Chore Whore (24 page)

“Miss Brown? . . . This is Mr. Barba, Blaise's counselor,” he says with a deep cough.

He sounds as if he has a terrible cold, but his kind voice is a beacon in my churning sea. I let myself cry freely.

“Mr. Barba, I just received a call from Mr. Davidson and he says Blaise is being kicked out of school.”

There is a pause, a sigh, then silence.

“I don't know what I've done wrong. I love my son so much and I try as hard as I can to teach him to do right, but it all seems to backfire. I would do anything I could for him, but I just can't seem to get it right.”

My sobs are coming out hard.

“Miss Brown, don't worry. Everything will be all right.”

Mr. Barba doesn't seem as sure of himself as he once was. Where he was so eloquent before in helping comfort me, he now only repeats that everything will be okay and not to worry. I try to feel better after we hang up, but I can't help worrying about my son. I pray that Mr. Barba can do for Blaise what I have been unable to do.

With L.A. Unified School District
still in session and Blaise expelled from Envision Prep, I telephone his old school and see about reenrolling him immediately. Dr. Castillo doesn't sound thrilled by the prospect, but we are in the district, so she can't exactly turn us away. In fact, he can start the next day.

It's been a month since my accident and three weeks since Concepcion's sons were arrested. My life has quieted considerably. My shaved hair, hidden under a plethora of different hats, is starting to grow back slowly. My stitches have been removed and my body is on the mend. Officers Bill and Dan returned the money, which I returned to Jock's safe. They never asked me to explain what was on the DVDs that Hubert turned over to me at Clafouti's. I destroyed them immediately. I'm sure Hubert gave the officers an earful about Jock's underage sex partners, but that won't come out in the rags until Hubert resurfaces, angrier than ever at the way he was trapped like a fox.

I haven't heard from Jock. I called and left a message that all was done and taken care of. I risked my life for Monsieur Jacques, saved his career and his hundred grand, and he hasn't even said thank you.

This is the last day my insurance covers the rental car. With no extra money to continue renting, I have to give it up. It's not possible to function in L.A. without a car—especially in my business—and I have no idea how I'll scrape together the funds to buy one, so I take Lucy up on her offer.

Ferrari Modena 360s were not built to run errands. In fact, I am convinced they were not built for more than showing off, Italian-style. They're almost impossible to get in and out of, and the gas pedal is as narrow as a fine pair of Italian leather shoes. My wide foot keeps slipping off the accelerator and hitting the brakes instead. After narrowly missing running down Mickey Rourke at a Beverly Hills intersection, I am convinced that I'm not suited to the flashy lifestyle expected of Ferrari Modena owners.

“Corki, it's Esther.”

I pick up the phone.

“Hi! Long time no hear!” I say, as if it doesn't affect me at all that I've had no work from them.

“You're hearing from me now,” she says.

“Good point. What's up?”

“Cameron Diaz and I are hosting a Celebrity Meditation Retreat here at the house. I don't need a lot, but I am going to need your help. There's a place on Montana Avenue that has agreed to donate their Oriental rugs for the retreat, and I need you to pick them up. Plus, I'm going to need padding to go under all of them. I'll give you the measurements. Also, I'm going to need . . .” She proceeds to give me a list of items—outdoor umbrellas, stands, coffeemakers, microphones, podiums, speakers and other supplies for her retreat.

With the top down on Lucy's Ferrari, I'm able to cram most of Esther's requested items into the car. Of course, that makes me look like a Beverly Hillbilly cruising down Rodeo Drive with rug pads hanging precariously out of the top.

I pull into Esther's driveway just as she, accompanied by Cameron Diaz and Justin Timberlake, says goodbye to her landscaper, who is doing last-minute plantings. Esther points me out to them, says something, then starts laughing so hard she actually falls backward on the grass. She kicks her legs like a three-year-old having a hissy fit, tears running down her face from the hilarity. In between her fits of laughter, Cameron's embarrassed smile and Justin's smirk, I explain about my car accident and not having enough work to just go out and buy a new car.

“Jesus, Corki, why didn't you just tell us?” she asks, still giggling.

“I just did.”

“Before you were reduced to this!” she yells out hysterically, pointing to the Ferrari.

“Well, look, Esther. Someone lent me this car.”

