Eight years ago
If there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that I’m going to win an Oscar.
Sure, it won’t happen tonight, but it’s definitely gonna happen—as soon as I get out of acting school, move to LA, land an agent, and make my major screen debut.
But right now I’m enjoying relative obscurity, sitting in the empty auditorium, listening to the sound of silence. Rehearsals for the theatre society’s fall play (in which I play the lead—of course) wound down half an hour ago, and since then a fog of quietude has descended over Farkas Hall. This kind of atmosphere is perfect to rehearse my Oscars victory speech. After all, I wouldn’t want to get it wrong on the day.
Standing up with a flourish, I wave at the imaginary crowd. Then I bend over to kiss my gorgeous (imaginary) husband next to me, feel a rush of heady joy, and make my way up to the seat in front.
“Thank you, thank you all. Please, please…thank you,” I say to the empty stage, envisioning a sea of faces. “This is such an honor.” Shedding a few fake tears for the sake of propriety, I shake the imaginary award in my hand and imagine giggles from the audience. “I’m really holding the award for Best Actress. It’s real.” Some more fake tears.
“This victory could not have been possible without the love and support of many people. First off, I’d like to thank my brother, who supported me through acting school. But really, this speech wouldn’t be complete without thanking the people who really made success possible—my dear fans, who’ve loved me in every movie. Thank you. God bless you all…good night.”
Pressing a flying kiss to the audience, I sashay back to my initial position, the sound of applause ringing in my ears. Slumping back, I take a big breath, buzzing with excitement. My heart rate is through the roof, my face has heated up, my fingers tingle with energy. This is what winning feels like—it’s a feeling I’ll remember all my life.
Clapping echoes through my ears.
“Wow!” A male voice climbs over my shoulder.
Startled, I snap my head around and spot a guy behind me, wending his way towards me. Even from afar, his blue eyes shine like chips of sapphire.
“Who are you?” I holler back, sliding back on the balls of my feet. I can’t believe someone was witnessing my fanfaronade. It’s…he had no right to.
“Henry Stone.” He waves at me with mock familiarity. “I help out with props here. And I share your penchant for sitting in empty auditoriums.”
I have this weird mental habit—I grade guys on appearance. I try not to do it, but I can’t help it. This guy’s a C—which in my book constitutes a failing grade. His chestnut-brown hair’s a messy mop and his fashion sense is abysmal. He’s wearing untied sneakers, a worn-out hoodie and faded jeans. His features are not bad, but they don’t stand a chance of being seen under the zits on his face.
“I was just hanging around,” I explain, keeping my expression casual.
“The same as me, then.” With one finger, he gestures behind me. “I was watching you from back there.”
So he’s a stalker? I’ve encountered a few of those, but they’re usually a bit more socially reserved.
I spin on my heel, then spin back. “No offense, but you don’t look like the theatre type. What’s your major?”
“Engineering. I know, it’s nerdy.” Blushing, he studies the ground.
“Ah.” Despite my best efforts, the smile on my face is fast turning into a grimace. “So you study flowers and stuff?”
“No, that’s botany. I’m an engineer. Chemical engineer.”
“Oh, oh, I got it! You study cells and do experiments in labs. I remember now. I once played the role of an engineer in a play.”
“Biologists study cells.” Frowning, he clears his throat. “I study things like…reaction kinetics, thermodynamics, heat and momentum transfer. The purpose of it all is to design efficient processes for manufacturing various things.”
I blink, my brain having short-circuited. There were too many big words in that sentence. What in heaven’s name is reaction kinetics? For that matter, what the fuck is kinetics?
“You okay? You look dazed.” He puts his hand on my head and a shock jolts me. I recoil immediately.
What was that I felt? It was some kind of overwhelming feeling. Maybe revulsion. I don’t know.
“I’m fine,” I mutter. “You should go now.”
But he doesn’t budge, continuing to rub his shoe soles on the ground, stalling.
Annoyance rises high. “Are you waiting for something?”
