At Your Service

by Jen Malone

  “Do you want me to text Bill to pull around, or do you want to scope out a bench and dive into these?” I ask.

  “Would you think I was a total pig if I said I couldn’t wait to have another one? I know we sampled all morning, but they are sooo addicting.”

  I smile. If only all guests could be as easy to please as Emily. She’s sweeter than the coconut flake cupcake I pass her. “Let’s walk up to 30 Rock and grab a bench there. The Today show should still be taping, so we can peek inside the windows. And hey, I know you’re leaving tonight and we didn’t make plans past this morning, but I’m meeting up with some friends from school later at the park and you should definitely tag along. I think you’d love them.”

  We link arms and walk up Forty-Ninth Street. Second to Christmastime in this part of the city, with the enormous tree in Rockefeller Plaza and the ice skaters and the store windows all decorated, spring is my favorite season in Manhattan. It’s like we all hibernated as much as possible through the slushy, gross part of winter, and now the city is coming back to life.

  I inhale the smells from the Sabrett’s hot dog cart and duck past a tourist holding up a giant IT’S MY BIRTHDAY, PUT ME ON CAMERA sign outside the windows of the studio. Emily and I snag a bench right across the plaza and dig into the cupcake tin one more time.

  “Seriously, you’re going to have to roll me onto the plane home. I’ll be in a major sugar coma.” Emily laughs. “Ooh, this is banana and chocolate. Yum! Want the carrot cake one?”

  But I don’t answer. I’m too busy watching the electronic news ticker that flashes all the top headlines across the top of the NBC studios.

  “Chloe? Earth to Chloe?”

  But I just point.

  Breaking news: King Robert of Somerstein and his family, including Queen Caroline and their three royal children, Prince Alex, 14, Princess Sophie, 12, and Princess Ingrid, 9, to visit NYC next weekend.

  Emily squeals. “Ooh. Prince Alex. I’ve seen his pictures online. He’s sooooo cute! I wish my visit was longer. I could hire you to help me stalk him.”

  “I guess,” I answer, preoccupied. I’m not too up-to-date on European royalty and whether they’re cute or not, but I do have one burning question.

  “I wonder where they’re staying?”

  • • •

  I think I’ve figured that one out.

  Clue #1: About six black, unmarked SUVs parked in front of the St. Michèle that are not being whisked off by a valet.

  Clue #2: An abundance of men in all-black suits roaming the lobby and doing things like picking up the potted ficus tree and peering intently under it.

  Clue #3: Mr. Whilpers blotting his sweaty forehead with a napkin-looking thingy he claims his mom made for him. Oh wait, that’s not a clue. That happens every day. The man sweats more than a bike messenger headed from the Village to 103rd Street.

  Actual Clue #3: My dad blotting his forehead with a crisp linen handkerchief. Now that is a first for any day the LaFous aren’t in town.

  The royals are staying HERE.

  Oh. Holy. Yikes.

  And they’re bringing the kids. Where there are kids, there is Chloe.

  Double. Holy. Yikes.

  Does that mean I’m in charge of them?

  “Hey, did you hear the news?” Filipe asks. He’s a bellhop, which means he helps people take their luggage to their room. I glance around the lobby for Mr. Whilpers, because it would NOT be good for him to catch me hanging out with Filipe.

  Three years ago we got busted big-time for using two luggage carts as scooters in timed races around the fourth floor. We probably wouldn’t have gotten in that much trouble if I hadn’t also tied a bedsheet to the back of mine so I could pull Paisley along behind me. In my defense, I was ten. I’m not so sure what Filipe’s defense was.

  I lean against the grand piano. “Not officially, but I can guess. Royalty at the Saint Michèle? How cool is that?”

  “Very cool. Though Whilpers is having a conniption. He’s already ordered new uniforms for all us bellhops and booked the entire staff haircuts in the beauty salon. The salon reserved for guests. He’s on a tear.”

  Oooh. I love when Marisa at the salon on our lower level does my hair. She uses this cucumber-mint styling gel that smells amazing.

