Queen of the Hide Out

by Alice Quinn

  I thought he was going to sit in the big leather chair behind the desk, but instead he paced up and down about a hundred times.

  “Please, take a seat,” he said without even looking at me.

  There was a kind of lounge area in the middle of the room with a few armchairs and a sofa. The place looked like one of those rooms you see on a reality TV show.

  I still hadn’t quite got over the shock of meeting Cruella, and I was feeling weirded out (which doesn’t happen very often) by how grand the place was and by the fact that I was in the same room as Prince Charming himself. I sat down in one of the armchairs, and because, for some reason, he was no longer talking to me, just pacing, I picked up a magazine from the coffee table and flicked through it. I glanced at an article about some art dealer guy. Nerdy shit. I put it back. I was too scared it might put me to sleep.

  It was then that I noticed what was on the walls. They were covered floor to ceiling in paintings. I mean, like, real ones. Like in museums. These weren’t prints or photos of those water-lily things in a pond. There were all sorts, all sizes, all styles. It wasn’t just all that modern art junk either. There were some real crusty old oil paintings on there too—sunsets, portraits of generals, landscapes, coastal scenes, floral still lifes, and naval ships. I then realized something. They were the same paintings I’d just seen in the magazine. The article had made a big deal out of this painting of a cavalier type who I thought looked like he could be a total drag queen. And there it was on the wall right in front of me. That and all the others.

  If these things were the genuine article, then this place was a freaking gold mine! I grabbed the magazine again to read the article properly when Mr. Hunk made a sudden movement toward the desk and I jumped. He pressed a button. There was a crackling noise.

  “Daddy? What are you doing? We’re waiting for you in your office.”

  I heard a frail voice through the crackles. “Please excuse me, dearest boy! You know very well that I’m having a drinkypoo with my friends! I’m a little busy here!”

  “Father! You must come right away! Stop with this childish behavior!”

  One minute it was “Daddy,” the next minute “Father”? These people spoke weird. It wasn’t very clear to me what was going on . . .

  Instead of an expected response, the machine thing cut out. My Prince Charming went bright red, rolled his eyes, and took a deep breath. He then forced a smile and took a long look at me before turning on his heel and marching out of the room, telling me at the same time not to move a muscle. What did that mean? Where would I go anyhow? I was at a job interview. It wasn’t like I had plans to go run a marathon.

  19

  I grabbed my cell phone and started to take photos of the walls. I don’t know what made me do it. Kind of like a sixth sense or something.

  I mean, what the hell did I know about art? Was I thinking I could steal some of these pieces at a later date? Thirdly, I didn’t even have any friends who had the first clue about paintings, so who was I going to show these photos to, anyway? Maybe it was all just about showing off a bit to Ismène.

  No. Taking these photos was an instinctive reaction, a survival thing, a response to something out of the ordinary. When you find yourself in an oddball place like this, you have to be prepared. I always have to work out an advantage over the enemy. I did a quick tour of the whole room and got click-happy like a real paparazzi fiend.

  As soon as I was done, I threw myself back onto the sofa and tried to make myself look as relaxed as I could. I played with my little gold chain. It was certainly doing its job! I made up my mind: I was never going to take it off as long as I lived. It would be my lucky charm!

  Phew, just in time! The door flew open and my Adonis came in propelling an elderly gentleman in front of him. The old guy had on a cashmere or alpaca (whatever high-class fabric it was, I have no clue!) jacket that looked threadbare, stained Lanvin jeans, and worn-out Lacoste moccasins. The impression he gave was one of a classy guy way past his sell-by date. His cuffs were tired looking and frayed. His whole image was ramshackly.

  “Father, allow me to introduce you to Rosie Maldonne. She will be coming in every afternoon to take care of you, allowing Mademoiselle Kessler to enjoy a brief break.”

  Mademoiselle Kessler? Oh, he must mean Cruella.

