I’m not only saying I don’t believe they were screwing. I’m also saying I believe the whole thing to be a set up. Fake. Total bullshit. But that doesn’t mean I’m not very, very pissed. Because I am.
Je suis trop vénère. I am very angry. Énèrve. Pissed off!
‘I think I would like that. Carson, right?’
Drinks are ordered and I turn from my self-imposed timeout to spend a while with a cute guy who wants to talk to me. And talk we do. He tells me he’s in construction, but I guess he means property development. There aren’t many construction workers who wear fifty thousand-dollar watches and smell like oud wood, as far as I can tell. He tells me he studied architecture at Cornell but that he doesn’t practice, instead taking an interest in the family business.
‘So concierge, huh? You must have some crazy stories.’
‘Crazy stories from crazy rich people?’
He brings his beer—the very unfancy Kronenbourg 1664—to his mouth as he nods.
‘Rich people like you, you mean?’
‘My family is wealthy,’ he says, setting down his glass again. ‘Me? Not so much.’
‘Says the man wearing handmade shoes.’ I tip my head forward, glancing down at his feet. ‘Called it.’
‘These were a gift,’ he protests and, as though uncomfortable, hooks his feet around the legs of the bar stool.
‘Um-hm.’ I slide him a sceptical look.
‘Okay, so I’ve got money,’ he says with a chuckle. ‘It doesn’t make me a bad person, does it?’
‘I don’t know you well enough to decide.’
‘Well, I think we need to do something about that.’ He clinks his glass against mine and I suddenly realise he thinks we’re flirting. Damn.
‘You know I’ve got a boyfriend, right?’
‘Yeah. A boyfriend you’ve left at the gala, I’m guessing.’ He tips his glass in the vague direction of the ball room. ‘I’m right, aren’t I?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Want to talk about it?’
‘Not particularly.’ An ache creeps up the back of my throat, though I swallow it down.
‘Come on. We were getting along so well. Don’t go cold on me now.’
‘I guess you were headed to the gala, too.’
‘The monkey suit gave it away.’ I nod as he straightens his cufflinks then his sleeves. ‘I have a ticket, but I didn’t even make it into the room.’
‘Oh?’
‘I couldn’t bring myself to.’ A smile flitters across his face. It doesn’t last very long.
‘At four thousand euros a ticket, I’d at least made sure I was there for the dinner.’
‘Was it worth it?’
‘Was it worth four thousand euros?’ I shake my head. ‘If I were you, I’d go help myself to a couple of bottles of champagne.’
‘Where are your bottles, then?’ He hooks his arm over the back of his stool with a grin, glancing across the bar to where my clutch lies.
‘That’s different. I didn’t pay for my ticket. But then you already guessed that. Probably even back at the Omega store.’
‘You can’t blame a guy for wanting to take a pretty girl for a coffee.’
‘You were a couple of months too late for that even then.’
‘Because of Remy Durrand.’ The way he says the name of the man I love tells me all I need to know.
‘So, you did hear.’ At the store when I’d mentioned Remy’s name to Yuri. I wonder what else he heard as I take another sip of my drink. I set it down, not quite meeting his gaze.
‘Yeah, I heard. It seems we’re both sitting out here for the same reason.’
‘I doubt that very much,’ I reply, staring at my glass still.
‘We’re sitting at this bar because he’s in there and not out here.’ He taps his forefinger against the bar top to emphasis his point, and though he might be right, I’m not about to agree. ‘My guess is you’ve found out some things about Remy that aren’t in keeping with the man you think you know.’
‘If you’re trying to get me to agree, to say anything against him, you’re wasting your time.’
‘Well, honey, I don’t need to hear your reasons to hate him. I have my own.’
‘I don’t hate him,’ I reply through a deep sigh. ‘Just the opposite.’
‘Then I don’t envy you. He must be a hard man to love.’
‘You’re wrong. Loving isn’t supposed to be hard. That’s why they call it falling in love. Because it happens so fast, it’s impossible to do anything about it.’
‘Falling in love might be easy. Staying in love with a man who treats you wrong sounds like the definition of insanity.’
‘I shouldn’t be here,’ I suddenly decide because this feels wrong. It’s not the act of sitting in a bar with a man, chatting. But rather sitting with a man who seems intent on telling me who the man I love really is. ‘Thank you for the drink.’ I slide my clutch from the bar, taking out a few euros to leave as a tip. ‘But I think I’ll get back to the party.’ And Remy. Because this text isn’t going to sort itself out.