Liar Liar Read online Donna Alam

Categories Genre: Contemporary, Romance Tags Authors: Donna Alam Advertisement1

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‘You will see,’ he answers, unconcerned.

‘Anyway, what do you mean you and Fee are coming?’

‘What I said,’ he replies without turning. You will need moral support. And Fee and I want to see the magic ’appen. Glenna normally only styles for rich or royalty. You should be grateful.’

Maybe he’s right. Instead, I feel railroaded.

I don’t hear from Remy that morning so I assume he’s too busy for lunch today. Instead, I grab a sandwich and work through, trying hard to ignore my grumpy mood. More money. A house. A driver to take me to and from said house. What’s next? A elephant on a gold chain? A magic carpet?

With the last of those thoughts, I find myself sitting back in my chair with a wry grin. My life is a fairy tale—this is my once upon a time and maybe even my happily ever after. There are a lot of things to fight in this world; discrimination, gender equality, homelessness, poverty, and food security. As I sit, I realise, each of these has touched my life in some way. I’ve lived hand to mouth as a child, and as an adult, there have been times where I almost didn’t have a roof over my head. I’ve been touched and spoken to in ways no person should have. I am literally complaining my diamond shoes aren’t a good fit.

If my Prince Charming wants me to see Monaco’s most selective stylist, then I’ll make sure my underwear matches, open a bottle of champagne, and pretend I damn well enjoy it.

* * *

Pretend to enjoy it. Pretend, pretend, pretend.

Glenna Goodman and I, well, we don’t hit it off exactly. She complains about having to travel out to “the sticks”, as she puts it, and is mighty unimpressed when I don’t have someone there to help her wheel her wares into the house, despite having an assistant all of her own who followed her car here in a black Mercedes van brimming with fashion goodies. Tall and austere looking, she is, as you would expect, the kind of effortlessly stylish that reminds me of an older-era Lauren Bacall.

‘Usually, I spend the day with a new client getting to know them better, getting a feel of their lifestyle,’ she says in drawling, laconic tones. ‘How do they spend their day? What kind of movement their wardrobe requires?’

‘I don’t have a very physical job,’ I reply, just in case she thinks she’s getting me into something with elastic at the knees. ‘The most strenuous aspect of my day might be picking up something from Gucci for one of my clients. I slide Marco, Glenna’s assistant, a sympathetic smile.

‘I meant how often you’re required to move from the office to meetings, to functions in the evening.’

‘Oh.’ I nod, eyebrows riding high on my forehead. ‘My mistake.’

‘May I top up your champagne, Glenna?’ Fee asks from the sofa. I’m not sure if it’s a sense of awe or fear that has her sitting so primly; straight-backed, knees together, hands placed carefully on her lap.

‘No, thank you,’ Glenna answers. ‘One glass is sufficient when I’m working. I’d also like to take a look in your closet while I’m here. To see what we have to work with.’ Her eyes flicker over me, from my ballet flats and skinny black jeans to the silver-blue square-necked blouse I’m wearing. I can almost sense her disappointment.

‘Actually, Glenna, right now, I just need something for the gala.’

‘As I understood it, Monsieur Durrand required more outfits for your perusal?’ She turns to Charles, who begins to speak in rapid French, the older woman deigning to nod in several places.

‘I explained you do not have your full wardrobe at this house.’

‘Yes, that’s true.’ I shrug; whatcha gonna do? There’s no way I’m letting this woman get a hand on my drawers. Also, Monsieur Durrand can “require” all he likes.

‘Then this selection will have to do for now. Perhaps at a later date, we can book in your shopping consultation. I am available in Monaco, of course, but also for trips to Milan or Paris, as you wish.’

I wish not to go shopping with you anywhere, least of all for a little continental hop to shop. Plus, with me, you’re more likely to get a lift on the back of a bicycle than a Gulfstream even if I own neither. When I don’t reply beyond a benign smile, she gestures to Marco, who begins to unzip a dress cover lifted from a gleaming gold-coloured garment rack, glossy shoeboxes sitting underneath, a dazzling array of brands. Dior, Louboutin, Manolo Blahnik, Chanel; the stack of labelled boxes goes on and on. I’m handed a garment of tissue-thin silk and gestured into something that looks like a windowless sound booth, which is actually Glenna’s portable fitting room.

Have van . . . will bring the kitchen sink!


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