  Just then I spot Dr. Evil himself rounding a corner and quick as lightning scoot far away from Filipe. If I’m gonna survive the next week of preparation, I’d better keep out of the Whilps’s way. I’d say “lie low,” but no way am I going to miss being around while we get everything here set. The hotel is normally set for regular VIPs’ luxury, so I can’t WAIT to see how we ramp it all up for royalty.

  Besides, keeping busy with a week of school and hotel prep can only help to keep my mind off what might be in store for a junior concierge expecting a junior prince and princesses.

  Chapter Ten

  The next Friday afternoon our entire hotel staff lines up to welcome the King and Queen of Somerstein and their royal offspring. Every single inch of the hotel has been polished and spruced and buffed. Pillows have been plumped, pianos have been tuned, carpets have been replaced, a new chandelier was ordered for the penthouse suite, and our weekly fresh-flower order was quadrupled. We are ready.

  I’m back and forth between crazy excited and crazy nervous for my “make it or break it” moment. Crazy excited because attending to world-famous visitors can make the career of a concierge faster than our high-speed Wi-Fi signal connects our guests to the Web. Crazy nervous because messing up in any way in front of said world-famous visitors can end the career of a concierge quicker than our head doorman Johnny can hail a cab.

  Mr. Whilpers has positioned himself right at the inside edge of the revolving doors, so when the king enters the lobby, he’ll land directly in Whimpy’s potbelly. Yeah, some welcome. If that happened to me, I’d probably run screaming back to Somerstein.

  When the Whilps sees me looking at him, he puts two fingers up to his eyes and then turns them around toward me to mime, I’m watching you.

  Ooh, scary.

  As long as Mr. Buttercup stands by his decision that I can be trusted to take the royal kids around (well, trusted in the sense that their two bodyguards will be a foot away to make sure everyone is safe and secure at all times), I don’t see where Mr. Whimps will be watching anything other than me getting in good with the royals.

  But I lose my smirk every time I think of the epic task ahead of me. Seriously. Dad says I took to my new job like a duck to water (whatever that means), but this is like getting called up to the major leagues. Last night I got a whole “Now that you’re thirteen and a teenager, I really think you’re ready for this new level of responsibility, and I’m putting my trust in you and counting on you not to let me or the Saint Michèle down” talking-to. Gee, Dad. No pressure or anything. Even though I actually want the responsibility, so I can prove myself.

  After that, Pay and I stayed up way too late (on a school night, no less, which made today in classes not so much fun) putting the final touches on a dossier of information on each of the royal kids. We figured they were probably too slick to use my patented slam book method of gathering intel, but, luckily, they’re celebrities, so getting the dirt on them wasn’t all that difficult.

  Here’s what we found:

  Princess Sophie, age twelve:

  Sophie is like a paper-doll cutout. In every picture we downloaded, it looks like she has one standard “I’ve been groomed for life as a princess” pose, and someone has just slapped on different hairstyles and outfits. Tea with the Queen of England? Hair clipped on either side and a sweet rose-colored sundress. Skiing with her father? Jaunty ponytail, stylish goggles propped on her forehead, and perfectly fitted parka and snow pants. Greeting a crowd of well-wishers in the castle courtyard? A green wool suit with a coordinated coat, leather gloves, and a feathered hat that perched at exactly the right angle. She’s like Princess Barbie come to life. In one or two of the pictures her smile looks real and not
plastic, so I’m crossing fingers and toes that she isn’t as perfectly perfect as she looks, because how can someone so perfect be normal and fun and nice too?

  Princess Ingrid, age nine:

  Ingrid is a cutie. She’s on the edge of every picture, staring off to the side, like there’s always something there she can’t wait to check out. But basically, she’s your average little kid.

  And then we have Prince Alex. Nothing average here.

  Prince Alex, age fourteen:

  It’s possible that Alex’s dossier is approximately six inches thicker than Ingrid’s and Sophie’s, but Paisley and I really didn’t think it was fair to be forced to choose between pictures of Alex catching waves on the beach or ones of him playing polo. So basically they all went in. Along with the ones of him shopping in Dubai, riding in the back of a convertible in a parade, and taking flying lessons.

