16
Rose
Things could not be worse.
Tuesday of the following week and I’ve yet to set eyes on Remy—seven whole days and not one peep from him! What kind of fuckery is this? I mean, is he trying to make me expire from sheer suspense? If that’s his endgame, then all I can say is, well played, sir. Well fucking played.
Or maybe he isn’t playing games at all. Maybe he’s placed me in a box marked strictly business. Maybe employing me was just a mistake, and now that I’m here, he no longer thinks about me. Maybe he feels that, in giving me a job, his debt is complete, so he doesn’t need to concern himself with me anymore. And if that’s the case, why am I thinking about him? Gah!
Oh, my God. I’ve been ghosted!
This is why I don’t do relationships—the lesson I was supposed to learn from watching my mother! Relationships are a balancing act of power, and in thinking about him, obsessing over him, I’ve handed control over to him. Not that he knows it. Because he’s not here! Gah!
‘Ça va, Rose.’
‘Oh, hey, Charles.’ I glance up at my co-worker and force a smile. Ride that man like the stallion he is? I don’t know about that, but I’d sure like to hogtie and whip him. Show Remy exactly how much I’ve missed him. Missed him so much, I’m not crazy.
‘Why are you making the face?’ I look up once more to find Charles pouting. And that’s not Charles with a Ch but Charles with a Sh, or Shaaarles as he corrected me on my first day.
‘This is my thinking face.’ My thinking I’d like to strangle Remy face.
‘Non. It is your angry face.’
‘How are you?’ I ask, moving on to Charles’s favourite topic. Him.
‘I would like to say bien,’ he says, dropping his Louis Vuitton messenger bag to the desk and almost knocking over the framed photograph of Loulou, his precious pet spaniel. ‘But living with the man you love, ’oo no longer love you, it makes my ’art ’urt.’
It takes me a moment to discern his response, though the way he dramatically clasps his hands over his ’art, I mean, heart, helps.
‘Rough weekend, huh?’ We both worked Tuesday through Saturday last week, and while Sunday and Monday aren’t technically a weekend, it was my weekend. Two mornings of late wake-ups and café au lait and croissants on the balcony while staring at the gloriously blue sea. And two days of mooching around Monaco, doing touristy things. I visited the port at La Condamine, people watched from a café at the marina before visiting an old church, the name of which I forget.
‘Ouais,’ he affirms with a nod. ‘Phillipe, he spurned my advances again. I want the makeup sex, but he said no.’ He pouts like a child denied dessert, his oddly cherubic features marred by a frown.
‘That sucks,’ I reply, taking my empty cup for a refill. While French coffee, not to be confused with the much less delicious French roast we get back home, has become my unofficial addiction, I stick to jasmine tea while at work. My mind is already working like a squirrel on speed, no thanks to being ghosted by the man who brought me here.
‘Non—there was no sucking! This is the problem!’
‘Yeah, because you dumped him on Friday, right?’ It’s like The Bold and the Beautiful around here.
I slip out of my jacket, which was a mistake for this time of the year. Draping it over the back of my chair, I then ease my index finger between my throat and my Wolf Industries silk scarf to loosen it a little.
‘Oui, because I see him making eyes at the lifeguard. Like this!’ He blinks rapidly, his perfectly curled silky lashes like the wings of an angry bee. ‘Fils de pute,’ he spits.
I open my mouth to ask him if it’s Phillipe or the lifeguard who is the son of a whore in his estimation, finding myself asking instead, ‘Are you wearing fake lashes right now?’
‘Pfft!’ He gives a perfectly Gallic shrug as if to say what do you think? I think yes, yes he is. ‘I just curl them and wear a little mascara sometimes.’
‘They must rub the lenses of your glasses.’ And annoy the heck out of him.
‘I do not want to talk about this. I am énervé—how you say, pissed! I ’ave my revenge on ’im.’
‘Oh, dear.’ With an indulgent shake of my head, I splash some hot water over my teabag. ‘Can I expect a visit from the police today?’
‘I will not kill him! I still love him!’
‘Okay, so you don’t need help disposing of the body. Good to know. Hey, do you think the prison in Monaco is fancy?’
‘I do not know, and I do not wish to find out.’