His eyes arc up to me, searching. His voice drops to a whisper. “Um…the truth is I’ve always admired you. In freshman year, I joined the theatre club because I wanted to be closer to you.”
Definitely a stalker, then.
Toying with the bracelet on my left wrist, I squirm in my skin. “Really? How come I’ve never seen you much then?”
“I make props, so I’m usually away from the stage. But I really love watching you perform. There’s something special about you. You’re easy to fall in love with…for the audience, I mean.”
His face resembles a tomato. I know there are girls who find clumsy, innocent guys like him charming, but I don’t. I like confident, sexually experienced men who don’t behave like a three-year-old asking out his kindergarten crush on a date.
There’s a dead pause, before he delivers a startling comeback. “So…will you go out with me?”
What? Did he just ask me that? Did he just ask me—hot, twenty, in the prime of my beauty, size zero with a perfect heart-shaped face and Angelina Jolie lips—to go out with him? It’s a struggle to decide whether to be flattered or disgusted at how approachable I’m starting to seem to the likes of him.
“Are you kidding me?” I scream. “How could you even think of asking me out? We’re not even at the same level.”
A weird sound tips out of him, but I continue without stopping.
I flail my hands around, fighting off the terrible visions invading my head. “No, no. When I win an Oscar, how could I kiss someone like you before receiving my award? Urgh! What would people think of me? My perfect moment will crumble. No, no, no! It cannot happen.”
In my dreams, it’s always been my sexy, loving husband whom I kiss before getting up to receive the award. And everybody swoons in envy. But this guy? Sexy and he don’t even belong in the same dictionary.
“Oscars?” Henry shoots me a puzzled look. “You’re winning an Oscar?”
“Yes…eventually.” I stick my nose up in the air. “So you don’t have a place in my life.”
Puzzlement falls over his face, creasing the space between his eyebrows. “I don’t see how me being in your life has anything to do with the Oscars.”
With one finger I tap the center of his forehead. “Use this a little.” My finger now does a U-turn and stabs at my chest. “Look at you and look at me. It should become obvious to you. I am the hottest girl on this campus with the brightest future. And you are a geek. Do you even know how far apart we are on the social scale? If a guy like you dates me, the order of the world will be disturbed. It’s obvious that I’m meant to date somebody hot and gorgeous and sexy…in other words, somebody who’s not you.”
“I’m not a geek,” he protests in a hurt voice, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. His angry breaths reverberate loudly in the auditorium. “And I don’t believe in this so-called ‘social scale’.”
“Fine. Then say one romantic thing to me. Make me believe that you’re capable of being charming. And make it quick.”
Blinking, his irises dart here and there, but nothing comes out of his mouth. This is what happens when guys like him try to reach above their level. How did he even think he and I could go out in a million years?
“See? You don’t have a single charming bone in your body.” Spreading my hands, I gesture heavenward. “I need romance. I need a guy who can make me swoon with his words, somebody who knows how to make a woman feel loved, someone who understands what women feel. You don’t fit that description.”
“You shouldn’t judge people so quickly,” he admonishes, anger flickering in his eyes.
“And you shouldn’t dream impossible dreams of dating me,” I fire back.
He coughs in disbelief, groping for a comeback, but as everybody knows, he’s not gonna come up with anything. In the end, he settles for throwing his hands out to his sides.
“Why’re you being so mean? You’ve never talked like this to me backstage.”
I rack my brains, trying to recall when the hell I ever talked to this guy. Nothing comes to mind. But then again, in all likelihood, even if it had happened, I wouldn’t remember. He’s just one of the numerous nameless faces that I see at rehearsal every day. There’s nothing special about him that would stand out to me.
“I have no clue what you’re on about.” Plucking my ChapStick from my pocket, I apply it to my lips. This conversation has left my lips strangely dry.
“Do you really not remember? You said I was cute, and that my voice reminded you of Rhett Butler from Gone With the Wind.”
I did? Why can’t I recollect? Oh, right. I’ve said that to too many guys to count.
“So? I say that to almost every guy I meet,” I admit.
