Page 60 of Closer

“Okay, I get it, Margaux, geez, you’re as fucking subtle as a sledgehammer. I have to learn to be a gentleman.”

“Oui,” she says with a resolute face as I set the chair down beside the truck. I wait for her to lower the tailgate, and then I hoist it up on my shoulder and into the truck bed as carefully as I can.

“Did you really want this piece-of-crap chair, or did you just do it to talk to Monsieur Lumberjack back there?”

“This chair is not a piece of crap. It is a restored antique, restored by that gentleman’s lovely strong hands.”

“Hands you want him to be not so gentlemanly with.”

“Mon Dieu!”

I laugh. “Come on, Margaux, you’re a hot-blooded woman. Are you telling me you don’t want Mr Fix-it’s hands on your body?”

“What I want is irrelevant.”

I make a face. “Who told you that?”

“Je ne suis qu'une employée de maison. I am a servant, monsieur.” Margaux shakes her head. “I do not have time for love affairs.”

“Surely you’ve got time for a quickie?”

“Not if you are the one who is asking.” She chuckles, her rotund belly jiggling with the effort. “Now get in. I havele déjeunerto prepare back at the house.”

I glance at the store across from us. “Just a minute. There’s something I have to do.”

“What?”

“Be a gentleman,” I say with a wink.

***

Back at the house,Dog nips at my legs as I unload the chair from the truck and haul it inside. That mutt is fucking crazy, but I pet him and tell him he’s a “good boy,” because I happen to like crazy a whole lot, while Margaux flurries around me as if I’m going to drop her precious chair. I set it down in the lounge room.

“Will you not take it to my room, monsieur?”

“It’s a lounge chair. It’s meant for lounging in. It won’t even fit in your room, Margaux. Which, by the way, I’ve been meaning to ask you about. Why the hell are you still sleeping in that tiny servant’s quarters when we have a house full of empty bedrooms to choose from.”

“Because, monsieur,je fais partie du personnel de maison. That is where I sleep.”

I shrug. Her old employer must have been a complete fucking dickwad to make her live in that tiny room, when she wasn’t running around doting on him. “Well, you can choose another room if you want, but either way, the chair’s staying here.”

She shakes her head emphatically. “Monsieur, that is not necessary. This is your house.”

“Margaux, how long have you lived here?”

“Twenty years, monsieur.”

“Then it’s more your home than it is mine.” I glance around the run-down living room, at the ancient TV she watches her French soap operas on, the worn couch, and the few other pieces of dilapidated furniture. “You’re the only one who uses this room, be comfortable in it.”

She shrieks and lunges forward, throwing her arms around me and enveloping me in a huge hug. I squeeze her back, lifting her off her feet. I owe this woman a lot. Who else would put up with a drunk, half-crazed Australian walking into their chateau and setting up camp? Though I’m pretty sure she saw the flashing “sucker” sign over my head and hustled me into buying this house and giving her a job. The woman speaks way more English than she first let on, but if it weren’t for Margaux making sure I ate in those first fucking horrible days after the wedding, I’d probably be dead already.

“You better let me go before Brie brings her fine arse down here and accuses you of stealing her man,” I say. Margaux laughs, and my ego, and my mood both deflate considerably. I get Brie for two more weeks, that’s all. I need to remember that. I need to keep my fucking head and my heart in check.

I carry my little bag up the stairs. I’m surprised to find Brie isn’t practising in the ballroom, so I take the stairs to the west wing and enter my room. She emerges from the bathroom looking hot as fuck in a skimpy sundress, her hair falling over her shoulders in an inky, wet mess. I toss the cap and sunnies on the nearby dresser, and set her down too before crossing the room.

“You’re back.”

“I am.” I wrap her in my arms and devour her neck and collarbone with kisses.

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