Authors: Julia P. Lynde
"Why do you want to know all that?"
"Humor me."
I took a breath. "No
boyfriend
." I didn't elaborate. "No pets. I don't compete anymore, but am quite happy to go social dancing when an opportunity presents itself. I haven't been going out of my way to do so lately. I like to stay in shape, read a lot, and love old movies. I'm a halfway decent cook, but nothing that would be considered high gourmet."
Over the next half hour, she talked to me, starting conversations on a variety of topics. It partly felt like a job interview and partly felt like two people getting to know each other. We finished our meal and were still talking when she leaned back and made a decision.
"I need a personal assistant," she said.
"I know," I said with a
wane
smile. "One with legal experience."
"Let me rephrase," she said. "I need a personal, personal assistant. To help with my private life, not my professional life." She paused. "Holidays are hell on me. Professional demands are high plus all the personal demands the holidays place. Furthermore, there are countless events I don't care to attend alone."
"So you're asking me, to, what?"
"Do my Christmas shopping. Do my Christmas cards.
Decorate my house. Assist hosting several events. Attend several events with me." She paused. "Cook.
Keep me company.
Make my home an inviting space to come home to."
I didn't say anything right away. "You want a wife."
"Yes, I guess I do."
I sighed. "You're right, it sounds like a come on."
I paused. "I'm straight. I like boys."
"
Good. That would make everything easier.
My position means I am expected to both attend and host events. I am expected to have someone on my arm. I have in the past found an agreeable man to escort me around, but I am tired of that lie. Furthermore, I would prefer the escort at the public events be the same person who helps to host the events in my home."
"You want the straight girl to pose as your fake girlfriend?"
"Madeline, I don't do well with girlfriends. They tend to want a lot more attention than I can give them. I work long hours, and the last thing I want is a woman whining because my job comes before she does." She paused. "I could never find a low-maintenance girlfriend who was willing to do the things I would expect you to do."
"So hire servants."
She looked at me.
"Oh," I said finally.
"That's what I would be."
"I'll pay you five thousand dollars between now and the second of January, plus room and board and a significant household budget. That's the time I need the most from you. After that, you have free room and board for up to six months with a significantly lower work load."
"Do you expect me to clean the house?"
"I hire a cleaning service once a week plus after any special events. You would be expected to maintain a presentable house, however."
"So clean up my own messes and keep the kitchen tidy."
She smiled. "Yes."
"I am not qualified to cook for your events."
"We wi
ll use caterers."
"I am continuing to interview for a permanent position."
"Of course.
If you find a job, you may not start before January 2nd. I need you until then.
"
I thought about it. "Would you be presenting me as an employee? Girlfriend? What?"
"Girlfriend."
"Without the sex."
"Correct."
"But you would otherwise expect me to act like a live-in girlfriend."
She looked at me. "I told you it was a non-traditional job."
I laughed. "It surely is. Do you have
other girlfriends? Someone I would
be obligated to be jealous about? Are you going to flirt with someone else? Bring her home?"
"No to none of that, and I'd expect you to treat me with the same respect."
"Why me? I don't exactly fit the bill."
"I am being opportunistic," she explained. "Most women who are smart enough to be on my arm are too smart to put up with my shit. You're bright, a good conversationalist. You present well. I can introduce you at social events and not be embarrassed. But you're straight, so this shouldn't get messy. We should be able to keep this as a private relationship that doesn't get out of hand." She paused. "Most of the job would be personal assistant duties, of which you are amazingly qualified. So you're a package deal, and you're perfect."
I looked at her. "Someone told me job interviews are half selling myself, half negotiations. Eight grand," I said. "And new outfits for each event. My date wardrobe isn't up to your standards."
She laughed. "Bit by my own advice." She thought about it. "Do you have other negotiation
s
you intend before I give a counter-offer?"
"I expect to be treated properly."
"Of course. Six thousand," she said. "And I'll decide what new outfits you need after I review your wardrobe myself. If I decide your current wardrobe is fine, I'll pay you the eight."
"You could pay me the six thousand and buy me a track suit."
"And you could get
pissy
about it and ruin my events. I promise you won't feel cheated."
"So, to be clear, you've offered me a job and are now waiting to see if I accept?"
She nodded.
I held my hand across the table for a
hand shake
. "You've got yourself a girlfriend. When do I start?"
She shook my hand then pulled her checkbook out of her purse. I watched as she wrote a check and slid it across the table. It was for an even six thousand dollars. I looked at it. "Is this legal?"
"With the right paperwork," she said. "You'll have to pay taxes against that. You start immediately." She took out a small pad of paper and wrote on it, then gave it to me. "Street address.
Security code to open the garage door.
The same code also works on the electronic lock for the front door.
The second number is the security system. There is a touchpad inside the door from the garage as well as one near the front door. They will both be beeping when you enter."
I nodded.
"This afternoon you will move in. I will be home by seven. Cook something you think I'll like." She slid some cash to me. "You'll need to go grocery shopping. Keep receipts. I'll expect a proper report." I nodded. "You'll need to arrange storage for most of your things, but I expect you to move in today with your entire wardrobe. Is that a problem?"
