My new favorite distraction: trying to understand the man. Three months of working for Nicole had proved that she was cray cray and not in a good way. She must be amazing in bed. Or he needed her condom money. Or maybe Raging Bitch was his flavor of aphrodisiac.
I sat at the dining room table and stared at Nicole’s list, one she had emailed that morning, including things like schedule wax and find replacement knob for our dresser in bedroom. I was so glad I gave the extra effort and made NYU’s dean’s list. So glad I learned Mandarin. When it came time to screw in that replacement knob I’d be sure to curse my situation using it.
“You busy?” Clarke’s question startled me, my jump causing my pen to fly across the table, a long ink mark left on one of Nicole’s linen napkins. I grimaced.
“Sorry.” He wiped his hands on a paper towel, balling it in his fist.
“It’s fine. I’m sorry.” I reached out, across the table, half up in my seat, and grabbed the pen. I felt air on my back, my sweater rising too high and I flushed, sitting back in my seat. “No. I’m not busy.” Or should I be busy? My mind warred over the correct answer, seeing as I was on the clock.
“I’m getting hungry. There’s a Cuban place down a few blocks…”
I nodded. “La Nina’s. I know it.” Vic and I had eaten there, the restaurant small, lighting low, atmosphere romantic. My cheeks flushed at the invitation, then my brain kicked into overdrive. Dinner with Nicole’s husband? Probably a bad idea.
“Great. Got something to write with? I’ll tell you what I want.” He eyed the pen in my hand and seemed to be waiting for something.
Oh. He wanted me to pick him up food. Duh. Of course he did. I was suddenly mortified, hoping that my idiotic thought process hadn’t shown, my hands fumbling at my notepad, pulling out a fresh page of paper, my mouth curving into a professional smile as I looked up at him. Thank God I hadn’t told him off, given him a lecture on boundaries.
He looked at me oddly. I swallowed hard and tried to speak casually, my voice coming out a little raspy. “What would you like?”
“Arroz con pollo. Extra plantains. And some pineapple soda.” He reached in his pocket and brought out a wad of cash, pulling some twenties and holding them out. “And whatever you’d like.”
“Oh, I have a date,” I babbled. “We’re going to eat. Dinner, I mean. We have reservations.” My mouth wouldn’t stop moving, my brain feeding it information too slowly, my panicked attempt to shut up only causing more words. “We’re very happy.”
Yes. Me and my imaginary boyfriend are positively ecstatic.
His eyebrows half-hitched, and his odd look deepened. “That’s great to hear, Chloe.” He said the words slowly, the way you might speak to a small child. I didn’t blame him. I sounded ridiculous. My attempt to cover up my confusion at his non-invitation had only pushed me further into the pathetic pool, my risk of drowning imminent. And turning down free food? I immediately regretted every part of the slip.
I took the cash and stood, my hand grabbing at his order, desperate to get away.
Funny that after four months of working, I still hadn’t processed my role as The Help. I still saw myself on some sort of equal platitude with Clarke, where my mind would jump to a dinner invite rather than an order of food. I was out the door and four blocks down the street, wheezing against a streetlamp, before I realized I should have had Dante drive me.
I was so focused on my own life, my own issues, that I forgot everything else. I wasn’t thinking that Nicole Brantley, with her gilded world of perfection, would have her own struggles and a pile of secrets. And I certainly wasn’t planning on those secrets changing everything for me.
The city was a seductress. It dragged you through slushy, freezing hell, and then gave you a brief window of sunshine and made you fall in love with it all over again. It was one of those days, rays of sun warming the huge windows of the Brantley home, my eyes continually pulled back, moment after moment, bits of the outside beckoning. Finally, after organizing Nicole’s scarf drawer and syncing her Spotify playlist with her iTunes account, I decided to take Chanel on a walk. We didn’t go on a lot of walks. She had a pee pad on an upstairs balcony and did her miniscule bathroom breaks out there. Her exercise was taken care of by running around five stories and six thousand square feet.
