by Alex Wolf
Matty shrugged on his button-down and moved to the mirror, running a pre-warmed brush with a light layer of gel through his hair. “Is Terrence here? I’m running late for a meeting. I need a ride.”
“Terrence has the day off, Mr. Spencer.”
Matty’s jaw clenched. He didn’t enjoy inefficient conversations. When he made a statement, he expected a solution. Not a fact. “Well, who is on duty?”
He could practically feel Johannes wince on the other end of the line.
“Nobody, I’m afraid, Sir. There are no chauffeurs available until tomorrow.”
Matty scrubbed a hand through his hair and thoroughly disheveled it. He swore under his breath and ran the comb through it again. “We’re in London. I’m positive there is someone in this city that is capable of driving.”
“Of course, Sir. I shall call in a new chauffeur immediately. We should have one by twelve.”
“Twelve?” Matty groaned and his fingers tightened around the brush. “A fucking taxi would be faster than that. I needed to be at the office an hour and a half ago.”
“I shall call Terrence and pay him triple to come to work right away. But that will nevertheless take at least forty minutes. Considering your present predicament, a taxi may be the fastest option.”
Matty paused.
Could he wait for a taxi? Or for Terrence to arrive? No. This deal was important. Not vital, but important. It would help his company. It would make an exorbitant amount of money. Fuck it, he'd drive himself. “I'm driving. Leave the keys to the Lambo by the front door.”
“Of course, Sir. Anything else before I attend to that?”
“Nothing.”
“Very well, Sir.”
Matty took a quick glance in the mirror, flew down the hall, and out the front door. Standing in the street, holding his keys, he glanced around. It didn’t take a genius to realize something was seriously wrong.
His car was gone. Nowhere to be found. “Goddamn it!” He looked up and down the street once more. Had someone moved it? Had he accidentally stopped it down the road, in front of a neighbor's house?
No such thing. His eyes landed on a bright yellow sign.
A no parking zone? Seriously? And they hadn’t even knocked on his door to let them know they were towing away a fucking Lamborghini?
This wasn't some shitty little suburb or quaint country town. This was an area entirely inhabited by the elite, living in urban mansions worth tens of millions of pounds. Which councilor with a stick up his ass had approved a no parking zone?
Matty took a deep breath. It would be fine. He had plenty of other cars. He'd just waste another minute, go inside, and get one.
The limo would be too ostentatious, but he had a Ferrari that would be quick and look nice and sleek as it pulled into his private garage beneath the building.
He folded himself inside the low-lying vehicle and backed out. At last, on the road. He flew around a few corners, the engine a low growl. Matty wondered how other people did this every day. He loved driving. Adored it. How could you not when you had a car that was so sleek, powerful, and beautiful? But on this busy, smoggy road? Surrounded by these imbeciles? It was like sitting on a golden throne in the pits of Hell. Torture from a luxurious seat was still torture.
A blue light flashed behind him and left him with a sinking sensation. Please let it be an ambulance.
Police.
Shitfuck.
He pulled over and rolled his window down as the officer approached from behind. “I don’t have fucking time for this.”
“I can see that. It’s why you're getting a speeding ticket.” The officer strolled up next to the window.
“A ticket? Are you not aware who I am?” Had he even broken the law? He’d been in a rush, but he hadn't thought he was speeding.
“Someone who can afford a ticket, Sir. Let's not make it into something worse.”
Matty nodded and stared at the whites of his knuckles as he gripped the wheel. “Sure, just—let me have it, and I’ll be on my way.”
With the ticket firmly wedged in his pocket, he drove swiftly, but not too swiftly, to his office building, parked, and tried to balance the urgency of the situation with the need to look professional, and composed. It wasn’t like a few more minutes would make much of a difference.
I need to sort my life out.
He walked up to the desk where Emilia waited with a sympathetic smile, her warm brown eyes and full face fell somewhere between motherly and matronly.
“Can you call and see if there is a human we can hire to organize things? A babysitter for adults, perhaps?” Matty asked.
“Can Mia not handle things, Sir?”
Matty shook his head. “I'm afraid not.”
“I was just thinking of the company image.”
Matty nodded. “Understood.” He paused and let out an exasperated sigh. “I need you to keep quiet about this for that very reason. But, I need an actual person to tell me where the fuck I’m going wrong.”
Emilia nodded and smiled. “I’ll look into it while you attend the meeting, Sir.”
“You’re a star.” Matty breathed a sigh of relief. Now, all he needed to do was survive this bloody meeting.
Despite the initial setback, he managed to appease the Watanabe partners, and it looked as though a long-term relationship between their companies would be beneficial enough for them to overlook the morning’s near disaster. They seemed to buy the cat story, which amused Matty to no end. However, the adrenaline quickly settled, and the need for a fresh coffee arose as he waved goodbye from the hallway.
The elevator doors slid closed and he turned around to face Emilia. “Any luck then?”
“Well, I did remember that your friend, Mr. Arvin, suggested a PA last time he was here. And that you laughed at him. But I thought maybe you would have reconsidered, so I contacted him and asked for her name.” She handed him a small appointment card.
“Not storing it on Mia this time?”