If he’d bothered to ask around, he’d have known that I’m famous for being ‘the heartbreaker of Harvard.’
“But when you said it to me—”
“You thought you were special? Is that it?” My voice dips into the realm of vicious.
See, I do feel bad for him. It takes balls for someone like him to ask someone like me out. But I wish he understood that I’m not going to change my mind if he keeps pestering me. Why won’t he take a ‘no’ and just leave?
“Know when to give up, dude,” I tell him. “Or you’re gonna make this painful for both of us.”
He releases a slow nod, the first signs of realization dawning upon him. It’s the moment when all the illusions are shattered, when the truth becomes clear. Henry’s face arranges into an indecipherable expression. Rejection is something I’ve never experienced, being so blessed and all, so I can’t relate.
“Fine. Sorry for wasting your time,” he says, and despite myself, I feel a little bad for him.
He looks so heartbroken. He’s probably going to remember this humiliation all his life, even though I don’t really want him to. This is not the kind of impression I want to leave on people. Maybe I can be nice to him—
Immediately I quash that sympathy. It won’t do to start caring about everyone who proposes to me. I’m destined to break many more hearts in the future.
Forcefully flipping my hair back, I strut out.
I have Oscars to win and hunks to date.
*
Present
“Hurry it up! This ain’t your father’s vacation home,” screams the plump lady behind me, snapping me out of my reverie—one that included me in the arms of a hottie and a tabloid story about our five-million-dollar mansion and new baby called Zillion.
“Sorry,” I mumble, dragging my feet forward to fill the empty spot left by the alcoholic in front of me.
As much as I wish we were all lining up for the Oscars after-party, the sad truth is that it’s a line at the public library. And it’s moving at a snail’s pace. The head count behind me is steadily growing, while the number of heads in front isn’t diminishing at anywhere close to the same rate.
First off, why is there only one lady at the counter? And secondly, why did it take her ten minutes to figure out the problem with the previous guy’s NYPL app?
Irritated, I open up random apps on my phone, inwardly moaning at the sad state of my life.
I’m twenty-eight. Unemployed. Mooching off my older brother, with no job in sight. In simple words, my life’s a wreck.
What about acting, you ask? My acting career…well, it didn’t pan out the way I expected. My agent dropped me last year, after seven years of nothing but small-time supporting roles, and paying rent and gas in LA on a waitress’s salary became a nightmare, so I moved into my brother Cooper’s house in New York.
The problem is that Coop is married, and his wife Ji-ae constantly complains about having lost her room to me, even though I make myself useful by doing housework and helping her out with her business every now and then.
Currently I’m trying to find another passion in life and hopefully make a career out of it. After all, my days at Coop’s place are numbered, and I need to have an income to fall back on if things go south between Ji-ae and me.
That’s why I came to the public library—to look at job listings and use the free internet. Ji-ae constantly hogs the computer at Coop’s place for her business. Also, she wanted me to borrow some business-related books for her from the library, a request I couldn’t refuse (beggars can’t be choosers), and that’s the long and short of how I came to stand in this line when it’s pouring cats and dogs outside.
“Line’s movin’ slow today.” The guy in front of me picks his nose, flashing me a yellow-toothed grin.
Ew. Disgusting.
I hold my breath, praying to the gods who didn’t save my acting career that they at least spare me the misery of having to spend more than one minute in this gent’s company.
But no such luck. Three minutes later, he’s still talking and my face has turned blue due to lack of oxygen.
But I sorta feel bad for the man, so I put up with his aimless ramble. Homeless, penniless, unemployed, with nowhere to go—that can’t be a pretty life. In the past, I used to sneer at guys like him hogging up space in public facilities when they’d never paid taxes, but now that I’m in the same boat as him, I feel sorry for having judged him so harshly. Like with me, life didn’t go his way. It really sucks to be us.
The sudden vibration of my phone tickles my round hips (yeah, I’ve managed to acquire those after three months of eating Ji-ae’s home cooking). Fishing it out of my coat, I stare down at the flashing screen that’s lit up with an incoming message from my dear sister-in-law.