She wipes off the grass and helps me bring the new purchases into the house, followed by Cameron and Justin. The moment we enter and pass a freshly bathed Lord Ganesh, Esther bursts out laughing again. She recounts the scene of me pulling up in the loaded Ferrari to Shelly and Liam. The only one laughing is Esther.

“Did you get hurt in the accident?” Liam inquires.

“A little.” I take off my baseball cap and show him my buzz-cut patch.

“Oh, it's growing peach fuzz,” Shelly observes. “It's healing nicely.”

My shaved head has upstaged Esther.

“Honey,” she calls out to Liam, “write Corki a check so she can go out and buy herself a car.”

The room goes silent and I see Liam's Adam's apple suck back into his throat.

“Okay. Corki, how much do you need?”

I say nothing.

“Give her around twenty thousand, Liam. The only caveat to this loan is that you have to buy a car that is environmentally conscious. No more SUVs or trucks. Get either a hybrid or electric, something with really good gas mileage.”

Liam goes to his office and comes back with a checkbook. He scribbles out a check for twenty thousand dollars, made payable to me, Cornelia Brown. He hands it to me with a smile. “If you need more, let me know.”

“Liam, I haven't been working very much and I'm worried there might be months I can't make a payment on time. I don't want there to be any weird feelings or—”

Liam stops me. “We'll work it out.”

Lucy pleads with me to
help decorate her new house, so I call my older sister, Drusilla, who just graduated with a degree in interior design. I invite her to L.A. and she presents her ideas to Lucy and Tommy Ray via a video computerized conference call. They hire her on the spot. Drusilla stays in our apartment while she transforms their mansion into a home.

Lucy and Tommy, from opposite sides of the continent, come to an agreement with Drusilla that the design of the house should be an eclectic, modern 1950s/60s style. Retro funky. Drusilla designs his-and-hers offices that feature walls painted in Tommy Ray's favorite shade of pale gray-blue and floors tiled in his favorite combination of black and blue squares, but her trim is white, while his is black. His office features black leather chairs, hers white leather. Since the offices share a common entrance, the effect is stunning.

The whole Spanish-style house receives a fresh coat of paint, inside and out. Drusilla orders 1950s vintage wallpaper from New York for the guest room. The great room has ebony hardwood floors and creamy white walls. The ceiling has beautiful, rustic, ebony-stained wood beams that complement the floors. Even though Lucy doesn't cook, she requests a Viking stove be installed along with a double oven for me. Drusilla orders double sinks and glass-fronted cabinets for the kitchen.

The locks have been changed, a new yard planted, and a security system worthy of royalty has been installed. It's a frightening system that talks to the intruder. It spells out, in a computer-generated voice, what the intruder must do, and what will happen if he doesn't. I have also researched, recommended and supervised the setup of at least a half-dozen other gotta-have-it technical household systems such as the state-of-the-art heating-and-cooling system that can be programmed by phone to warm or cool the house an hour before the occupants come home.

I work closely with the contractor to create a panic room built in a closet off the master bedroom. It looks like a normal walk-in, but the pocket door is lined with steel and inside the closet are all the amenities one might need in case an intruder has entered the property. However, this is slightly different from other panic rooms. Lucy, unbeknownst to Tommy Ray, wants a code that will admit her but lock him out! I keep my mouth shut when this feature is requested. Why move in with a man you're afraid of? The red flags are waving wildly. Why isn't she paying attention?

After setting these advanced technological wonders in motion, I come home to my 1940s fourplex with a small front yard that is watered by turning the sprinklers on by hand. And those don't even work properly. With a broken pressure regulator, water shoots up out of the bushes so strongly a fireman could fight fires with it. I turn a key to open my door and adjust my heating thermostat manually. I don't know if anyone's been to my house, but I will know if someone with an access code has entered Lucy's property. If the pool man is supposed to come on Monday and Thursday between twelve and two, the system will let him in. But if he gets caught in traffic and arrives at 2:15
P.M
., he is barred access until the next time he is scheduled to be there. This system gives new meaning to being at the right place at the right time.

Lucy calls from the set wanting to make sure nothing is done to the house that will offend Tommy Ray's senses, and Jolene calls from a hotel room in Mexico, trying to guarantee the same thing. Everyone wants to make sure Tommy Ray's happy. What fun! A household ruled by the threat of Tommy Ray's outbursts.