"No." I paused. "Tell me about the types of foods you like."
We talked for a while longer,
then
it was time to go. We walked back to her office building together; my car was in the underground parking below her building. We entered the building together and she pulled me to the side. "Madeline," she said. "Thank you."
She paused. "The first event is Saturday evening."
After that
we stared at each other for a full minute
, neither one of us quite sure what the goodbye protocol was
. "Um."
"I know," she said. "Awkward."
I hugged her. She hugged back.
I drove to the bank and deposited the check then went home to my apartment. What a weird job. I
decided I was going to like
Karen.
I imagined myself as a lesbian, trying to really fill the role she was looking to fill.
I had to admit, if what she wanted was a 1950's wife for a permanent girlfriend, that wouldn't have bee
n me. I like
d
having a real job.
I changed clothes then went digging through the online yellow pages. I looked up storage centers and called several, then called one back and made arrangements over the phone. I had paperwork to sign, but I had a place
reserved
that was
big enough for my things. Then I called the moving company I'd previously arranged and told them they'd be taking my things to the storage center instead of home. They were coming Thursday morning, the day after tomorrow.
I called Mom. "Hey, Mom." I told her about the job.
"This sounds very strange. Are you sure she is on the up and up?"
"She's a lawyer, Mom. So probably not."
She laughed.
"I'll be fine. I'm calling to let you know I won't be moving in right away. I hope you aren't upset.
She's paying me a lot and maybe it will lead to some good contacts.
"
Most of my stuff was already boxed and ready to go. My clothes were already in
suit cases
and garment bags. I had
borrowed from my parents and had managed to stuff almost everything into the bags I
owned
or borrowed. I had a couple of large garbage bags for sweaters and other things that wouldn't wrinkle. I carried or rolled everything down to my car, taking several trips, then made a trip through the apartment, looking
for things I would need. I grabbed my laptop and a few other things and locked up.
Karen lived in Plymouth, an upscale, outer ring suburb of Minneapolis. I punched her address into my phone, reviewed the route, and began working my way there. On the way, I thought about the job.
I thought about being what was effectively her servant but decided it wasn't really any different than being her personal assistant. I'd be doing a lot of the things I'd done for Marsha over the years. And she was paying me a lot of money to do it.
As for being her fake girlfriend, I wasn't so sure how I felt about that, but I would figure it out.
Things were looking up.
* * *
Karen's house wasn't quite a
McMansion
, but close enough. From the street it looked like a large, two story house with a three-
story garage. But it had a walk
out basement, which means in back, it was a monolithic structure extending three floors above the ground. The yard, like all the yards in late November, was grey, but she had extensive landscaping done, and I bet the yard was stunning in the summer months.
I pulled up in front of the garage then wondered; which side does Karen want me to use to park my car? I got out and used the code to open the door and considered my choices. The garage door opener worked the large, two-car door. The third stall, the one to the furthest left, had no opener, but
that stall was consumed by the accoutrements of yard care
. I decided to park in the center stall, pulling as far to the left as I could,
offering
a large amount of room for Karen to pull in. If she preferred the stall I had just taken, I could move my car.
The entrance from the garage into the house was unlocked. As soon as I entered, I heard the beeping from the alarm. I punched in the code and the beeping stopped.
I gave myself a tour.
The first room, the entrance from the garage, was the laundry room. Sink, washer and dryer to the left, closet to the right. Stepping through that room I entered the kitchen. I stopped and stared.
The kitchen was amazing.
Spotless and amazing.
There was a large center island with a sink and a cook top. Above the island was a glass and stainless steel hood. She had a
wall-mounted
double oven and a huge
refrigerator. Two doors from the kitchen led into a pair of pantries. One held cooking equipment; pots and pans, a variety of electrics, that sort of thing. The other was for food and was half empty.
There was an informal dining area right next to the
kitchen which
immediately opened into a fabulous great room, meticulously decorated, if perhaps somewhat sterile. Past that was a room Karen clearly used as a home
office.
Also on the main floor was a second entertaining area and a formal dining room.
I headed upstairs. The upstairs was basically two wings
separated by a catwalk overlooking the great room on one side and the front foyer on the other
. One wing was clearly Karen's room. I snooped very lightly. The other wing held
a full bathroom and
two bedrooms, both fully furnished.
I walked back and forth between the two bedrooms and wondered which one I was supposed to take. Finally I decided to take the one with the biggest closet.
I headed back to the main floor,
then
decided to investigate the basement. I descended the stairs and stopped, stunned.
Her basement had nine-foot ceilings, and the largest room was fully finished as a dance hall. There was one more bedroom, a bathroom, the utility room, a large storage room, and a small closet that was being used as a wine cellar. I stared at the bottles for a moment before going back to the dance hall.
I walked across the floor. It was a sprung floor! I kicked off my shoes, stretched for a moment, then did a half-remembered ballet dance pass across the floor. I hadn't done it in fifteen years, I wasn't wearing proper clothing, and I barely remembered the dance, but it felt amazing.