“Don’t you trust me?” Lauren had teased. “Besides, aside from the color, the dress is downright conservative: no cleavage, and it goes way past the knee. With a cardigan, it could almost pass for a suit.”
Yeah, sure. Even with the length and coverage, the dress did sort of cling. Still, I had bowed to Lauren’s better judgment.
“Yup, looking red-hot,” the driver snickered in my direction as he finally drove away, laughing at his own wit.
I bent over again and finally wedged my pump out. Damn. The metal grate had sliced through the heel’s leather like a hot knife through butter.
I fingered the damage. There went my favorable first impression. If Ms. Jacobs were anything like Lauren, she would surely mark me down for my less-than-perfect appearance. Strike one against me.
I slipped the shoe on and rushed forward, dodging pedestrians and traffic along the way. I was six blocks from Ms. Jacobs’s East 82nd Street office, and could probably make it in the five minutes remaining before my appointment time only if I ran for my life. Granted, the high heels and sweltering summer heat would make that more difficult and me far less attractive, but as long as I didn’t break a leg in the process, I should arrive in time.
Exactly four minutes later I stood panting by the entrance to Ms. Jacobs’s building. A doorman opened the door.
“May I help you with something?”
The older man gleamed in his navy tailored uniform, polished shoes and white kid gloves.
“I have an appointment with Ms. Jacobs,” I gasped. “She’s expecting me.”
He looked me up and down, quirked an eyebrow as if he found that last bit highly doubtful, and picked up the house phone right before he gestured me through to the lobby.
“You may go up,” he informed me a second later. “It’s the penthouse suite.”
I could literally feel his eyes tracking my every step to the elevator, as if I would deface the lobby if he somehow lost sight of my form.
When the elevator’s doors closed behind me, I managed to catch my breath, cool off and turn down the volume on my cell phone. Nothing made a worse impression than a phone going off in the middle of a conversation.
As the doors opened in front of me, I moved forward and paused in front of Ms. Jacobs’s front door. There I straightened my dress and knocked.
“Just a second,” a female voice shouted through the heavy wood.
Her voice had to compete with a host of enthusiastic yelps and barks.
“I hope you’re not afraid of dogs,” a small blonde woman greeted as she opened the door and held off what looked like three balls of white fur with her foot.
The woman I assumed was Ms. Jacobs was short, the top of her head barely reaching my shoulder. She probably didn’t even top five feet.
She was also very thin, even thinner than Lauren. Her face was baby smooth, devoid of any wrinkles or blemishes. Probably Botox. She wasn’t overly attractive, but she was well groomed in dark gray slacks and a light gray silk shirt. A cloud of Chanel Number Five engulfed her and assailed my nostrils every time she moved. A large diamond solitaire—at least three carats—gleamed on her third left finger.
“Not at all,” I assured her, but doubted the truth of that answer when two little dogs nipped at my ankles and the third scratched away frantically at my pantyhose.
“Daisy, Lily, Rose, down,” the woman called out as she shooed the dogs away from me. The little pests circled back around, their nails tapping away on the hardwood floor.
“They get excited when we have guests,” she explained. “Usually the maid keeps them in the kitchen, but I guess they got away from her. I’m Patricia Jacobs, by the way. But you can call me Patty. And you must be Tekla. My, my. You’re as pretty, tall and skinny as Lauren said. Lucky you! I should introduce you to my son Henry. He favors exotic girls like you. No dainty blondes for him. Remind me to give you his number. What are you, a size zero?”
“Two,” I automatically corrected, somewhat dazed by the rapid change in subjects.
“Zero, two; nowadays, it’s the same thing,” Ms. Jacobs said as she gave me a once-over. “Come in, come in. I’ll just get rid of these little monsters. Oh, what a nice dress. But you got dog hairs all over you! Don’t worry. They’ll come off in a snap. What happened to your shoe?”
I glanced at my feet and winced.
“Ahh, I had a little mishap on a subway grate.”