I dressed her in a leopard print jacket, one with a fur-lined hood and put her booties on. The booties she hated, but Nicole had a tantrum if she stepped on the “dirty street” without foot protection, so I made Chanel suffer the indignity, whispering apologies to her the entire time. Last week, I had wasted a good fifteen minutes counting her shoes. The dog has seventy-three pairs. Too bad I can’t wear her size.
Chanel didn’t really want to go out. She lay down when I put on her harness, the diamond-studded piece making her transition to hooker dog complete. I laughed and pulled on the leash, causing her bejeweled body to slide along the wood floor. She ignored my tough voice, only jumping to her feet when I reached for the treats.
I glanced at my watch as I stepped off the last step, the house behind me too quiet. When Nicole was home, you heard it. Her television, her phone, her music, her voice. She lived in a constant state of interaction, fed on it. I checked the time, wondering where she’d gone and, more importantly, when she’d be back. The prior week, I’d been out getting creamer for her coffee, and walked into a full-blown hissy fit, her fury at my absence way overdone. This stroll outside was the first time I’d left the house since, my fear of her too great to risk. But on a rare sunny day in winter, I felt bold, certain that she’d want Chanel taken out.
I stepped down the sidewalk, Chanel skittering ahead, her enthusiasm mounting now that she was out in the fresh air. “Easy,” I said, holding her leash tightly. On the street, a black hearse passed, the rumble of its engine catching her attention for a brief moment.
Looking back, there were so many signs, so many omens. I should have known that something bad was coming.
20. Stepping in Shit
One block over and back from the Brantleys, I dodged a puddle and tugged at Chanel’s leash. She was distracted by a discarded Starbucks cup, growling fiercely at it when I glanced down the street and came to a stop.
There was a stranger, leaning against a streetlight. Not an odd sight in this city, but it was the woman in his arms that held me in place. Nicole. He said something to her and his voice floated innocently through the air, like he had no worries, certainly not little ol’ me fifteen feet away. I was close enough to see Nicole’s breath frost in the air as she leaned in and smiled up at him. Close enough that, when his hand reached down and palmed her ass, I could see the crease in her leather pants. Close enough that I noticed her grip on the top of his jeans, the top of her fingers slipping in between material and skin. Close enough that I worried, when I gagged a little in my mouth, that they heard me.
I’d known Nicole wasn’t perfect. The sweet bubble of kindness that I met the first day had popped. I’d seen her tempers. Her high maintenance ways. The insecurity that she tried desperately to hide. The woman had everything but wanted more. I knew that, but still … she was MARRIED. Not that I knew anything about being a wife, but monogamy seemed to be the number one rule of the union. And yet his mouth was coming down on hers, her hand digging into his hair. It wasn’t a first kiss; it was natural, like they’d done it a hundred times before. I wanted to pluck off one of Chanel’s booties and throw it at her, followed by that dirty Starbucks cup. She was married to Clarke, the beautiful man who worked nonstop and still got up an extra hour early to cook her breakfast. The man who massaged her shoulders when she bitched, brought her flowers, opened her car door, and looked gorgeous doing it all. She had all that—yet was in this stranger’s arms.
The guy wasn’t even drool-worthy. He wore a plaid cardigan (yuck) and had a beard, one of those flimsy ones that signified a late attempt to jump on the trend. He looked mid-thirties, with a thin build, his legs spread in black jeans, the hin
t of a light gray T-shirt peeking out from beneath the cardigan when he shifted toward me. He glanced in my direction, and I got a good look at his face. It wasn’t ugly. It wasn’t beautiful. It was normal. Nothing when you compared it to Clarke.
Our gazes met and I knew the judgment must have shown on my face. I knew I should turn away but didn’t. I’d forgotten how to function. In the world of fight or flight, I froze in place and got eaten.
Chanel stopped her interrogation of the empty Starbucks cup, the leash going slack, her leopard print body trotting forward. I pulled on the leash, tried to turn but she saw Nicole and lunged forward, yipping loudly.