Found the perfect job for you on Indeed. Part-time housekeeper and child care expert. $35/hour. Isn’t that great? Walk-in interview this afternoon at 3 pm.
An angry gasp tears out of me. Ji-ae must’ve gone crazy if she thinks I’m desperate enough to scrub floors, battle dust, deal with wailing kids, and cook meals for a living. I’m not Cinderella, for heaven’s sake…although I could definitely do with a rich prince and a palace. At this point, actually, I’d be happy if I had the glass slippers. I’ve heard those net good money at online auctions.
“Next, please,” the man at the checkout counter calls.
The guy in front of me disappears and I delete Ji-ae’s text. Thirty-five dollars an hour might be a great hourly wage, but dignity is more precious than that. I want to do something I’m passionate about, something that sets my soul afire, like acting did. Something that’s…not acting. But after eight months of bumming at home and soul-searching, I’m no closer to finding my passion than I was the day I arrived in LaGuardia with tears in my eyes.
“Lady, move,” the woman behind me screams again, and I finally get to the counter.
Ji-ae’s right: I’m prone to flights of fantasy. I can’t help it; for the longest time I made a career out of this.
I hand the books to the librarian, who checks them out one by one, then prints a slip and hands it to me.
“Thanks,” I mutter.
Gathering the checked-out books, I start back home.
Doesn’t look like I’ll be finding a job today.
*
Ji-ae looks up at the building in front of us in wonder, clutching her phone tighter to prevent it from slipping through her fingers.
“Wow, this is better than I thought. He must be rich.”
Ashwood Greens, the silver letters engraved at the front of the red-brick and glass building read. I pop my chin up, trying to find the top of this building that seems to stretch vertically to the clouds. People streak past us on the sidewalk, one of them bumping into me and pushing me closer to the entrance.
“Who must be rich?” I ask.
The purpose of our presence here is still not clear to me. Ji-ae was hush-hush on the subway ride to here, saying there was someone she wanted me to meet. Since there’s no way she’s concerned about improving my love life, I assumed we were here to meet a friend of hers or some acquaintance who could land me a job.
“Your future employer. That’s who.” Ji-ae imprisons my wrist with her hands, like she’s scared I might bolt if I knew the truth.
At five-three, she is petite and has the kind of unrealistically willowy figure that not even models can aspire to. Her face is overrun by a mass of brown spots, but she still looks pretty from afar. Due to her eccentric fashion sense, she wears pink frilly tutus over black leggings in public on a regular basis. Today is a tutu day.
“Wait.” I try to slink back, but am held in place by Ji-ae. “Why are we here? Tell me. Now.”
“For a job interview. This is a great opportunity for you, Max.”
I don’t like the sound of this. Job and interview–those words sound dreadful, especially next to each other.
“What job?” I enquire, feeling like I’m being sucked in by a tornado.
She pulls me into the building. “The one I texted you about.”
Immediately the posh lobby draws my attention. My line of thought vanishes as I pause to admire the gorgeous gold-framed paintings hung on the wall, the grand chandelier spraying light over the beautiful wooden desk, behind which a professionally dressed man is talking to someone on the phone. Looking back, I see there’s a doorman. A doorman.
A woman holding a young girl’s arm cuts across the lobby, dressed like she’s headed straight to the New York Fashion Week. When I look down at the little girl with hair as blonde as a Barbie doll, my errant thoughts fall back into place.
“The cleaning and babysitting job?” I ask Ji-ae, picking back up where we left off.
“Yep.”
“But I told you I wasn’t interested.”
She walks ahead. “I thought you’d change your mind if you met your employer. He sounded really sweet over the phone.”
“You called him?”
“Yeah. To let him know that you’d be coming to interview at three.”
I want to say something strong, but I hold my tongue. Can’t bite the hand that feeds me. (I hate how literally these metaphors apply to my life.)
