by Julia Kent
Fluffy
Julia Kent
Copyright © 2019 by Julia Kent
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Cover designer: Hang Le
Editor: Elisa Reed
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Author website: http://www.jkentauthor.com
To my amygdala.
Contents
Fluffy
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
About the Author
Also by Julia Kent
Fluffy
by Julia Kent
It all started with the wrong help-wanted ad. Of course it did.
I’m a professional fluffer. It’s NOT what you think. I stage homes for a living. Real estate agents love me, and my work stands on its own merits.
Sigh. Get your mind out of the gutter. Go ahead. Laugh. I’ll wait.
See? That’s the problem. My profession has used the term fluffer for decades. I didn’t even know there was a more… lascivious definition of the term.
Until it was too late.
The ad for a professional fluffer on Craigslist seemed like divine intervention. My last unemployment check was in the bank. I was desperate. Rent was due. The ad said cash paid at the end of the day.
The perfect job!
Staging homes means showing your best angle. The same principle applies in making a certain kind of movie. Turns out a fluffer doesn’t arrange decorative pillows on a couch.
They arrange other soft, round-ish objects.
The job isn’t hard. Well, I mean, it is–it’s about being hard. Or, um, helping other people to be hard. In decisions about stripping down, I mean!
Oh, man…
And that’s the other problem. A man. No, not one of the stars on the movie set. Will Lotham–my high school crush. The owner of the house where we’re filming. Illegally. It's a rental house.
By the time the cops show up, what I thought was just a great house-staging gig has turned into a nightmare involving pictures of me with a naked star, Will rescuing me from an arrest, and a humiliating lesson in my own naïveté.
The job turned out to be so much harder than I expected. But you know what’s easier than I ever imagined?
Having all my dreams come true.
1
Wanted: Professional fluffer for set. Experience required (no amateurs)! North Shore area. Immediate work, potential for more. 4 hours this week, cash paid at end of workday. Email or call.
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Well, that’s vague, but promising. I live north of Boston. I haven’t heard the term fluffer used for house staging in a long time… maybe this is an older real estate agent?
A “set,” huh? I know the industry is moving toward video to help drive sales. I’m a stager who used to work for Tolleson Properties, one of the biggest real estate brokerages in my area. I staged houses, model homes, and sometimes office space, until the owners decided to sell and retire.
Things with the new owner didn't exactly work out, but I don't want to think about that DEA raid.
My last day was exactly twenty-nine weeks ago.
How do I know it was exactly twenty-nine weeks ago?
Because this is week thirty, and my last unemployment check should hit my account today. After that, it’s all downhill.
And by “downhill,” I mean I have to move back in with my mom and dad.
Immediate work sounds good, based on my bank balance and pending eviction. I send a quick reply.
* * *
To the Hiring Professional,
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My name is Mallory Monahan, and I am writing to inquire about the professional fluffer position. I have six years of experience with staging and props, and am in search of freelance work that will use my expertise to draw out your best assets and help them rise to their fullest potential. My unique style never fails to set the right mood to bring your star properties to a happy ending. Clients tell me I have a special touch.
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Please reply if you would like more information from me.
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Sincerely,
Mallory
* * *
I learned a while ago not to bother with a resume when you make the first inquiry. Too many spam filters, too many HR people not bothering. A brief, upbeat email is best, confident and businesslike.
I scan the rest of the ads. Ten-dollar-an-hour administrative assistant jobs. Lots of “Make $5,000 a month in your spare time” ads, which basically means the people placing the ads make $5,000 a month from suckers who sign up.
Call center jobs. Accounting and finance positions that are way out of my league. Fashion model come-ons. Medical testing for research studies. Can you really get paid $6,000 to live in a hospital and do nothing but sleep for seventeen days? If so, sign me up.
A lot of house-cleaning jobs, and licensed real estate agent positions, but nothing else for decorating, designing, or staging.
But hey–one job listing is better than none.
A quick look at my email tells me everything I need to know about my life. My bank balance is under the limit for free checking so an $18 fee is being assessed, according to my bank, putting me into negative-dollar territory. I have three spam emails from Nigerian princes offering to marry me or to save my life if I will transfer cash immediately. Two internet marketers want to sell me How to Find the Perfect Husband systems for the low price of $79 (Receive a free self-care pampering gift basket when you enroll in our annual plan! Includes skin cream guaranteed to make you look less desperate!). One egg donor registry is offering me the chance to pump myself full of hormones, cry for five days, and have my eggs harvested from my ovaries.
It’s like they know.
They know I’ll never be able to use them.