“Don’t you just hate when that happens?” Ms. Jacobs chirped as she led me past a foyer and into a spacious sitting room filled with—if my meager college art history knowledge was correct—French rococo, neoclassic, empire and Victorian pieces, along with a few contemporary ones. Nothing seemed to match, and especially not the plush rose velvet chairs with the Pollock-like painting of colorful dots, swirls and drips. Priceless antiques and abstract expressionism. This looked like no office I had ever seen. Come to think of it, it downright resembled an apartment, albeit a very eclectic one. Why wouldn’t someone who headed a multi-million dollar operation—because that’s how much Lauren had boasted her aunt made—have her own office? Or, at the very least, a dedicated home work space?
“Why don’t you make yourself comfortable here while I take care of the dogs? Otherwise, they won’t let us chitchat.”
While Ms. Jacobs moved toward the back of the apartment with the dogs, I took another moment to really look around. Noticing suddenly from its signature that a real Pollock painting was before me, I headed for a Queen Anne chair to catch my breath—again.
Ms. Jacobs reappeared, sans the dogs, not a moment later. She sat down in the armchair across from me.
“I’ve got your resume right here,” Ms. Jacobs said as she waved a single sheet of paper in the air.
I had e-mailed her the copy ahead of our meeting, per her instructions.
“And I must say, it’s impressive. Summa cum laude, Phi Beta Kappa, President’s scholar, the Law Review. Your parents must be proud. Where did you go to high school?”
“Uh, Brooklyn Tech,” I stammered, suddenly embarrassed. A public high school, even if it was one of the top-ranked city schools, couldn’t possibly impress a woman who was used to graduates from elite private institutions.
“Good for you,” Ms. Jacobs smiled.
Her words reassured me somewhat.
“Let me tell you, any students you’ll have couldn’t possibly get in there. They complain about the ISEE and the SSAT, but they could never hope to score well on the science high school entrance exams. So their parents pay a fortune in private school tuition. And look at you now. NYU Law. And you got there all on your own. No tutors for you! But Lauren tells me you need some extra income now. How is she, by the way?”
I opened my mouth to answer, but the dramatic chords of Mozart’s fortieth symphony cut me off.
“Oh, sorry, dear,” Ms. Jacobs apologized, reaching for a small telephone sitting on an end table. “Let me just see who’s calling. It might be business.”
She looked at the display panel and answered.
“Susan? Boy, do I have things to tell you about Allison. You won’t believe what she did! But I can’t talk now. Let me call you later.”
She disconnected, placed the telephone back on the table, and zeroed in on me again.
“So where were we? Ah, yes, Lauren. Poor child. Such a sweet girl. And it’s so awful her father’s making her stay in law school. I told Robert time and time again that child’s not cut out to be an attorney. But does he listen? No.”
I shook my head in sympathy.
“Well, men rarely do. But how do the two of you get on in that cramped dorm? Though living in Manhattan must be a change for you, no? It has to be an improvement over Brooklyn.”
“Not really,” I said. “The dorm is closer to school, but otherwise the neighborhoods are pretty much the same. Very diverse.”
“Sure, Tekla,” Ms. Jacobs agreed. “Now, Tekla … that’s a unique name. I don’t think I’ve encountered it before.”
> “It’s an old Polish name,” I explained. “Not very popular, but it’s been in my family for generations.”
“Polish?” Ms. Jacobs puckered her lips. “Lauren didn’t say. Looking at you, I never would’ve guessed. I figured you for Irish with your dark hair, light skin and blue eyes. Well, that just proves one should never assume. Were both your parents born there?”
“Actually … ” I hesitated, and straightened the skirt of my dress. I didn’t like this subject. Somewhere along the way I always got the dumb Polak jokes. “I was born in Poland myself. We moved to the States when I was five.”
“Really?” Ms. Jacobs responded, looking downright amazed. “There’s not a trace of an accent in your speech.”
“Well, I was only five, and I did receive all my schooling here … ”
“True, true,” Ms. Jacobs nodded. “Still, it must be nice to come from a foreign country. Very chic. I don’t think I know any Polish people … no, wait, my maid might be Polish … ”
“Uh … ” How to respond to that?
Luckily, Mozart cut me off again.