After faxing back and forth to Canada and Mexico, Drusilla and I put together a complete furniture layout, room by room.

Tommy Ray and Lucy take a brief break from their respective films to fly home for the final approval before I have their belongings moved into their new abode. Lucy loves it, but more importantly, Tommy Ray is very happy and they send Drusilla home with a hefty paycheck and a complimentary ticket to see Tommy's friend Duane Diamond in concert.

I not only have Chipman United moving Lucy's possessions out of her rented home, but I have them bringing her belongings out of storage, too. Additionally, I have Lucy's mom, Beryl Bennett, and her new boyfriend bringing a few things in a U-Haul down from Montecito the same day. The next day, Tommy Ray's stuff will arrive.

It takes a month of constant phone calls to get one of these moves to go smoothly. I have a reputation among my clients for my ability to manage the kind of complex moves common to Hollywood celebrities. I take responsibility for all the details—large and small—so they are free to focus on demanding production schedules or a postproduction fling with a costar. I've handled over twenty large-scale moves dealing with everything from boarding the household pets to carpeting, tableware to toilet paper, and window coverings to wine cellar placement.

As I pass out floor plans with furniture arrangements to each mover, I also greet the furniture companies making deliveries from their custom-design showroom floors.

My new car, a VW Jetta wagon TDI that Blaise has christened Bella, gets fifty miles to the gallon. She is parked on the street in front of the new house as movers and delivery companies file in and out. I'm directing the flow of traffic as I stand leaning my back against the driver's-side door. The U-Haul truck containing Lucy's mom arrives, with her newest guy behind the wheel. They pull up precariously close to me.

“Hi, sugar!” Beryl calls out.

“Hey! You guys made good time,” I yell out above the clamor.

“Well, with this gorgeous hunk of a man behind the wheel, how could we not make good time?” Beryl asks.

Beryl always looks good. I've never seen a blond hair out of place or her full lips not perfectly done with a tone of lipstick that complements her outfit. She dated a lot after her divorce from Lucy's dad, but never seemed to find a partner to suit her wildness. Lucy is always a little embarrassed by her mother's crazy ways, but I happen to like her eccentricities. Beryl has no shame about stating what she likes, wants and feels. I always know where I stand with her, even when she's “mad as a hornet.”

Beryl squeezes her young hunk's thigh as she wrinkles her nose and blows him kisses. “Cornelia”—she refuses to use my nickname—“honey, this is David, and David, this is Cornelia Brown, my daughter's assistant. Where can we park this tank?”

“Actually, the delivery truck that was here just left. You can back into the spot directly behind my car,” I say.

David the Hunk, who looks closer to my age than Beryl's, turns the steering wheel to parallel park. I look down at the papers in my hands when I feel the side of the truck's front bumper on my stomach and the wheel running over my toes.

“Ahhhh!” I scream. “Whoa! Beryl! Stop! I'm getting run over!”

Beryl connects with the look of anguish on my face and grabs the steering wheel out of Hunk's hand. She yells at him like he's her employee.

“Holy Jesus! David, you're crushing Cornelia! Put your foot on the fucking brake!”

She jumps out of the cab and rushes over to me.

“My God, Sugar! Are you okay? Is anything broken?” she asks, holding me more tightly to her than the truck did when it was crushing me.

“I'm fine,” I say, barely able to speak as she holds my face tightly to her bosom.

“I'm sorry, sugar,” she says over and over.

“I'm fine, really. It just gave me a hard squeeze,” I insist.

“Cornelia, you listen to me. I have a very fine insurance policy for just this type of thing. You promise me that you'll let me know if you start hurting or if you need to go to a chiropractor. Send me the bill and I'll pay it right away,” she says, still holding my shoulders tightly.

“Beryl, I'm fine. Don't worry. Why don't you let one of the Chipman drivers back the truck in and we'll get it unloaded,” I say, trying to calm her.

One look at David the Hunk and I understand he's been emasculated in front of the whole crew of moving men. He steps from the cab and lets Tony, a professional driver, back the truck up. Everyone quietly goes back to work.

It takes ten hours to move Lucy's possessions into the new house, arrange everything and haul away the packing material. Shelly drops Blaise off at five o'clock and he spends the next two hours running up and down the truck ramp. Most of the Chipman guys are dads and they seem much more tolerant of this behavior than I. After eight hours of being on my feet, nonstop, I have to contain my mouth. I want to go home and rest, but the fun seems to be just starting for Blaise. Fifty-two-foot tractor-trailers mix very well with ten-year-old boys.