And here’s one thing about my sister-in-law—once she sets her mind to something, she won’t rest until she’s accomplished it. When you consider that she used to sell insurance, that almost makes sense.
I scan the lobby once again, feeling a little better about this shebang. So this is where the guy who advertised the thirty-five-dollar-an-hour vacancy that I hadn’t planned on responding to lives. Now I’m curious to find out who he is. Maybe I should go along with Ji-ae. Even if I don’t get the job, I’ll at least check out how the rich in Manhattan live.
Ji-ae walks ahead, then looks back and says, “Hey, Max, move it along. We’re not here to sightsee.”
“Sorry.” I stumble, losing my balance.
“Watch it.” Gripping me by the arm, she pulls me up. “Gee, what would you do without me?”
I sneer. “I’d be fine without you.”
The guy at the reception confirms our purpose and makes us sign in. Since Ji-ae called and spoke to the guy who created the job posting, we are let in without hassle. Despite how much I criticize her, I admit that she’s a natural-born manager.
As we’re swallowed by the golden-plated elevators, the scent of expensive perfume assails my nostrils.
“Why didn’t you wear nicer clothes? He’ll worry about the quality of your laundry skills if he sees you in this.” Ji-ae’s voice nitpicks over my shoulder.
Since I moved in with Coop last fall, she’s started nagging me more than my brother.
“I’m sure he won’t be noticing my clothes,” I retort.
She flips open her phone, scrolling through the world’s premier international gossip registry—otherwise known as Facebook. “Okay, so I researched your future employer online as much as I could. His name is Henry. He runs a consultancy firm that works with pharmaceutical and oil and gas companies. From the looks of his LinkedIn, he seems to be doing well. But he doesn’t have a Facebook page, so his personal life is a mystery.”
“How do you know he’s going to be my future employer?” I ask, feeling trapped inside this golden cage. I’m having second thoughts about this housekeeper job.
Patting my back, Ji-ae gives a reassuring nod. “Well, I’m here, aren’t I? I’ll never let you fail this interview.”
That only scares me more.
With a ping, the elevator unloads us on the thirteenth floor (such an ominous number), and we buzz apartment number 1310, which is supposed to be my ‘future employer’s’ abode. There are only two apartments on this floor, separated by a huge corridor that holds a big ceramic showpiece shaped like a torn piece of paper. The other apartment is numbered 1321. 1310 and 1321? What knucklehead came up with this numbering system?
My ears faintly pick up the swish of the door opening, but I continue staring at the weird piece of ceramic.
“Hullo. We’re here for the housekeeper interview,” Ji-ae says, then kicks back, her heel landing squarely on my ankle.
“Ouch.” I hop forward, ready to greet my so-called ‘future employer’. “Hel—”
A strangled sound escapes my throat as my eyes meet a pair of blue ice chips.
Oh, my God. It’s him—Henry Stone. The Henry Stone I rejected all those years ago.
Mortification spreads over me.
I haven’t seen him since the day at the auditorium. He quit the theatre society after our little ‘chat’. Probably realized I was never going to come around to liking him. I never bothered to enquire about what happened to him after college, even though one of my friends was close to somebody in his set. I assumed he’d be working a boring job somewhere, and dating someone within his reach.
But I was wrong. I mean, look at him now—living in this posh Manhattan penthouse and interviewing me to babysit his kids.
And holy crap, he’s changed so much. No, his face hasn’t magically transformed into Henry Cavill’s, but his hairstyle and fashion sense have improved. It’s hard to believe the difference age and hair can make on a man.
“Hello,” he says crisply, betraying no hint of familiarity.
He peruses me, but there’s no flicker of recognition in his eyes. Maybe he’s forgotten me and that episode. Although humiliating experiences like that tend to be hard to forget, maybe he’s one of those people who have a terrible memory.
“I’m Max,” I say after a long pause. “I’m here to interview for the housekeeper position.”
Henry opens the door wide. “Come on in, then.”