But that’s not the worst email in my inbox.
Oh, not by a long shot.
This one is:
REMINDER: HARMONY HILLS HIGH SCHOOL CLASS OF 2009 REUNION! OUR FIRST DECADE!
Huh. Suddenly that egg-donor thing is looking less painful. Even Nigerian princes have more promise. Could I get someone to pay me $6,000 a month to sleep in a lab with a Nigerian prince who extracts my eggs? Because I would totally do that before I’d ever go to my high school reunion.
I stare at the date. Ugh. It’s still the exact same day as my favorite town festival.
Easy out. Every year, I volunteer at the table for the local Habitat for Humanity chapter, recruiting volunteers. That’s way more important than some stupid reunion.
Right?
I’m about to close my laptop when I get a notification. I look at email and to my utter shock, there’s a reply for the professional fluffer job.
Hi Marley. You sound like a good fit. What’s your number to text?
I blink. What does that mean?
Hi! Thank you. Could you tell me more about the job? What kind of set? I grab a pen and start chewing on the cap.
We’re filming today. You know. The standard. Text me 555-444-0001.
The standard. What does this person mean by
‘the standard’? Self-doubt floods me. This is some staging lingo I don’t know, but I’m clearly supposed to know.
Play it cool, I tell myself. Fake it till you make it. It’ll be fine. Remember your bank balance.
I pull out my phone and start texting.
Right. It sounds very interesting. I am available if you’d like to see my resume and portfolio. It’s Mallory, by the way.
Reminding myself that if I don’t get the gig, the world doesn’t end, I take deep, cleansing breaths that expand my diaphragm.
It’s the only diaphragm I use lately, so might as well exercise it.
You have a portfolio? LOL. Wow. That’s real professional. Most of our people come to us word of mouth, but a bunch of them quit and went pro, on their own. So we got desperate and listed on Craigslist.
I frown at the phone. Is this person mocking me?
Another text comes through from him. Her? Not sure.
We need someone right away, Mallory. You sound like you know what you’re doing. All we really care about is that it gleams in the light and has staying power. It’s the focal point, right?
I sit up straight. This is promising. I need to say the right affirming words to make them understand I would be a valuable addition to their team.
Oh, I’ll make sure it all stands tall and looks beautiful.
There. Mission accomplished.
Great. You’re hired.
“What?” I squeal, shocked and relieved. Finally! Someone values me professionally!
We need it to shine. Bring whatever it takes to really make it shine.
Wow. They obviously care about lighting and art direction.
No problem. With enough spit and polish, anything can shine, I reply.
Spit, huh? I like the way you think. Attagirl.
I’m a little taken aback by attagirl. Seems... gendered. Demeaning. I need to show them I’m made of serious stuff.
I’ll send you my standard freelance contract shortly. Your ad said cash paid at the end of the day. What is the fee?
The pause before his (her?) next text comes through feels like a kind of soul death. Was I too blunt? Did I blow it? Please tell me I didn’t blow it.
Blowing it would suck.
$300. Shouldn’t be more than four hours here.
That's a really good hourly rate. My eyebrows go up, my mouth goes down, and my brain calculates what my bank balance will be if I get three hundred dollars in there.
$293.11. Sad math. Math is always sad, but it’s even sadder with dollar figures attached.
My dollars.
And you don’t need a contract. Just show up. Be here in an hour and we’ll get it done.
I stare at the screen, body flushed with adrenaline.
An hour?
Yeah. We’re in Anderhill.
That’s where I live. What are the odds? I stare dumbly at the screen. Is this a joke? Or, worse, a trap? What if I’m being lured into some sex-slave human-trafficking thing?
What’s the address? I type.
He names it. I quickly map it.
I know where that is. Maplecure Street is where all the super-well-off kids lived when I was in school. I wasn’t friends with any of them. They were the country club crowd, the kids who went to Aspen for winter break and Martinique for spring break. I was friendly with the ones in band or theater, but not best friends. Not close enough to be invited to that side of town.
It’s not exactly a den of criminal activity.
The only road in town with even more wealth is Concordian Road, and that’s where the richie-riches live. Harmony Hills High School combines the towns of Anderhill and Stoneleigh, and while I live in Anderhill, I don't live in this part. I know all about Concordian Road, though. Used to drive past it almost daily in high school.
But I’m not going to think about that.
Especially not when I am so broke.
You still there? the guy asks. I assume it’s a guy. Maybe it’s a woman. I don’t know why I’m assuming it’s a man, because most real estate agents I’ve worked with are women. Something about that attagirl.