“I’m just so sorry, dear,” Ms. Jacobs offered as she reached for the ringing telephone. “I know it’s awful, but I’m a slave to these things.”
The room was silent a moment before Ms. Jacobs shrieked into the phone, “Allison? Listen, I can’t talk right now, but I don’t want you to worry. Maybe we should do lunch. Let me call you in fifteen minutes and we’ll set something up.”
She snapped the phone closed and sat up straight in her chair.
“Let’s get to the important details,” she smiled at me, “before another call distracts us.”
Thank God. I got ready inside to answer all her hard questions about my qualifications for the job. True, my grades were good, but I had never taught or tutored anyone in my life.
“I don’t know how much Lauren has told you about my little operation here,” Ms. Jacobs said as she withdrew some horn-rimmed reading glasses from her shirt pocket. She slipped them on and glanced at my resume again. “But I pretty much run an exclusive placement agency for tutors. I hire only the best because my clients demand the best. I also hire only those who have been personally recommended to me because, after all, I send them to some of the wealthiest homes in the city and I don’t want to worry about potential crime.
“I require my employees to hold, or to be in the process of obtaining, advanced graduate degrees. Obviously, in your case, none of these points are an issue. Your academic qualifications are stellar, and Lauren had only good things to say about you. You also strike me as a very nice girl who would work well with teenagers.”
When she looked at me for confirmation, I nodded. I hadn’t actually dealt with any teens since my own high school graduation, but I was barely into my twenties. How different could today’s teens be from me?
Apparently satisfied with my response, Ms. Jacobs continued.
“The job is not hard. You’ll meet for a couple hours a week with a client to help out with homework. For you, it should be a piece of cake. But remember you help, never do. Elite is not one of those agencies. I require an advanced degree not because the job needs it, but because parents insist their children only interact with the best and brightest. I’ll set you up with a potential client, and the rest is up to you. If all works well, you’ll get a paycheck from me every month. Remember, you do not handle any finances with the parents directly; this makes life easier for you. No awkward money conversations, and you always get your check on time. I pay $150 an hour. I think that’s a fair wage.”
“Very,” I agreed, although I didn’t buy her “makes life easier for you” line for a minute. I wasn’t in law school for nothing. Ms. Jacobs had to make her millions somehow. No doubt she took a cut of the hourly rate—an additional $25 or $50 on what I made, perhaps—and didn’t want me to see the actual numbers. But what did I care? $150 an hour! I could hardly stay in my seat. Lauren hadn’t been kidding. With that sort of wage, I could make my entire monthly rent in fifteen hours! And if I worked more, I could cover my tuition, maybe even begin paying back some of my student loans, and alleviate, if not completely eliminate, the $200,000 hanging over my head.
“Great,” Ms. Jacobs replied.
She seemed pleased. She took off the glasses and got up from her chair. I followed suit. Were we done? Did I have the job?
“And I have the perfect potential clients for you,” Ms. Jacobs said as she walked out of the sitting room. I trailed her every step. “A boy and a girl. Twins. Their mother is a famous model-turned-fashion photographer. She’s French. The father is a short seller. I think he’s British or Greek. I’ve tried placing other tutors with them, but we’ve run into problems. One was too fat, another was too short, and the third, I think, wasn’t pretty enough. These people seem to be all about aesthetics, and not so much about the brain. But I think you might work out. You have that European flair they’re looking for. It’s at least worth a try. So I’ll pass your information along and get in touch with you to set up a meeting. If all works well—if they like you—we’ll chitchat again. If that falls through, I’ll try finding you someone else, although that may take some time. Any questions?”
Surprised to find myself standing by the exit, I shook my head no. I knew I would do everything to make the clients like me.
“Excellent,” Ms. Jacobs said as she pulled the door open. “I don’t mean to rush you out dear, but something important has come up and I’ve got to run. You know how that goes. I hope we can work together, because you strike me as a superstar. Say ‘hi’ to Lauren for me, and good luck in school.”
And on those words, she literally shut the door in my face.