Oh shit. I pulled harder, my eyes flitting to Nicole and watched, in almost slow motion, as her head snapped my way. She raised a hand to her mouth, stepping back from the man. I scooped up Chanel’s rigid body, fighting her strain toward the pair, her yaps loud and harsh in the quiet cold. Shushing her, I turned away and blocked her view with my body, my flats quick on the street. I was running by the time I climbed the steps to their house, out of breath, Chanel’s body wiggling to be free, our fall through the front doors done with a fair amount of drama, despite my best attempt to be quiet. Nancy, one of the maids, rushed in, her hurry ceasing when she saw it was just me.
“You’re tracking snow in. Get those stupid shoes off the dog before she ruins the floors.” She snapped out the words, oblivious to my situation.
I wanted to tell her that I also thought the doggie shoes were stupid. I wanted to tell her that I just saw Nicole kissing a stranger and—Chanel darted out of my hands, her booties tip-tapping across the floor, leaving dots of water. I scrambled to my feet, going after her, apologizing to Nancy. She shouted at me to remove my shoes and I chucked them off, the action too enthusiastic, one flying up and hitting a large crystal dancer that sat on the entrance table, everyone but Chanel freezing as we watched it fall to the floor.
At any other time, it would have been a beautiful sound, a thousand tiny splinters of glass on marble. We stared at the damage, Nancy letting out a sharp gasp.
“Fuck,” I whispered. Between catching Nicole in the act and destroying this, I was most likely staring at unemployment in that pile of crystal.
What could I have done? What could I have said? I still didn’t know what the right action was to take on that Manhattan side street.
Should I have confronted her? Pointed a judgmental finger at Nicole and asked what in the hell she was doing?
Should I have looked away, pretended I didn’t see anything?
Waved cheerily as if cheating was an everyday activity?
I stared at the broken crystal and drew a complete blank.
21. What Had Happened Was…
“You broke this?” Clarke looked up at me, a question on his face.
“Yes. It was an accident. I was trying to catch Chanel … my shoe…” My voice faltered; my explanation weak as hell.
He looked down at the dustpan, the crystal remains inside, Nancy keeping the evidence and pointing it out the minute he’d walked in the door, as if I had planned to keep it a secret. He straightened and picked up his drink, taking a hefty swallow before glancing at his watch. “Where’s Nicki?”
“I … ahh … I don’t know.” My voice shook, no alibi created for Nicole, his eyebrows raised when he looked at me. “She left a few hours ago,” I managed.
“She’s gonna loose her shit over this, excuse my French.” He tipped back the heavy tumbler again, small cubes of ice falling against his mouth, and I watched the move of his throat when he swallowed the last of it.
“I’m sorry.” The words were rusty, the feeling of panic foreign, my hat not used to being in hand. I swallowed the last bit of my pride. “I really need this job, Mr. Brantley. Please don’t fire me.”
He raised a brow and said nothing. The silence pushed at my composure and I struggled to maintain it. “I can’t afford to replace it but I’ll work extra hours until it’s paid for.” A commitment that’d take five years to honor. I held my breath, hoping he wouldn’t accept it.
He shook his head. “No. Just…” he let out an aggravated huff. “Don’t break anything else. Take your shoes off before you come in if you have to. I’ll deal with Nicole … tell her I did it.”
An honorable woman would have stood firm and pushed for a payback schedule. I took the low road, gushing my thanks, his hand lifting to stop my babble. “Go and find Nancy. I want to talk to her, make sure our stories are on the same page. Just don’t talk to Nicki about it.” No danger of that. I did some sort of grateful bow thing and then fled the room, in search of Nancy, my heart still beating hard in my chest.
I didn’t deserve for him to cover for me but couldn’t afford anything else. The man saved my ass and kissed Nicole’s, yet he was the one getting screwed over. How could she cheat on him? Why?
I wanted to walk back in his office and tell him what I’d seen. Let him handle it however he saw fit. It was what I would have wanted someone to do for me.
But then I thought of my new apartment—of the next rent payment, due in just two weeks. If I lost my job right now, I wouldn’t be able to pay it. And I couldn’t imagine Nicole keeping me on if I blabbed about her affair.
I continued upstairs and went inside Chanel’s room where I hid, like the chicken I was, until it was time for me to go home.
