at the bitter taste. ‘What was it you wanted to see me about?’ I ask, bringing the large Max Mara bag under the table and placing my purse on the floor next to it.
‘This is quite difficult for me to say.’ He sits straight in his chair, his lips firm. ‘But I feel I must. You see, I came across some information recently and I didn’t really know what to do with it.’ His expression is troubled as he glances up. Is that . . . sympathy? ‘I was going to ignore it, but then Remy told me this morning that he had proposed, and you had accepted.’
‘You’ve kind of lost me.’ I bring the bitter beverage to my lips again, Ben’s next words taking some time to comprehend.
‘Remy hasn’t told you the truth, Rose. About how he came to find you. About why you are here. About everything. Your relationship is built on a lie—a mountain of them. You deserve better than that.’
The coffee turns sour on my tongue as I watch him angle his head, his eyes filled with pity. I don’t have a reply. Just a sickness washing though me.
‘Of course, you should see the truth of it,’ he says, reaching for a dark document wallet behind him. He begins to unpack the contents, the items dropping to the table in a blur. Some I understand. Some I can’t make sense of at all. What I do know is, the document and photographs and emails are about me.
Paperwork detailing my name. My old address. My hours at The Pussy Cat.
An email trail between Rhett and someone who works for a company called BDT Security Solutions.
Photographs—dozens of them. One a close up of my face. I’d painted freckles against my cheeks with an eyeliner. I’m wearing my blonde wig with the braids over my own dark hair. As I flip the image over, there’s a name in an unfamiliar hand scrawled on the back.
Heidi.
Instinctively, I know this is Everett’s writing.
More photographs. Some grainy, taken from a distance, so perfect. Like the one taken in The Pussy Cat. I have a silver try in one hand as the other removes a customer’s hand from my ass cheek as I smile. You’d be forgiven for thinking I was enjoying myself. Another at the grocery store, my coat wrapped tight around me as I buy bread and milk and a newspaper.
But maybe this isn’t all about me. There’s a photograph of a couple; a glamorous blonde and an older man with his arm wrapped around her. He’s wearing a dark suit and a crazy tie while she wears a tiny dress with spaghetti straps, fashions from decades ago.
‘I don’t know who this is,’ I whisper, pushing the image back across the table even as I realise my denial is ridiculous.
‘That’s okay.’ My skin crawls as leans forward and covers my hand with his own. ‘I don’t know if this is all about you. But what I do know is Remy hasn’t been honest with you. This is you, no?’ He holds up a photograph. I’m wearing my Pussy Cat uniform. Knee high socks and stripper heels, my ass practically hanging out of my shorts, my boobs sitting almost under my chin.
I’m smiling in this one, too. A smile that says I need the tips.
‘You are Heidi?’
‘Just stop it.’ I begin to gather the photographs, the emails and whatever the fuck the rest of this stuff is. ‘Put it away. I don’t want to look at it anymore.’
‘You don’t want to know who you’re marrying? Why he’s marrying you?’
‘I don’t want to look at it in here,’ I grate out. ‘For Christ’s sake, let me think.’
But thinking is something I’m beginning to struggle with. More than anger and upset, more than pain and embarrassment, I feel sick. Dizzy. Like I’m wading through glue.
‘I don’t feel well, Ben.’ I reach for my cup, my hands knocking it over in the saucer.
‘It’s okay. You’ve had a shock,’ he says, examining the dregs in the tiny vessel before righting it. He waves away someone from behind me. I suddenly very much want to ask them to stay because, though his manner is mild, the word sinister rings through my mind.
Sinister. Sinister. It’s all I can think. But I can’t say it.
Because nothing will come out of my mouth.
‘I can see you find this all very upsetting. Let me put everything away and take you to Remy. I’m sure he can explain, okay?’