  I know people always say royals have blue blood, but someone should really do a study about how blue blood might actually be an attractiveness enhancer. The whole family looks like they could pose for a Gap ad. Except they probably don’t even know what Gap is, and I’m sure they definitely have never set foot in one.

  Faint sirens grow more intense and people start picking invisible fuzz off their uniforms and putting a little extra straight in their posture. I half expect Mr. Whilpers to yell, “Ten hut!” and lead us around the lobby in a march.

  I catch Mercy’s eye and wink. She grins and winks back, once with each eye. This is kind of our thing because we both know that I can only wink with my right eye. Whenever I try to wink with my left one, the whole side of my mouth scrunches up at the same time. Any day I don’t have school, I sneak into the maids’ morning meeting, where Mr. Whilpers hands out the boardsI and gives his daily cheesy pep talk. I always make it my mission to try to crack Mercy up with my winks without letting the Whilps catch on. I like to think it makes hearing his “Remember, everyone, winners never lose and losers never win!” speech for the gazillionth time a little more bearable.

  I’m just gearing up for a left-then-right-then-left-eye wink (which I know from experience will make Mercy’s whole body shake while she fights a laugh) when two police motorcycles screech to a halt just past our front door, leaving space behind for the stretch limousine trailing them to line up its back door with the hotel entrance. Right away a doorman rushes over and yanks the limo door open. A whole army of men in black suits has already formed a perimeter around the sidewalk. The photographers they’re blocking have to stretch their cameras way up over their heads to take pictures. I bet they end up with a bunch of shots of the fire hydrant, which makes me giggle.

  King Robert is super tall, so he has to sort of fold himself out of the limo. Then he turns back to offer his wife a hand.

  “Now that man has the manners of a true king,” our sales manager, Jean, whispers next to me, and I nod without taking my eyes off the action. They’re like something straight out of a Disney movie. The queen places one elegant leg onto the street and allows King Robert to guide her out of the limo. Usually, when it’s Bill helping me out of the backseat, he just lets me scoot across the bench and out the door, but if he does give me a hand, he kinda yanks on it to pull me out. This looks more like she glides onto the street. Maybe we’ll get to be close friends in the next couple of days and I can ask her how she does that.

  The two turn and wave at the gathered crowd before Queen Caroline returns her attention to the other passengers. She steps back and Ingrid slips out and past her. She’s pretty tiny for a nine-year-old, and she goes right to her dad’s legs and parks herself behind them.

  Sophie is next, and she makes the same graceful exit her mother did. She has a perfectly sweet smile on her face as she does that cupped-hand side-to-side wave thing beauty pageant contestants are always doing. Hmm. That kind of perfect could be pretty easy to hate.

  Alex is last. Okay, so he is seriously even cuter in person.II How is that possible? I thought famous people were supposed to be shorter and have bad skin in person. Nope. Alex pretty much looks like he was just delivered from a Choose Your Own Perfect Boy catalog. This is going to be . . . interesting.

  I mean, of course, it’s not like I could ever fall for him, because that would be seriously the most unprofessional thing ever, and my reputation is way more important than scoring a date with “the hottest thing ever to land on my doorstep who just happens to be a prince.”

  Way more important.

  Definitely.

  It’s kind of chaotic outside with all of the photographers and the crowds, but the St. Michèle lobby is the quiet haven from the hustle and bustle it always is. Even though the entire staff is lined up and waiting, you could hear a pin drop as the royal family spins through the revolving doors. Although I half expect someone to break out in “Be Our Guest” and start dancing around with the feather dusters.

  They enter the lobby all smiles. The whole royal family makes their way past my whole hotel family, and everyone curtsies or bows. Guys just have to duck their heads, but women are supposed to do a small curtsy. I’ve completed Mr. Whilpers’s Bow and Curtsy Boot Camp, and I have it down pat: right foot behind the left heel, bend knees slightly.

  The king is first through our lineup, but I’m a teensy-tiny bit more focused on Prince Alex as I slide my left foot behind my right heel. When I glance down, I realize my feet are backward. Whoops. I think Alex might have noticed. I think he might be smirking. Or is he smiling? I can’t tell, and now my feet are all jumbled and—

  Omigosh, I’m falling!