22. Have Morals, Will Sell
I stood in the doorway of the west guest room in shock. The bedroom furniture gone, there was a couch, doggie bed, and basket of toys to the left. To the right, against the window, a large desk, fresh roses, and a new MacBook. It was an office.
“This is for me?” I asked, confused. I had walked into the Brantley house a bundle of nerves over Nicole’s cheating and the broken crystal. I’d been terrified to see Nicole and worried over how she’d act. I certainly didn’t expect an enthusiastic welcome, her arm looping in mine and tugging me up the stairs. I half expected, when she dragged me toward the bedroom, that it would hold shackles and an ultimatum. Not this.
“Well.” Nicole clasped her hands together and turned slightly, surveying the room. “You certainly deserve a work space.” Then she beamed at me, this horrible fake smile with stretched cheeks, thin lips, and gleaming teeth. For a smile, it held no friendship, no kindness, no goodwill.
I said nothing, walking over to the desk, my hand drifting over the items.
“Plus,” she continued, “Filming will start soon on that new movie … the uh … you know…”
“Boston Love Letters.”
“Yes!” She snapped her fingers. I thought of her kiss with the stranger and looked away, focusing on the stapler. It was hot pink with sparkles, appropriate for a preteen girl. How could she forget the name of the movie? She wasn’t Angelina Jolie, juggling six projects at a time. It was the only thing on her plate. Then again, I couldn’t remember my middle name when I’d stared at the two of them. Maybe being in his presence killed brain cells.
“Also…” she started slowly, “I’ll need you more. On set, you know. The hours are long. Sometimes ten-hour days and I’ll need you to run errands, get me food, that sort of thing.”
I nodded and braced myself for whatever bullshit was about to come.
“Would thirteen hundred dollars work?”
I looked up from the stapler. “What?”
“A raise. Thirteen hundred a week. Would that work?”
She called it a raise, but I understood what it was. A bribe. I’d keep her secret and get paid. And she—she’d keep her affair.
The path to take was clear; I should gather up my dignity and leave. Ride the subway home and feel all self-righteous while doing it. Only … I needed this job. Needed the raise. An extra twelve hundred bucks a month? I’d be able to pay my new rent without holding my breath that the check cleared. I could take taxis and order more than soup when I went out with my friends. I could breathe a little more and stress a little less.
I could
sell my morals.
Two months ago, I would have grabbed that raise with a squeal of pleasure and hit Nordstrom on my way home. Now, I hesitated. I did.
Her eyes were arrogant; they watched me as if she already knew my answer, her confidence in my ability to be bought depressing. I wanted to refuse, to hold my head up and march right out of there. Instead, I nodded. “Okay.”
It took a full month, but I finally unpacked the last of my boxes. Finally, no more digging through suitcases and boxes looking for a flat iron. No more wearing the same heels three days in a row because all the other options were “in a box somewhere.”
I plopped down on my couch, picking up my phone. A celebration felt due, and since neither of my friends had surprised me with a housewarming party, I’d throw my own.
Twenty minutes later, after listening to Benta bitch about her boss, and Cammie swear on Jesus that she missed my face, we had a plan in motion. A plan that gave me about an hour to change out of my sweats, grab food from the Italian place three blocks over, and be back in full hostess mode. I called in the order and hopped in the shower.
I adjusted the shower’s spray and thought about the super. I hadn’t seen him since he’d fixed the showerhead, though it wasn’t for lack of looking. I should have taken Nicole’s wrath and been late that day. I could have leaned against the bathroom door and watched him work, his hands lifted above his head … dangerous thoughts to think about while naked, in said shower, with a convenient handheld showerhead right there. But I avoided temptation, jumping out with only a slight edge of sexual frustration (it’d been a year!) and yanking on skinny jeans, a Free People tank and cardigan, and some flats. I grabbed my keys and headed out the door.
I might have taken too long in the shower. Or we could blame my delay on the restaurant, who didn’t have my order ready, then had issues with their credit card machine, then took their dear sweet time packing everything up for me to carry out.