After the movers leave, Blaise and I continue to unpack boxes. Since it's a Friday, we work late into the night. At midnight, we go home. When I take my shoes off, I find that my toes are bruised, but they all move.

On Saturday morning,
Tommy's move is done in six hours. Unpacking and organizing takes me a solid week of eight-hour days. Blaise helps since he has become a master at folding underwear, socks and T-shirts. With five hundred T-shirts between the two of them, he gets a lot of practice. I color-coordinate the clothes and stack cooking pots from biggest to smallest. Blaise organizes the library, puts logs in the fireplaces (I put the long matches on the mantel) and hangs curtains. We make six beds, organize bathroom drawers, and stock soaps, shampoos and conditioners in all the bathrooms.

The house is ready, but no one comes. Lucy goes to Mexico while Jolene and Bobby Sue fly back to Tennessee. Lucy and Bobby Sue return to Canada and Jolene goes back to Mexico. Everyone is flying everywhere, but no one comes home.

· · ·

I sit at home trying
to drum up work. I call Veronique but am informed that she is out of the country until further notice. She must be cruising the Mediterranean aboard Roberto Tratelli's yacht.

I give my apartment a good spring cleaning, move furniture and vacuum underneath, wash curtains, clean out cupboards and go through clothes and toys that are outgrown. My house and car and life have never been cleaner or more organized. However, I find myself falling into a funk.

“Coooooorrrr—kkkiiii! Are you there?” I hear Lucy cry out in excitement. “Honey, answer the phone!”

I drag myself out of bed and pick it up.

“Hello,” I say.

“Corki, honey. It's Lucy. You sound so sad.”

“I'm fine. I was asleep.”

“Honey, it's one o'clock in the afternoon! What's wrong? I know you well enough to know something is wrong if you're in bed at this hour,” she states.

“I'm fine. Late night.”

“Well, get some good rest because I'm about to give you the job of planning my wedding!” she proclaims like a circus announcer.

I wake up immediately.

“Your wedding!”

“Yours truly will be walking down the aisle with Tommy Ray Woods, whose divorce was finalized three days ago. He is a free man and we are getting married!” she screams.

“Lucy, I know absolutely nothing about putting together a wedding,” I warn, thrilled about the idea of a big project and slightly frightened of publicly botching the whole thing. “I'm no wedding planner.”

“You are now,” she says in her Memphis drawl.

“Lucy, when is all this supposed to happen?”

“Corki, babe, you have four weeks. I'll take care of invites from here, but I can't do it until I know you've secured a location.”

“Where do you want it?”

“We want to have it where we met.”

“On the set of Live with Regis and Kelly? New York?” I ask, panicking.

“No, where we originally met,” she says.

“But you told me—”

“No, honey. Atlantis,” she says.

“Atlantis?” I ask, confused. “Lucy, you're making me work too hard.”

“Atlantis. Our first recognized life together. Greece. We want to be married in Santorini, our original home and the home of Atlantis.”

She's going crazy.

“Babe, are you still there?” Lucy asks.

“Yes.”

“Are you up to it?” she asks. “Tommy says he'll pay you handsomely if you can set it up. Bobby Sue doesn't know her ass from a hole in the ground, and Jolene's out of here. Tommy promised.”

“Lucy, I—”

“Corki,” she interrupts, “you're the only person I know who can do this for us. You spent that year in Santorini as a foreign exchange student. You speak—”

“I spoke, not speak. I haven't practiced in over twenty years!”

“It's like riding a bicycle. You just have to get back on. I don't even know how to say hello. You do.”

“That might be all I remember,” I claim. “Tell me how you see the wedding.”

She gives me the broad outlines of what she wants and the number of people attending.

“I know it'll take a couple of weeks' planning from L.A., but I'll also need you there a good ten days ahead of time to secure and set up everything,” Lucy says emphatically. “I want this to go off without a hitch, as if I planned it myself. I'll FedEx two tickets for you and Blaise overnight. He'll love Greece and we'll pay for everything: the prep, the ten days in Santorini plus all the rest of the time you'll need afterward to wrap up. Plus, we'll give you both per diem for food. I beg you, please, I need you, Corki.”