My jaw remains frozen halfway as I take in the breadth and grandeur of the space I’ve stepped into. This apartment is like one of the ones they show in home décor magazines. Minimalistic, with standout furniture in bold colors. Henry’s wife must have a real eye for aesthetics, because there’s no way he did this himself.
Craning my neck, I try to peep into the rooms, most of which have been left open. Two of them look like bedrooms, and one’s an office. But I can’t see a nursery or a kids’ room. I do ponder the possibility that his kids are older, but then he’s my age. So unless he married right out of college, that’s a stretch.
“Beautiful house,” Ji-ae remarks appreciatively.
She’s staring at the walls like they’re made of chocolate slabs. I hiss at her. She better cut that Charlie in the Chocolate Factory expression before it creeps him out.
Henry gestures to the roomy sofa at the center of the living room. Sunlight is washing over it from the floor-to-ceiling windows.
My legs shake a little as I lower my butt to its cushiony softness. Scattered around the monochrome rug below are pages of sheet music, with a bunch of pens having been put away hastily into a blue plastic box stowed under the TV. Judging from those and the lack of a nursery, I’m beginning to wonder if he even has kids.
“Please sit.” Henry retrieves the resume Ji-ae emailed him on his iPad, taking a seat on the sofa opposite the one he pointed us to. “Maxima Anderson. You were the one who called me this afternoon?”
“No, that was me.” Ji-ae lays her business card on the coffee table, along with a plastic box of food samples from her menu for today. She’s a professional cook, by the way. She has her own lunch delivery business. She makes homemade lunches for busy people. “I’m her sister-in-law, Ji-ae. Nice to meet you. I brought you some samples of Max’s cooking.”
“But those—” were made by you, I intend to say, before she shuts me up with a sharp kick to my ankle.
Opening the box, she points at the various dishes, beaming proudly. “Max is a versatile cook. She can cook any cuisine—Korean, Chinese, Italian—you name it, she can make it.”
Henry regards me with suspicion, but gives a terse nod in Ji-ae’s direction. “Thank you very much. I’ll try them later.”
Glowing at her triumph, she leans back and encourages me to continue. I’m not really sure what to say here. I mean, this is Henry Stone. The same Henry Stone who I once treated like he was more insignificant than the dirt I walked on.
A twinge of regret twists in my chest as I eye the paintings hung on the wall. He’s really made something of his life. This should have been my life—a gorgeous mansion in Beverly Hills, a housekeeper to manage the home, comfort and luxury.
“Call me Max,” I say, shaking his hand anxiously.
“I don’t know if you read the ad, but I have very high standards for domestic help. My experience with housekeepers in the past has been less than stellar, so I will be interviewing you thoroughly today to decide your suitability for the job,” he mentions.
“Of course,” Ji-ae coos. “It’s important to establish trust with a housekeeper. After all, you’ll be entrusting this beautiful apartment to her care.”
Paying her no heed, Henry continues, opening a different file on his iPad—one that has a lot of words and checkboxes next to them.
“Have you had any experience with children before, Max?” he enquires, his tone airy but firm.
“I was summer camp counselor for two years. I taught music to kids.”
I shudder, recollecting the experience. During my freshman and junior years of college, I was seriously broke, so I decided to be a camp counselor to mint some moolah. The problem was, I’m terrible with kids. Three kids under my care became sick halfway through due to eating a poisonous mushroom (that I explicitly told them not to eat.) None of the kids ever listened to my instructions. Suffice to say, I’m not keen on being a babysitter again.
“Excellent.” Henry puts a check mark in the first box, appearing pleased. “Any cleaning experience?”
“I was housekeeping staff at the Four Seasons in LA briefly.”
Ha, that was a nightmare. Cleaning and I are mortal enemies, and will remain so for the rest of my life. But I can’t say that to Henry, so I modify the truth a little.
“My boss constantly praised the high standard of my work, so you have nothing to worry about there.”
It’s thanks to my acting ability that I pull that lie off so easily. In reality, my boss at the Four Seasons fired me because I always left the rooms messier than I found them. But hell, this is an interview, and a little embellishment is standard. It’s not like I’m an inveterate liar or anything.
