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.’
‘Enough!’ Charles decrees, reaching for the wine bottle. ‘We are here to have a good time. Money is not everything. But I say a little prayer of thanks that we get our salary next week.’
I do a little internal squee at the thought of my first pay cheque. It’s so exciting! I can’t believe I’ve been here almost a month already.
‘Pass me the menu, would you?’ asks Fee. ‘I’m so hungry, my bum is eating my knickers.’
‘You are so very English.’ This from Charles doesn’t sound like a compliment.
‘You’re not allowed to order salad this time,’ I say. ‘You make me feel guilty just looking at my plate of carbs.’
‘Just because Fee means fairy in French,’ adds Charles. ‘It does not mean you should eat like one.’
We eventually settle down to a mix of pizza, salad, and pommes frites, which are just french fries outside of France. And Monaco, I suppose. More wine is ordered, more shit is talked, before Charles seems struck by the most amazing thought.
‘Oh! I forget!’ Despite being a little wine pickled due to our second bottle, he becomes very animated. ‘I have a surprise tonight.’
‘You’re not going to flash us again on the way home, are you? I run my finger through a smudge of Chantilly cream, the only evidence remaining of the portion of Tiramisu we’ve shared three ways. Which doesn’t constitute much of a treat, as far as I’m concerned.
‘Leave ’z pattern on the plate.’ He slaps my hand away. ‘And I did not flash,’ he scorns. ‘My pants make a rip. I was saying . . .’ He cuts an unimpressed glance my way. ‘A friend ’as ’ooked me up with