‘Hours to be determined, up to thirty-five per week,’ I parrot back. Read it? I’ve almost memorised it while looking for a way out of this job. A way out you wouldn’t have taken, my mind whispers anyway.
‘Even I don’t have that kind of stamina.’ His smile is disarming, contradicting his words. ‘But I wasn’t talking about your employment. I own you here.’ Reaching out, he presses two fingers to my heart. It’s not a sexual touch but a blatant one. To those looking on, I guess it could look like a quiet reprimand for the way I’m wearing my scarf as he flicks it, withdrawing his hand. A quiet reprimand or borderline sexual harassment, I’d lay odds that there’s not one person looking on who wouldn’t swap places. If only they knew.
‘What are you doing?’ I ask, stepping back. ‘Do you want people to talk?’
‘Yes, that’s exactly what I want them to do. I want them to talk you into my arms. Dinner tonight. I won’t take no for an answer. A car will pick you up at eight.’
‘Then you’d better square in with Olga. If I’m working tonight, I’ll need time off in the morning.’
‘That sounds like a good idea. Perhaps I’ll also block out my morning.’ There’s no need to guess what he means, his half smile pure sin.
‘Don’t get the wrong idea, Romeo. I’m just not working extra hours for free.’ And I’m not working under you. Unless you ask nicely. No, I mean I’m not working under you for anything.
When he finally finds his voice, it’s low and full of intensity. ‘I realise you don’t think a lot of me right now, but I want you to know that I’m going to do everything in my power to change that.’
‘Good luck with that,’ I huff. And with that less than satisfactory denouement, I make my way back to my friends. My smiling friends.
‘What was that all about?’ Fee.
‘What did he say?’ Charles.
‘I’ve been ordered to dinner.’
‘Ordered?’ Fee repeats with a frown.
‘Yup. So don’t expect to see me in the morning. Close your mouth, honey,’ I retort, turning to Charles, ‘it’s not like that. It’s a working dinner.’
But only one of us will be working hard.
32
Remy
I drop my bag in the entryway, still not quite believing I’d asked Rose to bring it to me. The thing is big enough to put her in! But it was another excuse to see her. One I just didn’t think through properly. To add insult to injury, Rhett annoyed me the whole evening, completely throwing me off my game. I’m not sure the way he fights really enters into the spirit of things; he salutes like he ought to, engages as he should, but it’s the constant running commentary of goading that sets him apart as far as things go.
As one of the original Olympic sports, he does the name of fencing no good. But he makes a worthy opponent, for someone who didn’t take it up at the age of twelve. Even if he sometimes behaves as though he’s twelve.
I head straight for the kitchen to examine what Marta left for dinner this evening. Chicken with tomatoes and tarragon, I can tell, before I’ve even opened the oven. I set the timer, pull out last night’s open bottle of Chapoutier Ermitage, thinking I must’ve had more than one glass judging by the bottle unless Marta used it to cook. At two hundred euros a bottle, the dish better be good. Splashing a little into a glass, I take it into the other room, heading for the second floor to change.
I take the stairs two at a time, knowing there is only a few minutes between my tarragon chicken being ready and inedible. Wine glass in one hand, I use the other to unbutton my shirt as my mind fills with a dozen inconsequential thoughts.
My hair is still damp from the shower at the club, which means it’s probably time for a haircut.
I’ll have Paulette call George and book in for a trim and a straight razor shave.
I should invite Rose to watch.
Perhaps she’d like to learn.
Though after this afternoon, a cut-throat razor might not be the best thing to hand her.
I’m hungry, having worked up an appetite, and in a hurry to get to my meal before it spoils. The final button on my shirt loosened, push open the bedroom door, simultaneously raising the glass to my lips. If I hadn’t been so preoccupied I might’ve registered the lights were on. And if I’d registered the lights, I might’ve realised that I wasn’t alone.
‘Amélie.’ Her eyes widen with satisfaction at my tone. But she’s mistaken if she thinks the husk in my voice is anything other than shock. ‘Que faites-vous?’ What are you doing?’
Here. In my bedroom.
With very few clothes on.