Page 152 of The Stranger

“If you’re staying for dinner, I hope you can cook,” I say as I turn away for realsies this time. “The chef is out on the town tonight. And I think I’ll join her.”

“I might just stay longer than that,” she taunts, tipping her face up to Luc’s. Her hand smooths over the flat of his stomach before he catches it in his. “You know,” she says, not sparing me a glance, “he does enjoy keeping his women apart.”

Despite my bravado, my heart drops inside my ribcage, hitting every bone on the way down. But still, I don’t relinquish her gaze as I embody the spirit of my sister. “Does he have so many?” I ask, like the thought has never occurred to me. I pull a face that might suggest he has a face like a melted flip-flop.

“Who can tell?” Her smile widens. “The man is a vault.”

“Amélie,” Luc says again, lower this time, the warning clear. Not that she pays attention to him either.

“Perhaps you can show me around later, Primrose. I would like us to become better acquainted.”

Not happening, I think as my mouth replies, “I’m sure Luc would be a much better guide.”

“But not nearly so pretty.”

For the first time, Luc looks directly at me. His face is unreadable, his eyes winter dark.

“Primrose has responsibilities,” he says.

Which is not quite the same as Primrose and I have plans.

She has responsibilities. Like I’m a fucking servant.

“How could I ever forget?” I smile feeling scraped raw. “However, tonight I’ve set my mop cap and apron aside.” I pivot before I say anything else.

“What did she say?” she asks as I leave the room with as much dignity as I can muster. I want to storm—to whip things of the shelves as I pass—I want to frisbee a picture frame at his handsome fucking head. But I have too much dignity.

“Oh, Luc. She is wonderful!” She laughs as I reach the stairs.

His reply is too low for me to catch, but her laughter follows me all the way up.

It’s obvious what’s happened, I think to myself. I gave him everything, and now there’s nothing left for him to want. He’s just done.

Well, so am I.

37

PRIMROSE

Palma’s Old Town moves around me in a warm, glittering blur as I follow Zoe through narrow lanes strung with balconies so close, it’s as though the buildings are whispering to each other in some places. The honey-colored stone beneath my sandals seems to still be breathing out the day’s heat as music spills from open doorways, laughter and clinking glasses drifting from outdoor tables.

It’s so atmospheric, but I can’t find it in me to care. Not after what happened earlier. The scene that keeps replaying in ugly fragments in my head. The way she was wrapped around him. His cool eyes and his cooler tone. The plans we’d made that he’d apparently forgotten. Or didn’t care about. The more I think about it, the less it makes sense to me. I mean, who the hell was she, with her Chanel purse and her knowing air?

I know who she isn’t. She isn’t the help. The fucking nanny.

I suppose inviting her over was one way to be done with me. Does he have a problem with subtlety? My shoulders stiffen as I ignore the ache blooming beneath my ribs.

“You okay?”

I nod. A-okay, Zoe. Apart from the shit rotating through my head. And the fact that there are couples everywhere. Strolling arm in arm. Hand in hand. Smiles and kisses and adoring looks.

Je suis sick of this shit. Romance can take a running jump.

I’d gone to the staff accommodation block after I’d left the house, and thankfully, Zoe was still there. I’d managed to pull myself together on the way over. The trick, it seems, is a lipstick in a color so vivid, people can’t see past it.

“Coming through, people!” Zoe slides her arm through mine, the other she holds aloft like a tour operator in charge of tourists. “Make way for ladies looking to find someone to love very aggressively and extremely temporarily.”

I force a laugh. I am my lipstick’s personality tonight, and this deep red is the kind of shade that speaks of kissing strangers in dark corners. Or unsuitable men in orgy central.