This visit is going beyond my wildest dreams. Not only do I get a full tour of the house, but I’ll also have the opportunity to spy on its unsuspecting inhabitants. I can’t wait for dinner to start. I’ll be able to hear every conversation, study mutual behaviors, and, of course, read everybody’s mind—all at the same time. I am positive that I’ll finally discover what James is really up to.
“Follow me,” says Plump Lady, interrupting my musings and brusquely shoving in our hands a ton of cleaning supplies she retrieved from a storeroom.
Unfortunately, dinner will not be for another two hours, so for now I just have to be patient and concentrate on the house profiling. We follow Plump Lady into what I assume must be the grand hall. I can’t avoid gaping open-mouthed at its grandeur. The stairs here have at least a hundred steps.
This foyer is as big as my apartment, or more like mine plus the one of the tenants up and downstairs, since it’s a three-story atrium. I knew Vanessa was rich, but I didn’t think her family was this loaded. The luxury of this house is overwhelming.
Getting up the stairs appears to be the ultimate effort for Plump Lady. It takes us a lot longer than necessary to reach the upper level. Once there, she shows us the rooms we have to clean, and from the quick glance I get before we move on to the guest baths, I happily realize that by being assigned Vanessa’s room, I was gifted an additional opportunity to poke my nose into her privacy. In fact, where James has been assigned to a plain guest room devoid of any character, Vanessa is sleeping in her old bedroom that is still decorated with all her teenage memorabilia.
As soon as Plump Lady leaves us, I decide to begin my work there. Going inside is like entering into Barbie World. If you could use a room to describe the stereotype of a girly girl, this would be it. Pink in many different shades is the dominant color. There’s so much it gets offensive to the eye.
I look around the shelves to see many trophies and pictures of an adolescent Vanessa. There’s several of her in a cheerleader uniform, one where she’s kissing a football player, and another where she’s being crowned prom queen… Bah, can it get any cheesier than that?
Her wardrobe is full of out-of-style clothes. I scan the tags to confirm that every single one is designer. The en-suite bath, mostly made of pink marble, is stocked with the most expensive lotions and beauty products.
On impulse, I grab her toothbrush and dip it in the toilet, but I regret the move almost immediately, so I throw it in the trash and replace it with a new one. Plump Lady gave us each a bagful of toiletries. This house feels more like a hotel; it doesn’t have that warm, homey feeling. I escape the crime scene and decide to concentrate on the vintage contents of the walk-in closet.
Once I’m done scrutinizing every possible space, I open the French doors and walk outside on the balcony, where I am presented with the most beautiful view of the lake. This must be the estate’s private beach. I wonder what it was like to grow up amidst all of this.
It takes me about one hour to do the cleaning. I’ve never been good at house chores, so I’m not sure what the outcome is, but I suspect it would not rise up to Plump Lady’s standards. My only hope is that the stairs represent too much of an obstacle for her to come up again and check.
The last thing I have to do is to get the freshly cut flowers and the water. As I jog downstairs to get them I’m struck by a sudden inspiration, and before running up again I grab a small sample of my favorite perfume from my bag. Back upstairs, I spray a generous quantity of it on James’s pillows, hoping he will dream of me tonight.
“Maid apparel suits you, you know?” I tease the genie while we set the table.
“Not funny.”
Oh, he wouldn’t say that if he could see himself with the maid hat, complete with its white frills, beautifully perched on his masculine head.
I look perplexed at the flatware. We have more spoons, forks, and knives than the Titanic.
“What do we do with all of this?” I ask, confused.
“It seems pretty basic dinnerware to me.”
“Oh yeah? What is this then?” I challenge him, picking up a random piece.
“Fish fork.”
“And this?”
“Salad knife.”
“And what’s the difference with this?” I ask, lifting an almost identical knife.
“That is clearly a bread knife.” He then proceeds to show me the correct order for the entire cutlery set, the glasses, and the correct placement of the bread plate and napkin.
“Finally, a proper dinner table,” he comments once we’re done positioning everything.
Argh, I hate it when he plays the lord.
“Let me see what you two have done,” Plump Lady chimes in, and carefully scrutinizes the table. When she can’t find anything out of place, she seems more annoyed than relieved. “Come with me,” she snaps curtly. “We have to await the owners on the front porch.”
Seriously? Is this an episode of Downton Abbey?
Lined up with us in front of the house is the butler, the cook and her assistant, three gardeners, the stableman, two drivers, and of course Plump Lady. Twelve people in total, rigorously aligned according to service hierarchy. I find it classist and tacky. The genie, on the other hand, seems to appreciate it very much.
While we wait, I try to calculate how much they must spend to maintain this lifestyle. The running of this estate must be comparable to a small country’s GDP. Luckily our vigil isn’t long, as Mr. and Mrs. Van Horn arrive in a black Bentley at precisely six o’clock.
Vanessa’s dad is a tall, stylish man with short white hair and piercing blue eyes. Her mother could be described as an emaciated blonde who looks ten to fifteen years younger than what her real age must be, and she has the snootiest facial expression I’ve ever seen. She literally sticks her nose up in the air, slightly wrinkled, as if she was constantly smelling something disgusting.
“Miranda,” Mrs. Van Horn says to Plump Lady, stopping on the entrance stairs and eyeing the genie and me with the same offended expression. “Who are these?”
“Replacement help, Mrs. Van Horn.”
“What happened to Betsy?”
“She wasn’t able to find anyone to look after her kids, so she was forced to remain at home.”
