But with Rose, it remains to be seen if I’ll treat her better or worse than my father has.
14
Rose
‘H-hello?’ I pull myself upright against the upholstered headboard. My voice sounds like I’ve taken up smoking in my sleep and leased my mouth to a hamster colony. It can mean only one thing. I polished off a whole bottle of red last night.
Smooth, Rose. Real smooth. At least you didn’t have an ex to call and abuse. Not one in the same time zone anyway.
‘Miss Ryan?’
‘Speaking.’ I try not to rustle the bedlinens as I pull the phone away from my ear to have a look at the time. 6.25 a.m. Holy moly; my alarm hasn’t even gone off! Urgh. Waking up still drunk is so much more fun than waking to a hangover. ‘Can I help you?’
‘This is Madame Bisset,’ says a French accent and imperious tone. ‘I am assistant to Monsieur Durrand.’ Oh. The regal looking silver-haired keeper of his calendar I sorta-kinda met yesterday. Well, smiled at, more like. ‘Monsieur has asked me to call to convey to you to pack up you sings.’
‘My sings?’
‘Oui. Your sings. Que lest mot pour les bagages?’ she murmurs to herself. ‘Ah, luggage!’ she adds in the vein of someone hitting jackpot.
‘I-I have to pack up?’ Something flutters painfully in my chest. I’m leaving? Because I let him grope me on the desk or because I didn’t hang around to put out? Or was it because he was the almost-ex I called last night? The ridiculous thought it followed by the realisation that I don’t have his number, let alone the right to call him an ex.
‘Yes. You should be ready for . . .’ There follows the sound of a keyboard being tapped. ‘Seven o’clock.’
‘That’s only thirty minutes from now. And where exactly am I going? Don’t I have to sign paperwork or something first? And there’s the matter of my ticket. I don’t even know what time my flight is!’ I push my hand through my hair, my mind running in a million different directions. I don’t have anywhere to go. I don’t have a job, and I barely have any money. I am so, so very screwed.
But am I screwed because we didn’t screw or because we almost did?
‘Flight?’ she repeats, sounding just as confused. ‘You are new to Industries du Loup. It is too soon yet for a ’oliday.’
‘So I’m not going anywhere?’
‘Yes—this is what I am telling you! At seven o’clock, a car will pick you up and take you to your new apartment. The key is with concierge, the department you will be working from today. They will expect you to report to the desk later at . . . le midi . . . Ah, at noon.’
A new apartment? A new job. What the hell is going on?
‘So, I’ll be working at the concierge desk at the hotel? And where is my new apartment?’
‘Not at l’hôtel. You’ll be working and living at the residence—at Wolf Tower.’
* * *
Three hours later and I’m at Wolf Tower and I’ve wandered around my new home approximately eleventy-billion times. I could walk around it eleventy-billion more times and I’d still have trouble believing I live here now.
I have three bedrooms—three! For one person. Unless I’m getting roommates, not that this is the kind of place that looks like it allows roommates or subletting or any of that kind of stuff. Almost every room has a view over the Mediterranean Sea, the windows taking up long swathes of the wall. Even the master bath has a sea view!
From a front door opened by a digital key, the small entrance hall leads into a living large enough to hold a game of tennis. A gourmet kitchen overlooks the dining room, lights like crystal flowers hang stylishly low over a long refectory-style table.
With seating for eight.
I don’t even know that many people here!
The place is light and airy and furnished with such care, and everything is brand new, from the hotel-style linens on the king-sized beds to the artwork hanging on the walls, to the silverware filling the kitchen drawers, including a set of tiny three-pronged cake forks in the kitchen. Who the fork owns cake forks!
And best of all is the balcony that wraps around the space. It’s not wide by any means, but it’s big enough for a lounger or two. Sunbathing, here I come!
Or maybe not as I plant my butt on the corner of the sectional and place my face in my hands as I begin to cry. I hate that I do—hate that the passage of tears gives way to hiccupping sobs, but I can’t seem to help it. I can’t seem to stop. I feel so conflicted. This place that’s to be my new home, and it’s so gorgeously stylish, so tempting, so unlike any place I’ve ever lived. It’s mine, but at what cost?