I’m standing in front of a massive French-style chateau smack dab in the middle of one of the most pretentious neighborhoods in Dallas. To say my skin is crawling would be an understatement.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t hate luxury, I love a gorgeous pair of Jimmy Choo’s just as much as the next girl—I just hate the condescending and entitled behavior that typically comes with those who can afford it.
The door swings open and a matronly woman with gray hair up in a twist appears. “Good afternoon, Ms. Martinez. The family is waiting in the lounge.” She motions me into the home, looking behind me she quickly adds, “Will you be needing assistance with anything?”
“Yes, please. If someone could help bring in the trolly with the garment bags and boxes that would be wonderful. Thank you.”
Last night Blair gave me access to one of her cards. I was able to shop for her and her family, pulling anything they might need for their trip. Whatever they don’t like I can just return or exchange.
The perks of being a personal stylist, you get to shop on someone else’s dime. The con, the stuff isn’t yours to keep.
“Daaarling, I can’t wait to see what you’ve got for us!” Blair greets me from behind the bar, discreetly tucked into the corner of the lounge. It looks like she’s just poured herself a glass of white wine. “You remember my husband, Dr. Woodrow Wilson, and our children, Penelope and Thomas, right?”
I look around the room and see her husband in an Eames lounge chair, so out of place with the rest of the French decor. Upon hearing his name, Dr. Wilson looks up from his phone and when his eyes meet mine—something in them flickers, too quickly for me to discern. Within a second he’s back to his aloof self, staring back at his phone.
Okay, that was weird.
Looking toward the other end of the room, I notice the children for the first time. They’ve been so quiet I wouldn’t have known they were in the room were it not for Blair’s introduction. Sitting at a kid-size table, they are fully engrossed in whatever they have going on in their tablets, oblivious to the world around them.
This whole scene is sort of creepy. Everyone seems so detached from each other.
My family might be dysfunctional but our home has always been full of laughter and love. This home is more a reproduction of a still life portrait, and it gives me the heebie-jeebies.
“Since I just poured myself this drink, why don’t you start off with Woodrow. He seems to need the most help anyway.” Blair lifts a brow as she takes a sip.
Woodrow seemingly unaffected by his wife’s shade simply gets up from his chair, places his phone in his pocket, and walks past me before looking back. “Shall we?” He motions toward the hall.
“I was hoping we could go over the pieces here, and then you could try on anything you liked.” I clear my throat, waiting for his answer. The idea of being alone with this man has me on edge. I can’t quite place my finger on it but there is something off about him.
“Nonsense. I’m not going to drop trou here in the middle of the lounge. Besides, if we go to my bedroom then you’ll get to see my closet and all the clothes in it. It’ll give you a better sense of my style.”
“Or lack thereof…” Blair mumbles into her wine glass.
Woodrow, completely ignoring his wife’s disparaging remark, continues walking. “Just point to the boxes and bags that are mine and Winslow will take them to the room.”
As if on cue, a white-haired man appears, immediately standing next to the pile I’d brought with me. “Which items will it be, miss?”
Of course, they’d have a butler.
Hesitating a moment before agreeing, I begin to point out the items intended for Blair’s husband before following the man himself into the hallway.
The entire home is museum status worthy. Not a spec of dirt to be seen and everything from the decor to the finishes screams money, and not in a gaudy way either.
Woodrow stops in front of a door, “This is Blair’s bedroom, and mine is just down the hall.” He begins walking once more, leaving me with a ton of questions.
Why do they have separate rooms? That seriously can’t be healthy for their love life. And why did he so blatantly point out Blair’s room? It’s not like she wouldn’t have shown me where it was later…
I don’t have time to ruminate over my questions because before we know it, we’ve arrived at Woodrow’s door.
“After you.” He steps aside, letting me through first.
My jaw just about hits the floor upon entering. Closing my mouth quickly, I try and recover. This room makes Bella’s look like the peasants’ quarters.
There’s a massive four-poster bed front and center, complete with drapery, King Henry the 8th style. Come to think of it, everything in this room is of the same Tudor style—from the bed down to the lighting. Even the ceiling is arched and delineated with massive dark brown beams.
“I know… It doesn’t exactly go with the rest of the home.” Woodrow chuckles from behind me. “It’s the only room I could fully take control of… It’s the only room that is completely Blair free.” He slowly edges closer to me with that last statement, putting me further on edge.
Okay. If he’d put me on edge before, he’s full-on freaking me the fuck out now. I keep stepping backward until the back of my knees hit his bed.
“Has anyone ever told you how beautiful you are?” The creeper keeps walking toward me, completely unaware or uncaring of my discomfort.
I quickly sidestep toward the massive opening which I presume is either his restroom or his closet, needing to put some serious space between us.
“I see you’ve noticed my closet.” The man appears behind me as if performing some sort of Houdini act. How’s he so fast?!
“Yes, it’s gorgeous,” I squeak, trying to keep the nerves out of my voice but failing miserably. “Okay, now that I have a good sense of your style, why don’t you step into the bathroom and try on the first couple of items Winslow just placed on your bed.”
Thank the Lord for the butler. He walked in at the right time. Not sure what Creeper McCreeperson would have tried had we not been interrupted.
“Of course.” Woodrow clears his throat as he steps back into the bedroom, grabbing a couple of bags before heading into the bathroom.
As soon as the bathroom door closes, the one to the hall opens and Blair steps in.
My head spins at this door version of musical chairs. Can’t I just get a moment to collect myself?
“Cassie, I forgot to hand you this when you arrived. It’s the contract and we’ve even gone ahead and added a signing bonus.” A self-satisfied smirk ghosts her lips.
I look down and the bonus itself is enough to send me stumbling back, but I’m not about to give her the satisfaction of watching me react. I’m sure to her this is chump change, but to me, twenty thousand dollars is an absurd amount.
Immediately my mother comes to mind. “I’ll look it over and get back to you.”
Blair attempts to look confused but Botox has permanently frozen off most of her natural expression. “But I thought it was a done deal? You said you agreed.”
I know it’s probably not the best idea to piss off your potential new employer, but I’m not one-hundred percent certain I want to sell my soul to the devil just yet—especially with Creeper McCreeperson being part of the packaged deal.
“Thinking about it now, I figured we could do sort of a trial run. If everything goes well, then I’ll most likely sign.”
“Oh, they will go well. And you will sign.” She purses her lips and attempts to raise her brows, trying to look fierce, but instead achieves the look of a constipated teenager with duck lips.
Looking up toward the vaulted ceiling I send up a silent prayer, hoping for clarity on whether or not I should take a dive into this pool of money and crazy.
God, I hope it’s all worth it.