“It’s the third time she’s taken unauthorized leave this month. Unacceptable. I want her fired.” Her tone is glacial while she pronounces the sentence.
“Yes, madam.” Plump Lady—well, Miranda—says, subdued. She seems mortified.
“Adam, would you believe this,” Vanessa’s mother adds, turning to her husband. “It is becoming increasingly difficult to find reliable housemaids, and they talk about rising unemployment rates! If people simply showed up to work…” Her voice trails off, and I’m not able to hear the end of her disheartened speech.
She probably just left a single mother with who knows how many kids jobless, but hey, life is hard. What about her suffering for lack of proper servants? Possibly she’s even meaner than her daughter.
“Come on, you two, there’s still work to do in the kitchen. We don’t have time to waste.” Miranda recalls us to our duty, her voice still wobbly.
“How many kids does Betsy have?” I ask tentatively.
Three. If it weren’t for Mr. Van Horn, I would have quit the job a long time ago. That wife of his is pure evil.
“None of your business, Miss,” she says harshly. She’s playing tough on the outside, not letting her internal disappointment show. “Now let’s make sure dinner goes by without any accidents tonight,” she adds in a business-like voice.
We’re busy with the last preparations when a male voice interrupts us. “Excuse me, ladies.”
“Mr. Van Horn, what are you doing back here? Is something wrong?” Miranda frets.
“I wanted to give you this,” he replies, handing her a white envelope. “It’s a severance check for Betsy. She should be good for some months.”
At least there’s someone decent in the family.
“Thank you, Mr. Van Horn.” Miranda is practically tearful.
“It’s nothing,” he says curtly. “Excuse me again, I have to go. I think my daughter has just arrived.”
Is James here as well?
I have to wait another half an hour before I can find out, as we’re not allowed out of the kitchen again before dinner starts and Miranda the Plump sends us out to serve soup and salad. The genie got the soup and I’m glad for it; I’m sure I would have splashed it somewhere, somehow.
“I hope this is worth it,” he whispers to me.
“Sure is,” I say, grabbing the silver tray with the four tiny salad plates.
The atmosphere at dinner is serious and awkward. The formal setting, and the fact that they are four at a table for at least twenty people, aren’t helping. The Van Horns are sitting at the opposite extremes of the table, while Vanessa and James are in the middle on opposite sides. Nobody is talking.
I decide to quickly scan everybody’s mind while I serve the salad. I start with Cruella Senior.
I have a fat daughter.
Her day isn’t getting any better.
I move on to Vanessa.
Mom is probably thinking that I’m fat.
You betcha.
“How is your mother, James?” Vanessa’s father says, breaking the silence.
“Very well, thank you, Mr. Van Horn.”
I hope this is over quickly, he mentally adds.
James is definitely not enjoying himself. Good!
We give them fifteen minutes to finish the salad before we clear the plates and bring out the appetizers. This time, the genie is in charge of the plates and I’m in charge of the wine and water. This way I get to stay in the room the whole time. Perfect!
I start a refill round, beginning again with Vanessa’s mother and continuing in the same order as before. Of course, I keep reading everybody’s mind as well.
And what’s with the acne?
That would be me! I smirk inwardly.
We’ll have to hire some makeup expert for the wedding. The wedding! I hope she’ll fit in her dress after I’ve spent twenty thousand dollars on it.
This woman is obsessed with her daughter’s weight.
Mom will kill me if I don’t fit into my dress, Vanessa thinks.
Never have the words “like mother, like daughter” been more right. Their minds are perfectly tuned.
“James, tell us…have you decided where you will go for your honeymoon?” Mrs. Van Horn asks.
Yikes! I never thought of the honeymoon; surely because I never thought about the wedding actually taking place. At least, not if I have my way.
“I have it all planned, but I can’t say anything, Mrs. Van Horn. I want it to be a surprise for Vanessa.”
Really? Does he mean it? I focus on him for a moment.
I have to stop thinking about Ally. She’s in the past. I’m losing my mind. Even this maid reminds me of her, her smell…
I actually sense the aroma of my perfume as he thinks about it. Whoa, he recognized me! And he’s thinking about me! But why does he want to stop? And why is he organizing a romantic trip for Vanessa if he’s thinking about me?
I want to know more, but Mrs. Van Horn engages him in conversation, not leaving any room for him to think about anything, least of all me. Bitch! I resign myself to move on to Vanessa’s father, filling his glass with red wine.
I know you don’t love my daughter, but I sure hope you’ll make her happy, or I’ll strangle you and your harpy of a mother myself. I swear!
“That will be enough, thank you,” Mr. Van Horn says to me, and I suddenly notice I’ve filled his glass to the point that the ruby liquid is about to overflow. I was so taken by his thoughts that I wasn’t paying attention to what I was doing.
“Oh, I-I’m sorry, sir,” I stammer, still shocked by the implication of his brain streaming and by the strength of his spite for James and his mother.
I quickly fill James’s glass and resume my position in a corner of the room, concentrating entirely on Vanessa’s dad.
I need to make some changes to the Hudson contract…the assignment clause needs to be stronger…
What? How can he switch topics like that? Go back to your daughter’s future, will you?
Liquidated damages are too low… I don’t trust those bastards…
I desperately read his mind at every possible occasion, but his thoughts stay resolutely on legal matters, and everybody else’s thinking is worthless crap. Tonight, instead of providing answers, has generated an entire new stream of doubts.