Emilia shook her head. “Not because of that. I thought if someone were to remotely access your planner they might—”
“Smart move. Maybe you could organize my life for me instead?”
Emilia shook her head once more. “Sorry, Sir. I only really handle times and dates, names and places. And from what Mr. Arvin said, Ms. Smith is a little more thorough.”
“She will be here tomorrow?” Matty twirled the card between his fingers thoughtfully. All it had was a name, a phone number, and a time scribbled on it. “Five p.m.?”
“Today at five p.m., Sir. I said it was a matter of urgency, but to be discrete. She will see you at your home.”
Matty nodded. “Perfect. I suppose I’d better head back. Unless there are any other appointments I’m unaware of?”
“None, Sir.” Emilia stared anywhere but at Matty, avoiding eye contact.
“Hey.”
Her eyes moved up and met his.
“I don't blame you for any of this, just so you know. You’re the warden of this nuthouse, but I won't hold you responsible for the meltdowns.”
Matty didn’t enjoy being bothered with trivial nonsense, and it usually perturbed him to no end. But, he’d learned long ago, not to piss off the help. Emilia was a valuable asset to him, and a loyal one at that. It served him well to keep her happy.
His company’s automated system had fucked up his day for the last time, though. It was time to bring in a professional human, and let them do the job.
“Grateful to hear that, Sir. Oh, and Mr. Arvin said, please pardon my language but these were his exact words: 'Look out, she knows what she’s doing and she’s great, but she can be a total bitch.'” Emilia smiled as professionally as always.
Matty nodded. “I'll bear that in mind.”
“Is there anything else, Sir?”
“No, that’ll be all. Thank you.”
Approaching Matthew Spencer's house, Christina Smith knew she was dealing with a very wealthy client. The mansion looked new an
d extravagant, like it’d been ripped out of Hollywood and dropped in the middle of a London suburb.
Sandy walls framed the place, and the gate was wide enough to fit a tank through. The gardens were full of exotic plants, dotting the greenery with splatters of reds, pinks, yellows, and blues. It was also the only garden on the street which hadn’t been carefully manicured that morning. Couldn’t he afford to pay someone to come landscape the house?
He’d called for her to come at once. Seemed more likely it was a breakdown in communication. He definitely needed her services if he couldn’t even keep his lawn mowed.
She walked up to the front gate and noticed that the intercom had a two-way video option.
Christina flipped open a mirror and made sure that her hair was still firmly tied back, and her makeup was clean and professional. The more money these guys had, the more perfection they demanded. When she’d first started, she’d assumed her work would speak for itself. That’d been a mistake.
Her skin had to be flawless, her lips cherry red, and the lines of her makeup sharp. Her wavy brown hair had to be pulled and twisted until there wasn’t a single stray hair sticking out. Her dress was tailored, dry cleaned, pressed, and she wore perfume that was two hundred pounds an ounce.
If she was not perfectly dressed and on point, how could they trust her to organize everything for them?
Reassured that she looked okay, she pressed the button on the intercom. It came to life, and an older man in a dark suit stared back at her on the screen. “Good afternoon, please state your business.”
“Umm, I’m Ms. Smith. I have an appointment with Mr. Spencer. Five o'clock. I’m a few minutes early.”
“Very well. Do come in.”
There were no subtle options for entering the estate. Not unless you were a servant, it seemed. Everyone was forced to go through the main entrance.
The gates creaked open slowly with a slight squeak. She could see the older man already waiting at the door. She was used to places like this and knew many of the people in these houses actually lived paycheck to paycheck and were up to their eyes in debt. By now, she’d learned to have a nose for money. And judging by what she’d seen so far, this guy—like his friend Mr. Arvin—was loaded.
There were little signs of extravagant wealth woven through the place. There were also many signs that these things were seriously neglected. A unique sculpture sat near the porch. It didn’t look like it’d been cleaned anytime recently. Many of the exotic plants were beginning to wilt without any reason for it. A solid gold knocker hung on the door. It was just for looks. Nobody would ever use a damn knocker. Whoever she was helping was someone that never thought before buying.
No wonder he needed her help.
The older gentleman welcomed her in, guided her to a main living area and asked her to wait there for Mr. Spencer. She walked around the room, scoping it out. The inside was as much of a mess as the outside.
She spotted a pile of unopened mail on the table by the window. An overdue bill was up on the mantlepiece when she strolled over. A dirty coat was out in the hallway, on the floor. All normal things in a normal house, but very out of place in a mansion with a ton of employees to keep the place running. Finally, she sat down in one of the chairs and waited.
“Good afternoon, you must be Ms. Smith?” A rich, baritone voice came from the hallway the second she’d taken a seat.
She whipped around to face the man. “Yes, Sir. Are you Mr. Spencer?” It couldn’t be him. This guy was too young to have this kind of money.
“I am.” He walked over to the chair across from her but stood instead of sitting down.
“It’s nice to meet you.” She stood and held out a hand.
He waved her off without shaking. “Do sit back down.”