  “Wait up there!” I said. “No so fast. We haven’t spoken about money or the hours you’d want me to work. You haven’t even told me what I’m supposed to do! And first off, like I told you, call me Cricri!”

  “Cricri?” mumbled the old-timer. “How charming! And it has so much more spunk than Rosie, if you want my opinion.”

  Actually, no, I don’t. I didn’t ask for your thoughts on my name. I didn’t say it out loud, of course! I rustled around in my bag for my paperwork.

  “I brought my CV.” I mean, this was a real interview, and I wanted to play by the rules.

  Mr. Perfect swept it out of my hand like he didn’t even care, and as he did so, he dropped it on the floor and it slid under the sofa. I got down on all fours to find it and mumbled to myself, “The one time I actually have a CV, and he can’t even be bothered to read it.”

  Pops looked over at me appreciatively. He stretched out both arms, took me by the shoulders, and shook me gently.

  “Dearest friend! I’m so happy to see you again! It’s been so long! When did we last have a drinkypoo together?”

  I was a little taken aback. I stared at the son and sent him some desperate questioning looks, which he avoided as a nervous smile played on his lips.

  “Mademoiselle Maldonne, before going over all the details, I wanted to be assured that you and my father would get along. I can see that he is quite enamored, so we can go ahead and sign a contract.”

  He sat down on the armchair opposite me, while the coffin dodger moved over to a bookshelf at the other side of the room. Here we go! He wants to test my reading skills. He’s going to pick one of those books and make me read a passage.

  I couldn’t have been more wrong. Instead, he pressed a little button and by some sort of miracle, the whole bookshelf spun around to reveal a minibar full of glasses and bottles. He picked up an amber-colored liquor along with a thick square glass and poured himself a big glug of whatever it was. Then he limped over to join us at the coffee table with a very satisfied look about him.

  “Mademoiselle, you must make sure you keep tabs on how often my father has his ‘drinkypoos.’ Did you hear that, Father? Mademoiselle Maldonne has been authorized by me to ration your alcohol if she sees fit. You know very well that the doctor has said it’s bad for your heart. The same goes for the cigars.”

  This was turning out to be pretty amusing.

  Pops responded by nodding vigorously in mock agreement while simultaneously swilling the liquor around his tongue with relish.

  “There’s little else I can tell you. I think I’ve made everything quite clear.”

  “Hold on a minute, though. I’d like to know what happened to the army of servants you must have had here at some point.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “This crib is like Downton Abbey! It’s that kind of deal here, right?”

  “Umm . . .”

  “If you think I can handle all the housework in this place, you’ve got another thing coming! I can’t be watching over him, keeping him company, and cleaning this house from top to bottom, can I?”

  “I see! That’s what’s bothering you?” He started making some sort of odd humming sound and said in a droning tone, “No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no . . .”

  I wondered how many times he was going to say “no”! His voice was so enchanting. I couldn’t get enough of it! What an incredible accent he had!

  “Don’t worry. When I mentioned housework, I essentially meant just a little cleaning up around my father here. You should follow him everywhere he goes. He needs the company! And as you do so, just make sure you tidy things away. For example, this glass . . . When he’s
finished, you should rinse it out and put it away. The bottle too.”

  “OK! Is that all?”

  “You’ll soon work out that it’s not quite as simple as it sounds. This house is so big, we can’t expect the maid to clean the whole place in the time she has available. So your duties consist of making sure she’s able to complete hers.” He stopped, a little out of breath.

  I took in his words with the most moronic grin on my face. I must have looked a little bonkers. Maybe he was expecting me to respond, but I had nothing to say. I was too busy thinking over his instructions. I was never one for being able to do more than one thing at a time! There I was drooling in front of the man of my dreams while trying to take in the words coming out of his gorgeous mouth.

  “Umm. Where was I just now?” he asked in a daydreamy voice, clearly distracted. “Oh, yes! She already has so much on her plate with dusting, cleaning, waxing, doing the laundry, polishing the silver, cooking, changing the bed linens, and so on. We hired her through a cleaning company. She gets here very early in the morning, around six o’clock, and stays until one.”

