‘Bah! I don’t need mysteries. I need tales of hot men!’
‘Then get your own hot man.’
‘I am living with one! But ’e is still angry with me.’ He pouts ridiculously.
‘You’re so lucky to find yourself a man out here.’ With her elbow on the table and her hand cupping her chin, Fee takes a sip from her newly delivered glass. ‘My love life has been like the Sahara since I got here. And I don’t mean hot and vast.’
‘How can that be? Just look at you, babe-a-licious. If I had an ass like yours, I’d be wearing booty shorts all day every day.’
‘Squats,’ she says by way of explanation for booty deliciousness. ‘Swap you for boobs?’
‘This conversation does nothing for me,’ Charles sniffs.
‘You must be the one gay man who isn’t fascinated with boobs.’
‘They are interesting,’ he replies with a disinterested shrug. ‘But like a fluffy tail on a rabbit. That is all.’
‘What about man boobs?’ Fee asks. ‘Are you into those at all?’
‘Yeah, breasts,’ I add with a giggle as Charles deigns not to answer but rather glares. ‘You probably like the moobs on a male gym bunny, though, right?’
‘I prefer the ass.’ He sighs, glancing at the retreating form of a passing waiter.
‘Yet, my ass does nothing for you,’ I quip. ‘And Lord knows, I have enough of it.’
‘Whatever,’ Fee scoffs, dipping the rim of her glass in my direction. ‘It’s working for you. Out of the three of us, you’re the one who’s—’
‘Getting some,’ interjects Charles.
‘I was going to say found someone.’
‘I wouldn’t say that exactly,’ I demur, my mind rapidly scanning and rejecting ways to turn the conversation from me. I don’t want to talk about Remy now, and I can’t afford to drop my guard three glasses in. I like Fee and Charles—I like them a lot. But we don’t know each other well enough to establish any great degree of trust.
‘But she is the only one getting some,’ Charles huffs mulishly, crossing his arms. Charles is a sweetie, and he’s been super helpful during my first few weeks on the job. But he’s also a gossip, as well as a tiny bit catty.
‘Yeah, but it’s not like we’ve made any declarations or anything. For all I know, he could be seeing other people.’ Even as I say this, I know this isn’t true, unless Remy is sexing someone between the hours of work. At least, those hours he’s not calling me to his office with his ridiculous demands.
Ridiculously sexy demands.
It seems Olga has somehow gotten the message that messages from the resident of the penthouse suite aren’t for her sole attention. I’m not sure what exactly has been said, and by whom, but I only know it’s resulted in her treating me with a cool sort of reserve.
‘I imagine dating in America is a bit like back home in the UK, and I have to say, dating French men isn’t the same. Here, it’s almost as though exclusivity is implicit. That is, unless it’s been addressed as otherwise, I suppose.’
‘This is not a conversation we’ve had,’ I admit, reaching for my glass.
‘Except if they’re rich. Normal rules don’t seem to apply to rich men.’ My heart sinks to my strappy sandals, but I remind myself this conversation is purely academic. She doesn’t know Remy. Maybe she’s working on second-hand data. Maybe she’s never dated a rich man out here, or anywhere, for that matter. ‘Especially out here,’ she adds.
‘You really think it’s worse in Monaco?’ My tone is a little sharp, though I don’t mean it to be so. But I could tell them some truths about the men. Men who trailed in and out of my life, those I was supposed to call uncle, one or two of them dad. Men my mother trusted. Men who were no good. I could regale them tales of the men from the Pink Pussy Cat—sons, brothers, fathers, husbands. Bad men. Grabby men. Men who have no respect for women at all. Except I’ve left that all behind. Plus, I don’t really know my new friends. New friends who look a little shocked. ‘I’m sorry,’ I begin a little more reasonably, ‘it’s just, as a child, I moved around a whole bunch of times. Then a couple of years ago, I took off on a trip around the world. It seems to me whether you’re in Kansas, Kuala Lumpur, or Kathmandu, you will always find assholes without looking too hard.’
‘Yes, but people with this,’ Charles replies, rubbing his thumb and fingers together in the universal sign for money, ‘are the biggest ass’oles of all. They think money makes ’zem untouchable. Also, they are like God’s gift or something.’
‘People are people,’ Fee says, making me think she might be the peacemaker of our trio. ‘But while money might make the world go around, it certainly seems to make for bigger arseholes.’