It was always hard to tell how these wealthy people wanted her to act. Even social interactions were like games to them. They always had to be in control. They always treated employees like they were less than them and showed off their power any chance they got. Most of the time, it was telling her to do the opposite of whatever she was doing. But she always played along. It didn’t hurt anybody. She sat down and waited for him to explain why she was there.
Her game was thrown off for a second, and she had to regain her composure. She wasn’t used to having clients that didn’t have gray hair. He was also one of the tallest, strongest looking men she’d ever seen. Breathing became difficult when she got a good look at him. He could’ve easily been a movie star or a musician. In fact, he probably was. She just hadn’t recognized him because she didn’t pay attention to celebrities and gossip magazines. It was rare for someone under sixty to live in a place like this, and Mr. Spencer looked like he was pushing thirty at the most.
“I'm sure you get asked this a lot, but what is it exactly that you do?” He walked around her chair and then over to the window, where he shuffled through the letters, clearly not sure where to begin.
The man didn’t even know why he was hiring her. That wasn’t surprising. “You should put them into separate piles for bills, personal, circulars, and business. Then work through them by date.”
He glanced at her. “I see.”
“That’s what I do. I show you how to manage your home. I make sure you have all the staff you need, line up all your schedules. Help you get more organized.”
“Like one of those automated solutions?”
“No way. Those things are a disaster. The technology isn’t there yet. Unlike a computer, I can actually reason and make decisions on the spot, as opposed to depending on how someone coded a computer.” She thought for some kind of analogy she could use. “I guess you could think of me as a sort of modern Victorian housekeeper, or a personal business manager.”
“I’m still none the wiser.” His words had an edge to them, like maybe she’d offended him somehow. “But I suppose it’s worth a chance.” He put the letters down and stalked back over to her chair. “Do you want me to explain the problems to you?” Mr. Spencer sat down in front of her.
She shook her head. “If you knew the problems, you would’ve solved them by now.”
He let out an exasperated sigh. “I’m pretty sure I know what’s wrong with my own house.”
“Sorry for being forward, but you know the consequences of the problems, not the problems themselves. It’s like being sick. Everyone knows their symptoms, but they still go to a doctor to be diagnosed and treated. I’m here to diagnose your life and prescribe a treatment for it.”
“That makes more sense to me. You're analyzing the situation. At the end, would my life be cured of its ailment?”
“I’ve never left a patient ill.” She paused with a slight smile. “Now, sometimes clients stop treating their condition and symptoms return, but if you follow my plan, you shouldn’t have to see me again.”
“Are you sure that none of your clients let the symptoms return purposefully?” His eyes raked down to her heels and back up.
Christina nodded. She knew exactly what he meant. “I’m sure it happens. That’s up to them.”
“You’re prepared to start immediately?”
She nodded. “Absolutely.”
“Great. Once you’ve been shown around just do whatever it is you do. And if you need anything, don't hesitate to ask the other members of the staff.”
“Will do. Thank you, Mr. Spencer.” And just like that, she had a new job.
“One last thing.”
“Sir?”
His voice lowered. “I’m not sure how much Emilia told you about my business, but, we need to keep this all very quiet.”
“Your secretary didn’t tell me anything about what you do.”
“I’m actually the owner of Mia, the smart-house.”
She realized why he was frustrated a few moments before. “Umm, you designed Mia?”
“In a way. Not on my own, obviously, but yeah.” He shrugged.
“Sorry for what I said earlier.” Shit, that could’ve cost her the
job.
He shook his head. “No. Between you and me, Mia’s a disaster.”
It all made sense at once. The owner of a company that sold smart-home solutions was living in complete disarray. He needed a human professional to fix his personal life. No wonder he was so evasive and probably embarrassed. And he was so desperate he’d made an appointment with her.
She smiled. “No worries. We can fix this.”
“I bloody well hope so. Let's have a tour of the house.”
She stood up and his eyes burned through her. He may not have noticed her figure before, but he definitely did now. It didn't take a genius to realize he was checking her out. And why wouldn't he? She was petite, with perfect, full curves that had been squeezed into a tailored dress—along with impeccable hair and makeup. Christina knew most men thought she was hot. Her male clients all looked at her the same way.
It was definitely clear that Matthew Spencer liked her. Everything about him changed as they walked from room to room. The way he carried himself, his tone of voice. Not to mention the fact that he was personally showing her around.
His hand fell on the small of her back as he guided her to the next room. She figured he was also a man who didn’t know what it was like to be rejected. This could either be fun or torture. She wasn’t sure. But there was no way she would reciprocate.
She had a personal rule of not sleeping with clients, and her work made dating impossible. She spent weeks at a time living in strange men's houses, flying around the world to fix their personal lives. She was fortunate Mr. Spencer lived in the same city as her. She was always busy. And she had to be a cold bitch to get the respect she deserved. Otherwise, these men would walk all over her.
Trying to ignore the way he placed his hand on her back, she took in her surroundings.
Everything was perfectly clean, but out of place. Lights were on in rooms with large, bright windows, and turned off in dark hallways. Shit was strewn over tables and chairs, as though someone had set it down and then forgotten it was there. As he walked, Mr. Spencer explained all his problems. Missed appointments, employees not coming in on the right days, contractors not being called in for repairs, or none of them were coordinated right.