  “And what about Mademoiselle Kessler?”

  “Mademoiselle Kessler is an old friend of the family. I suppose you could say she’s the housekeeper, although it is I, and I alone, who makes all the decisions. She lives here in the house.”

  “OK! Capiche! She’s the real deal, and I’m kind of filling in. How many hours do I have to work?”

  “Three hours a day would be ideal.”

  “OK, but I can’t do Wednesdays, Saturdays, or Sundays.”

  “Oh really? And why is that?”

  He seemed like he was actually concerned. Or was I just imagining things?

  “Why do you think?”

  “Honestly, I don’t have the first inkling . . .”

  “Think it over awhile. You’ll get there in the end. Go ahead. Think real hard.”

  He gawked at me with an intrigued expression. I was really pleased. He was actually staring and taking notice of me—or at least I hoped so. It looked as though he could see me as the human being I am and not just a robot employee. Was he forming a crush? Was he amused by me? Charmed? Did I fluster him? I mean, why not, right?

  I could see that my magic was working, so I continued, “Here, let me give you a clue. It would be the same for most women. Haven’t you ever noticed that there are a lot of women who take Wednesday afternoons off? Well, I can see you’re stumped! It’s because we have kids! There’s no school on Wednesdays, Saturdays, and Sundays. Is it not the same in Switzerland? What do you think happens to all those kids on those days, huh?”

  “Oh, that’s it! I thought it was something to do with your hus—”

  Something to do with my husband? He wants to know whether or not I’m married? I’d scored! Or was it just wishful thinking?

  20

  “Umm, husband? No, um, I’m not married. I’m not engaged either. I’m single! All alone. Like a dessert island.”

  “Desert. It’s a desert island.”

  “What?”

  “You said ‘dessert.’ It’s ‘desert.’”

  “That’s what I said, isn’t it? Anyway. I’m divorced though. Is that going to be a problem?”

  “No, no. Of course not. Listen, as far as the children are concerned, it’s no worry whatsoever. This is what we’ll do: When you have your children with you, you can bring them to the house. That’s absolutely fine with me! Everything is sorted then. We’re very much used to having children around the place. I have a total of six brothers and sisters, almost all from different mothers. I say ‘almost all’ because I have a twin brother. There are seven of us. My father was somewhat like the Pied Piper of Hamelin. Kids just seemed to follow wherever he went. Now that I’m hiring you, I don’t have to find someone else for three days a week. I’m leaving this afternoon and I simply don’t have the time.”

  “And where are you going?”

  “I’m off home to Geneva. I live and work there.”

  “Oh, yes. You said something about that before. I guess that explains your pretty accent.”

  He looked at me with what seemed like a sense of urgency, as if he thought I was mocking him. His color heightened a little. But only a little.

  “You like my accent?” he asked.

  I carried on yapping, without really giving him a straight-up answer.

  “What about your brothers and sisters? Can’t they help out around here?”

  “They all live quite far away. It will take far too long to explain my family situation. We’re all in different countries, except my youngest sister who’s in Paris and won’t speak to any of us, anyway. And my twin brother, who . . . I suppose you’d have to describe him as kind of homeless.”

  There was nothing I could say to such a strange answer to my question. There were too many gaps that needed filling in and basically, I didn’t think it was really any of my business, anyway, although I must admit I was dying to know more! An awkward silence followed. He was patiently waiting for me to open my mouth and speak. He then shook his head, ran his fingers through his superstyled hair, and looked me straight in the eye.

  “I don’t know much about French law. Do you need pay stubs?”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I had been wondering how I was going to broach this subject and was glad he had made it easy for me. If I declared my earnings, I might lose out on some of my welfare. And if I lost that, the salary from this job would hardly make up for it.

