Amélie. Even her name is sexy. She sounds like a sex phone operator and looks like a gazelle—a really good-looking, caramel-toned, shiny gazelle. One with really expensive shoes and a Chanel handbag dangling from her arm.
Do gazelles come with thoroughbred pedigrees?
I bet this one does.
And he didn’t even look at me.
‘That fucking fuck! Ow, that hurts.’ I stare at my reddened palm, the wall no worse for my anger-fuelled slap. ‘At least I haven’t broken a toe.’ Along with the inane whisper, I sink to the stairs and push my head into my trembling, taking a series of deep, shaking breaths.
Breaths over broken glass.
I swallowed tears like salt on an opened wound.
The door creaks open. I stop breathing, not daring to hope, not daring to think yet doing it anyway.
‘There you are.’
The voice is deep and the accent French, but the intonation, the person, isn’t the same.
Ma Rose.
Ma fucking douchebag.
‘I’m sorry you had to see that.’
‘Yeah, sure.’ My words tremble with contempt. Contempt for him. Contempt for the situation of Remy’s making.
‘You think I orchestrated it?’ His arm bumps against mine as he sits next to me. ‘I’m not to blame. I didn’t know you’d be in his office. I didn’t even know you and he were—’
‘We’re nothing!’ I spit, my gaze rising to his. Nothing at all.
‘I don’t think that can be true, but I am sorry you had to find out that way.’
‘Why are you being nice to me?’ An accusation, not an enquiry.
‘Because I’m sorry. And because I owe you an apology for Saturday evening. I wasn’t myself. I’d been drinking and . . .’ He vacillates a moment and I instinctively know what’s coming next. ‘I’d had a little coke. You didn’t deserve my mind games, and you didn’t deserve this. My cousin has always had many women—’
‘I really don’t want to hear this,’ I utter, planting my face in my hands again.
‘—not since he and Amélie announced their engagement.’
‘Please go away.’
‘I can’t. I can’t leave you like this, not when I feel so responsible for you finding out this way.’
But there’s only one man responsible, and he’s not here.
He didn’t come looking for me.
I guess that’s it. No explanation. No apology. Maybe even no job.
He can shove his job up his—
‘I feel so terrible for my part in this. Can you at least forgive me for Saturday? For behaving so terrible.’ Terr-e-b-la. Urgh. I suddenly hate the French accent as he hurries on. ‘I won’t tell him about your job in the—your waitressing job, I mean.
As if that matters now.
‘Whatever.’ Like I care. Who worries about stubbing their toe when they’re bleeding out? ‘So you found out I worked in a strip club,’ I say, suddenly sitting straight. I’m a little lightheaded, and the heat in the stairwell is suddenly stifling. ‘I only waited tables, not that it matters. I’ve got to get back to work.’ Pressing my hand to the warm concrete, I stand, Benoît following suit and suddenly reaching out to steady me.
‘Non. Not work. Let me take you out for a drink.’ As I shoot him the stink eye, he holds up his hand as though to ward me off. ‘Only to talk. To gather your thoughts. You have had a shock.’
‘So I shouldn’t drive or operate heavy machinery. I think I’m fine to work a laptop.’ Even if the last thing I need is to go back to the office. I haven’t the bandwidth to deal with the wrath of Olga or the concern-cloaked delight of Charles, who loves a hot topic of gossip twice as much as the next man.
Come to think of it, the last thing I need is to lose my job. But that might happen anyway, now that Remy’s dirty secret is out.
Oh my Lord, I realise with a sickening lurch. His dirty little secret is me.
‘You cannot work like this, Rose. Please let me help you. My assistant will call your line manager and tell them I have need for you today. One drink. A coffee, or perhaps a brandy for the shock. Then you go home, d’accord?’ Okay?
I don’t want to work.
I don’t want to be alone.
I don’t want this to be the shoulder I cry on.
But I also didn’t want to discover that the man I’m falling for belongs to another, and look how that worked out.
‘I will tell you about Remy.’ He sighs deeply, as though it pains him to offer.
‘One drink.’ Was I always such a sucker for pain, I wonder as I hold up a finger as though to convince him? Or maybe myself. ‘But a drink, not brandy.’ Brandy can kiss my ass. When you’re looking at a breakup, there’s only one thing for it, and it starts with a te and ends in quila.
‘Bon.’ His hand grasps my elbow. Maybe I look as fragile as I feel. ‘Something else. Something strong for shock.’