  Ever tried to greet a king and accidentally plunged into his arms instead? No? Huh. I can’t say the same. Even though he laughed and helped me upright, you know that expression that’s something like how you can’t make a first impression twice? That kinda sucks. Because a do-over would be really, really great.

  I do NOT think this situation is covered in the Les Clefs d’Or handbook on how to be a world-class concierge.

  * * *

  I. “The boards” is hotel speak for the list of rooms each maid is assigned to clean that day. It’s kind of like a puzzle because every room gets a point value, and bigger rooms are worth more points than smaller ones, so they have to divide it all up so everyone gets the same number of points. If you ask me, picking up someone else’s wet towels should count for triple quadruple points.

  II. Like, seriously. He has that kind of messy hair that his mom probably has to sit on her hands not to smooth down all the time, but that everyone else knows looks totally hot. And it’s surfer blond. And his eyes are the same navy as the Hudson River just before it storms. And he’s tall. And he’s got this kind of sideways smile like he knows a secret and he might tell you, but then again he might not. And he’s a prince. So there’s that.

  Chapter Eleven

  Redemption time. Even though Dad’s and my next meeting with the royals and their security detail is taking place at the rooftop pool, I have on the black suit I wore to meet them earlier. I can’t earn my Les Clefs d’Or golden key pin for excellent concierge service until I’ve been a concierge for three years and am at least twenty-one, but I figure the apple one Dad gave me last Christmas is a close substitute. I pin it to my lapel. There. Nice and official looking.

  Too bad my smooth waves are going to frizz the second I set foot in the indoor pool area. No biggie, it’s only a prince I’m meeting. Who needs smooth hair for that?

  Whoa, Chloe. Stop thinking of him as a prince. Guest. Just a guest. And I have to remember he comes with a set of sisters. I’m pretty sure the itinerary I came up with takes everyone into account, so I just have to remind my brain to do the same.

  “Ready, sweets?” Dad asks as we skirt the edge of the pool and I try not to slip on any puddles of water on the tiles. As if falling during a stupid simple curtsy wasn’t bad enough.

  Dad stops in front of a woman who looks a bit like the grandmother in Little Red Riding Hood. She has her whitish-blond hair piled in a bun on the top of he
r head and black reading glasses perched on the end of her long, long nose. Her glasses have a fake diamond (OMG—could they be REAL?) chain that loops down on her neck.

  “Mr. Turner, lovely to meet you in person. I’m Elise von Guttman, the private secretary of the sovereign.”

  “A pleasure, Dame von Guttman. And please, call me Mitchell. This is my daughter, Chloe.”

  “If you are going by Mitchell, then please, just Elise. And Chloe, I have heard so much about you from Mr. Buttercup.” She sticks out her hand and I shake it, giving silent thanks that I don’t need to curtsy. She seems friendly. Maybe I’m in my head too much about these people being so different just because they have fancy titles. All of a sudden I’m not so scared to meet the actual royals for real (I’m not counting my tumbling act in the lobby as an official introduction). They’re just people, after all. How different can we be?

  “I would like to review a bit of protocol before the prince and princesses arrive. Would that be acceptable?” Elise smiles her friendly smile, and now I can breathe in the chlorine-scented air no problem. This is going to be fine.

  “First of all, should you have the opportunity to speak with the king and queen, you should address them by their formal title, Your Majesty. If you are introducing them to others, it is His Majesty the King Robert and Her Majesty the Queen Caroline of Somerstein. You should only shake their hands if they offer one first, and you should never initiate conversation with the king or queen unless he or she addresses you first.”

  Oh great. How am I supposed to ask the queen about that exiting-a-limousine trick now?

  Elise continues. “You will likely not have much occasion to interact with His and Her Majesty, so I shall skip ahead to the children. When introducing them, it is Her Royal Highness the Princess of Somerstein and His Royal Highness the Prince of Somerstein. To address them directly, it is Your Royal Highness. Are you able to follow?”