  Ismène had told me that I absolutely had to be honest to the tax man about everything I earned when I worked. She also explained that if I wasn’t completely honest, I’d get nothing when I retired and that in the long run, working undeclared would wind up costing me more. But retirement was so way off on the horizon for me! I could never work out any of that crap. I just wasn’t capable. Dough, shekels, skrilla . . . I needed it now.

  “You can pay me in cash if you prefer. That would be fine with me.”

  “If you insist. It would certainly help me in terms of not having to bother with all the paperwork. And what is your rate?”

  Oh hell! My brain was on overdrive! My poor little brain! This guy was one in a million. Like, seriously! There was not a chance I was going to ask for the same meager rate Tony handed out to me. I’d have to go for something much better. I’d have to be pretty bold this time!

  “Sixteen an hour!” I exclaimed boldly.

  “Very good. That suits me.”

  Shoot! I so should have asked for seventeen!

  “Can you start tomorrow? And I’ll pay you on Saturdays. What else . . . I’ll introduce you to the cleaning lady. She’ll be the one you see when you arrive, so try to get here five minutes early so she can let you in, by around one o’clock. Mademoiselle Kessler won’t be here to show you in.”

  Phew! Good job. That’s one less nightmare to have to deal with.

  “You’ll have lunch with my father, and then I’m counting on you to deal with the dishes and everything afterward. On your way out, at around four o’clock, the nurse should arrive. You’ll need to wait. The nurse always looks after Daddy until Mademoiselle Kessler returns in the evening. You see, it all runs like clockwork in this house.”

  I had to admit it was pretty impressive.

  “Great job! Organization, huh? It isn’t easy. I guess you must have some German genes in you somewhere.”

  He looked a little irritated now.

  “Yes, you’re exactly right. My mother was German. But the Germans don’t have a monopoly on organization, Mademoiselle Maldonne! It’s all just a question of common sense. I don’t want my father alone in this house. Ever.”

  He handed me a sheet of paper.

  21

  “Write your surname, first name, middle name, date of birth, address, and telephone number on here, please.”

  I set about scribbling down all the information he needed. As I handed it back to him, he gave me his business card that read, “Théodore Her
vé Charles Marie Dumond de la Pinsonnière,” with an address in Geneva and several telephone numbers.

  I sensed the card burning to my touch. The name was so elegant . . . I swear this bit of paper brought me to the point of ecstasy. There was no way in hell I’d ever lose this thing. Not only did it have all the details of my possible future big-love-of-all-time, but if anything happened to the gray-haired nutjob on my watch, my only get-out would be to dial one of these numbers.

  As the interview drew to an end, I stood up to leave and decided—hoping to impress them (especially him)—to try out a little Shakespeare.

  “All’s well that wells end . . .”

  This went down very well with the white-haired old Pops who stood up (with some difficulty) and muttered emotionally (with actual tears in his eyes!), “My dearest, are you leaving us already?”

  “My dearest, don’t worry! I’ll be back tomorrow!”

  “Really? Wonderful! I’ll have some drinkypoos ready and waiting for you upon arrival! Until tomorrow then!”

  He also decided this was the right time to pull out his card from his cashmere/alpaca suit jacket. I read it and was surprised:

  MAX PINSON

  ART TRADE

  06 85 52 80 26

  I wondered why this guy didn’t have the same family name as my dreamboat if they were father and son, but I didn’t dare ask. Perhaps Max had preferred to shorten his name when handling all his art deals?

  I carefully placed both cards into the back pocket of my jeans, snug up against my right butt cheek, and left the enormous office, giving them a weird little wave as I reached the door.

  I immediately felt like a total dumbass. I mean, who did I think I was? The Queen of England or something? To my astonishment, both men rose to their feet and returned the stupid little hand gesture.

  My head was in the clouds! Pink clouds! I was up there with the birds. My feet were nowhere near the ground. I got through it, I thought as I picked up my nearly dry raincoat. Just as I reached the front door, I heard several shouts and spun around to see Monsieur de la Pinsonnière striding toward me.