One thick eyebrow inches up his forehead. “Really? Then why did you only stay at the job a month?”
Someone’s been going through my resume with a fine-toothed comb.
“I had scheduling conflicts,” I fill in smoothly. “When I was in LA, I was trying out my luck in Hollywood. I got a lucrative role, so I had to quit. It was a sad day.”
It was actually the happiest day of my life.
He gives a slight headshake, but doesn’t offer any further comments. When he brings the rim of his coffee cup to his lips, painful awareness seizes my gut. His lips are so beautiful. Not one dry flake in sight—unlike my gross lips that are shedding flakes like a salt shaker.
On closer inspection, his face is different, too. He has nice, soft skin. I wonder what beauty products he uses. I’ll have to check his bathroom cupboard once I’m hired. Maybe I can even borrow some stuff. God knows I need something to preserve my dying beauty.
Henry sinks back into the sofa. “Do you have any questions for me in the meantime, Max?”
“Oh, yes.” I clasp my fingers in my lap. “Quite a few, actually. How many kids do you have, and how old are they? And is your wife often at home? I don’t see her anywhere today.”
Henry looks baffled at my questions. Ji-ae elbows me from the left. I don’t have to look at her face to realize that I may have been overzealous.
But his being alone strikes me as odd. I would think he’d do something as important as interviewing a housekeeper together with his wife.
My gaze falls on his ring finger. No wedding band. Wait…he’s divorced already?
“I don’t have any kids, and I’m not married,” Henry clarifies, eliciting a surprised gasp from Ji-ae.
“But you’re so handsome,” she says. “And you have your own apartment in Manhattan.”
“Thank you for the…er…compliment.” Henry squirms. “But I’ve been single for quite some time and am likely to remain so in the foreseeable future.”
Attention back on me, he waves his hands in the air. “I’m hiring you to supervise my sister’s nine-year-old son and to clean my house. Those will be your primary duties. You’ll have to pick Lucien up from school five days a week and look after him until eight pm. On those same days, I’d like you to come in the morning and clean the apartment, make me breakfast and dinner. I eat lunch at work.”
“Sounds reasonable.” I crack my lips in a very forced smile.
To be honest, that sounds like a shitload of work. Cleaning an apartment this big every day, plus dealing with a nine-year-old…oh, please spare me from that misery.
“That’s good.” Henry takes another glug of coffee. I have to wonder why he’s drinking coffee at three pm.
“I hope this isn’t too personal…but where do you work?” Ji-ae leans so close to him, her butt almost falls off the edge of the sofa.
He places his iPad on the coffee table between us. His movements are elegant and sharp. “I’m a consultant. I have my own engineering consulting practice.”
“Ah, an engineer. You must be smart. Well, Max here might not look too bright, but she’s been to Harvard. She should be able to help your nephew with his homework.”
“I know,” he answers, in a flat tone.
Shit…did he remember? Did he realize that I’m that Max?
My heart gives a kick in my chest. I was beginning to warm up to the idea of cleaning this house, but I suppose it wasn’t meant to be.
But before my panic can accelerate, Henry turns his iPad screen at us. “It says so on her resume. Class of ’10. Majored in drama.”
“Ah, right.” Ji-ae shakes her head at me in a wordless compliment. “She put it on her resume. How smart of her.”
Oh, please. As if I wouldn’t put that on my resume. Going to Harvard is pretty much the only thing of import I’ve accomplished in life.
Henry now starts asking me the usual interview questions, like my philosophy with children and stuff. I don’t have one, so I make one up on the spot. Long ago, in my junior year of college, I took this course where I ad-lib lines for a character. It’s astonishing how much acting helps you in real life.
There are further questions about background checks, references and the like, with Henry explaining that he would require my permission to run a background check on me if I were hired. Gaining trust as a nanny is a delicate matter, I realize that now. There are so many hoops to jump through.
After ten minutes, he’s exhausted his list of questions, and I’ve exhausted my reserve of lies, so we decide to end the interview.
