow where a sliver of a reminder lies. ‘It’ll be a funny story we’ll tell our children when they’re old enough, of course.’
My heart beats like a punchline—ba-dum-cha!—a dozen things going through my head. Who talks about children this quick? Children with Remy’s green eyes and my dark hair, children with golden skin, and platinum futures. Children loved to infinity—and then I realise he’s still watching me, and I have nothing but gushing to return.
‘And don’t forget glittery!’
His smile is so wide and so sudden, it’s like I’ve just told him a joke.
‘But perhaps next time, you might spare Madam Bisset’s blushes by directing it be opened by me,’ he says, standing the base against his desk.
‘Oh, my God. No wonder she couldn’t look me in the eye.’
‘No, but she did look something else in the eye.’
‘Maybe I should’ve chosen the chocolate assholes.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Forget I said that.’
‘Where are you going?’
I turn and look over my shoulder. ‘To apologise to Madam Bisset.’
‘And what am I meant to do with this enormous erection in front of me?’
‘I could tell you exactly where to shove it, but I don’t think you’d be happy!’
30
Rose
Thursday afternoon, week four, I’m in the middle of helping Charles load a trolley filled with packages of deluxe doggy party favours into the service elevator when my phone beeps with an incoming concierge request.
‘Lover boy?’ Charles asks, his tone a little piqued, mostly because Olga suggested he supervise the doggy party planner this afternoon, even going as far as to hand him a pink poop-a-scoop. So I don’t bite; we all have our limits.
‘Apparently, he’s left his gym bag at his apartment, and this flunky right here has to pick it up from the penthouse and deliver it to his office.’
‘It is still more fun than my afternoon,’ he grumbles, using his hands as though he were a balancing scale. ‘A beautiful man ’oo wants you or puppies ’oo want to ’ump your leg.’
‘You booked the dog walker to come along, right?’
He nods. ‘Dog walker, party planner, Charles, and a poop-a-scoop.’
‘It sounds like a joke.’
‘Like my life.’
I leave a dramatically morose Charles to his afternoon and collect the key card from reception; I gave him mine back after . . . well, just after, and take the elevator to the penthouse. At the door, I experience a pang of something like nostalgia, though choose not to indulge myself in the what-ifs and what could have beens, swiping the key and stepping inside. It’s hard to ignore the temptation to snoop around a little, so I don’t. I’m not sure what I’m expecting to find, though I know what I dread as the list runs through my head.