I stood there gaping at the wood. Well, I never … ! Shooed out like the dogs. I shrugged and turned to make my way back to the elevators.
I guess I sort of had a job.
CHAPTER 3
“HELLO, YOU MUST be Tekla,” the most gorgeous man I had ever seen said to me and smiled. And when he did, his dimples—I meant, creases; they were called creases in a real man—came to life.
I melted.
I just loved a man with creases, especially when they adorned a face already blessed with a Brad Pitt jaw and lips, and George Clooney eyes—like this one’s did.
He stood in the door of a midtown townhouse, a GQ cover come to life, and extended his hand in welcome.
I glanced at the perfectly formed appendage—his long tapered fingers framed by short, clean nails, marred only by a small callus that suggested just the right amount of manly labor—and momentarily stepped back, distrusting my unbelievable luck. Was I truly at the right address, and was Mr. GQ indeed talking to the right Tekla?
Yup. He was. 227 East 30th Street: a discreet four-story brownstone with a brick façade and black trimmings on a quiet block between two of the busiest avenues in New York City. Just like Ms. Jacobs had said.
“Tekla,” she had called me a mere two hours after our abrupt interview, “I set up a meeting for you with Mrs. Lamont tomorrow, at noon. I realize you probably have classes, but Mrs. Lamont insists. The meeting has to be tomorrow, or she’s going to another agency. Don’t be late.”
And I wasn’t, even though the meeting did interfere with my class schedule.
For that reason, I had promised Ann I would join her study group for the whole year if she agreed to share her notes from our noon Copyright lecture. Hopefully, I wouldn’t end up having to miss another class after that. Because I could not, under any circumstances, miss Constitutional Law. Professor If-You-Miss-My-Class-Even-Once-Your-Grade-Will-Drop-Significantly Johnson would crucify me. Luckily, the probability of that happening was miniscule. That lecture was at five. The meeting with Mrs. Lamont couldn’t possibly run more than five hours.
So, with my academic bases covered, I had happily called Ms. Jacobs to confirm the time, then focused on my appearance. A former model like Mrs. Lamont would surely notice the clothing I wore—especially since the family was s
o concerned about aesthetics—and, since I didn’t own anything remotely designer, I had begged Lauren to lend me her cable-knit Armani halter that went so well with my linen slacks and lent me an air of Newport-sailor chic. I had even managed to blow-dry straight my frizzy hair and apply makeup. Nothing too fancy: just blush, lip gloss and mascara for that sun-kissed late summer look.
And here I stood, polished and looking good, at the door of the right address, exactly at the appointed hour on the appointed day. But the man in front of me was no Mrs. Lamont. Not even close. Nothing about this man was remotely feminine—not his muscled forearms, his perfectly square jaw with its two-day stubble, or his crooked smile that showed glimpses of pearly white teeth.
At six feet tall and with the finely honed physique of a long-distance runner, this god was in his late twenties, or maybe early thirties. His hair was short, thick, and dark, his complexion olive, his eyes dark brown and offset by even darker lashes. Then there were those creases, almost winking at me in friendly invitation.
“Uh,” I said, stepping forward again to take hold of his outstretched hand. It felt smooth and dry in my palm. I was sorry to release it. “I’m here to see Mrs. Lamont.”
“Well, come in.”
Mr. GQ shifted away from the door so I could walk inside. And when he did, a cloud of cologne and fabric softener mixed in the air around him. My eyes drifted closed. Calvin Klein and Snuggles: my favorite smells.
“We’ve been expecting you,” Mr. GQ continued.
We? Who was he? He looked too young to be Mr. Lamont—Ms. Jacobs had said that man was a formidable middle-aged short seller—and was definitely too old to be one of my prospective students. A servant, maybe? But his Diesel jeans and Versace polo shirt seemed both too expensive and too casual for mere household staff.
“She’ll be with you in a few minutes,” Mr. GQ said as he led me past some stairs, through a dining room with a massive steel contraption that resembled a chandelier, and into a living room that held little more than a white sofa. “She got delayed on a phone call in the office downstairs. So please, make yourself comfortable until she gets here.”
Work for Hire Page 3