And yet, beggars can’t be choosers. Three hundred bucks cash for four hours and the potential for more work is pretty much a slam dunk.
I’ll be there in an hour. Perfect. What’s your name?
Spatula.
I laugh out loud, the glow of the small screen casting a surreal feel on the moment.
That's a unique name. What do you do on set?
I’m the creampie specialist.
Oh! A cooking show! Now this is all making so much more sense. I’m about to ask for specifics when Spatula writes back and says:
See you in an hour.
And... I have my first freelance staging job.
Life is good after all.
2
On the drive to the new job, I call my best friend. Perky answers immediately.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Why?”
“You’re calling.”
“Yes?” We have this conversation about once a week. Perky is not only all about the new technology, she’s remarkably predictable in her complaints about my habits.
“You only call when something is wrong.” Smacking noises tell me she’s chewing gum. This means it’s another Day One of not smoking. Perky–short for Persephone–is in a constant state of trying not to smoke. Patches, filters, special vaping, drugs, gum, crystals, hypnosis, the medical intuitive who was convinced Perky had a brain tumor–you name it, Perky will try it, if it means she quits her nicotine habit.
Inevitably, though, she ends up back at Day One, trying yet again to abstain.
“I can’t text and drive. So I’m calling.”
“You’re driving? You mean you left your apartment and let sunlight touch your skin? Where are you going? Reese’s Cup emergency?” Smack smack smack.
“No. Better.”
“Better than Reese’s Cups? Wow. That’s a high bar for you. Has to be big. Job interview?” Before I can answer, she adds, “And plug in your phone. How low is the battery?”
I look. “Six percent. I’m fine.” It's actually at two percent, but whatever.
“Oh. My. God. Plug in the damn phone. You do this all the time, Mal, and no one can reach you.”
“I do not!” My charger plug is hanging in a half-full cup of old drive-thru coffee. I can’t tell her that, of course.
The drive-thru coffee part, I mean. If Perky knew I bought coffee at the National Chain That Shall Not Be Named, she’d kill me.
“Even better. A job!”
“A job job?”
“Yep. A job job.”
“That was fast! When did you get hired?”
“About forty-five minutes ago.”
“And they want you to start now? Right now?”
“Yep.”
“That’s crazy!” Smack smack smack. The chewing sounds increase. I’ve learned to measure her excitement by how annoying the sounds become. Good thing I don’t have misophonia, or I’d have to fire Perky from being my bestie.
“I know. But I can’t be picky.”
“You can totally be picky.”
“We don’t all have trust funds and work fifteen hours a week selling coffee.”
“Hey now. I don’t sell coffee. I brew it, using artisanal methods from training I received in Italy.”
Notice how she’s not offended about the trust fund? Perky’s family spends a small fortune on an on-staff psychologist in her childhood home. Home is a stretch. Palace is more like it. And the palace psychologist is there to normalize and to help the family internalize the fact that winning $177 million from a lottery ticket her mom bought one night on a whim while buying smokes is a blessing.
Never, ever a curse.
“You sell coffee, Perk. Don’t try to make it sound fancier than it is.”
After college, Perky took some of her share of the lottery money and invested it in Bitcoin. Her parents didn’t say much. They were
too busy adding a private hangar to their new spread in Wyoming. She made a killing buying Bitcoin at $10 and selling at $20.
We don’t talk about that one hundred percent return these days.
Let’s just say Perky is swimming in cash, and coffee is her fixation. She’s so obsessed with it that she changed her name from Persephone to Perky to identify with the coffee. Not legally – that would require forethought and follow-through, neither of which are her strong suit.
“I hand pull and massage perfection that people put in their mouths,” she argues.
“Now you make being a barista sound dirty.”
“Never underestimate the eroticism of coffee.”
Never underestimate Perky’s capacity for self-delusional bullshit.
“Congrats on the job!” she chirps. She might be super weird about coffee, but she’s also my oldest, most loyal friend. “What is it?”
“Professional fluffer.”
The long pause is really, really weird for Perk. She’s more the type to overtalk than go quiet. Finally, she says, “Could you repeat that, Mal? I swear you said ‘professional fluffer.’”
“I did! It’s an old term for someone who stages houses. I’m guessing the people I’m working with are really uptight. Probably very conservative. I wore a dress, and I have to make sure I don’t swear.”
“Mallory, are you kidding?” Sharp and increasingly loud at the end, her answer ends with giggles.
“What? No. Not kidding. The guy said the set is–”
“Set? You’re going to a movie set?” She’s reaching high decibels here.