There’s a stiff and formal parting handshake. “Thank you for your time, Max. You’re the most promising among all the housekeepers I’ve interviewed today.”
“It was great to meet you, too, Mr. Stone,” I say in a sickly sweet voice.
Ji-ae and I traipse to the door, which was left open. Henry trails us. Behind me, his footsteps echo steadily, and I can smell the scent of something on him. It’s a hard to describe the smell, but it’s pleasant and comforting. Something deep inside me tugs, and I wish I could talk to him more and get to know him better. Ask what he’s been up to all these years.
I quash that thought. What am I thinking? He’s Henry Stone. Why would I be interested in him? This is ludicrous. Still, I can’t deny that there’s something alluring about him now. Something I want to discover.
Before my stupid thoughts can gain ground on me, I race to the door, but Ji-ae’s phone rings out of the blue.
“Oh, I have to take this call. Max, stay and work out when you can start.” She slips out the door, leaving me alone with Henry.
If she had her way, I’d start this very minute. Nobody’s more desperate to get me out of unemployment than Ji-ae, but I guess it makes sense. I’d be pissed too if my husband’s sister was staying in my two-bedroom apartment with paper-thin walls and ruining my sex life.
Grinding my feet against the hardwood floor, I cast my gaze downward. “I’m sorry. Ji-ae’s very presumptuous.”
Henry doesn’t say anything. Gazing into his eyes, I find two dark discs of mystery. God, this guy’s seriously mastered the poker face. I can’t read him at all.
Pressing a hand to his forehead, he exhales a soft sigh. It takes me a while to make out that the expression on his face is pity.
“So the Oscars dream didn’t work out,” he whispers. “Too bad.”
My whole face burns up like someone threw boiling water on it. “I…you remember?” I choke on my own spit, palms suddenly clammy.
Damn. That’s it. This is over. He’s definitely not going to hire me now.
“You’re hard to forget,” he says. “I never expected to be interviewing you for housekeeper eight years from…that day.”
Ah. That day. That blasted day. Looking back on it, I realize I said some terrible things to him; most of them came from my inflated sense of self-importance. Now, my ego has been crushed and mangled beyond recognition by years of struggle and mellowing experiences. I’ve realized that success doesn’t always come to the most beautiful, talented, or confident person. Sometimes, it chooses those who are quiet and humble, like Henry Stone.
Guess I have no way out of this but to bite the bullet.
Clasping my hands in front of me, I drop my voice to a suitably apologetic whisper. “I’m sorry for what I said to you that day. I was young and immature and drunk on my own self-importance. I take back everything I said.”
“It’s all right. I’ve forgotten about it.”
“Still, I was horribly mean. I went way overboard.”
“I’m not going to disagree.” There are still lingering traces of bitterness under his impassive tone.
It must have been a really humiliating day for him. I wonder how he got through it. If it were me, I don’t think I’d have ever recovered.
“But I am not that person anymore,” I insist vehemently. How do I say this…? “I’ve changed. I understand what rejection feels like.” A flashback from last year fills my vision and I close my eyes to wash it away. “I understand what it’s like to be hurt by someone.”
Henry drags his eyes over me leisurely. “If you say so.”
“I’m serious!”
“I said I believe you.”
“Thanks.” Clumsily, I stamp one foot over another. Damn. “If you hire me, I’ll give it my all.”
“I don’t doubt that. Either way, I’ll let you know what I decide by tomorrow.” He takes a deep breath. “It’s funny seeing you again after so long. I always wondered what became of you.”
“Me, too.” That’s so not true. I never wondered what happened to him, not even for a single second. Then again, how could I have predicted that he’d turn into such a fine man eight years later? “Bye then. See you.”
Such a lame-ass parting line. See you…as if I ever plan to see him again.
Withdrawing myself from Henry’s vicinity with the agility of a cheetah, I grab Ji-ae by the arm and bullet into the elevator, releasing a sigh of relief only when I’ve reached the ground floor.
Phew!
I made it.
