reprimanded again, this time for wearing my hair down. Again, I didn’t bunny-hop into one of London’s most prestigious establishments looking like Lady Gaga; my hair was simply brushed out and pushed back behind my ears. Christie’s women, I was informed, had to wear their hair up in a bun or some kind of Danish. I was never given a reason; I mean, why not a hairnet? I used paper clips to keep my hair in the best croissant I could muster without a brush or mirror, which set the metal detector off coming back from lunch. Let them think I was stealing office supplies. Bugger off.
After work one afternoon, I decided to explore Harrods, the luxury department store I’d been hearing about at work—an enormous five-acre structure that housed everything from truffles and teeth whitener to an elliptical treadmill, a leather mahjong board, and thousands of diamond trinkets. There was even a real miniature black Mercedes for children. Well, Arab children. I loved watching the Saudi princesses come into the store in a cluster of burkas, hijab s, and khumar . Clearly, while bowing backward out the door, they had told their husbands they were going to the open market to buy turnips. What they did instead was take the white Bentley straight to Harrods, their daytime playground. They would all bundle into the elevator, and “ding”—Ladies’ Lingerie. And there the gang stripped down to their Versace bras and panties, drank champagne and smoked Benson & Hedges Lights, and gossiped about Michael Caine and Joan Collins. After hours of doubling for extras out of a Robert Palmer video, they would spray themselves with Lysol and chew a few breath mints, get back into their black habits, and scuttle home. This was the original housewives’ reality show.
On my fourth day of work, Mr. Talbot, who clearly needed a kitten in his life, screamed at me yet again—this time for my choice of earrings. I was wearing hoops, and only diamond and pearl studs were acceptable. Why? I thought. As far as I could tell, there weren’t many girl gang wars under way at Christie’s. I had spent an hour comparing two watercolors of haystacks when from down the hall I heard a holler. “Alexandra!” I froze. First of all, Christie’s was a silent institution; second, how many Alexandras could there be? And third, who the hell was screaming out my name?
I gingerly walked into Mr. Talbot’s office like a geisha at her debut. “Did you call me?” I said, practically bowing.
“Yes. I would like a lapsang souchong tea with lemon.”
I didn’t know how to interpret this. “That sounds good, sir.” I think I even bowed again.
“No, I want you to get me a tea with lemon.”
I spent the next two hours trying to find tea and master the pronunciation of lapsang souchong . At last I placed the tea on Mr. Talbot’s desk. “He’s gone to lunch,” I heard from the adjoining room. A ginger-haired woman was holding up slides of Cézanne fruit bowls to the window.
“I’m sorry?” I said, adding a hint of British accent like Madonna.
“Mr. Talbot has gone for his lunch. It’s twelve noon.” She acted like it was common knowledge that Mr. Talbot took his lunch at twelve noon. Why, that’s the reason Big Ben tolls. I was steamed the whole walk home. Sod it. I started planning my own Boston tea party.
O n the fifth day, I spent the morning on sixteenth-century pastoral scenes. Green trees, two sheep; green trees, four sheep, and a cow; six sheep, two cows, and five geese. And so on. Suddenly I heard it again: “Alexandra!” I threw down my artist eraser. I marched down the hallway with purpose, but no ideas. When I entered Mr. Talbot’s office, he didn’t look up. “Tea.”
“Please?” I answered jokingly.
He looked up at me like I had just thrown a dart at Mona Lisa’s face. “You’re excused.”
I could feel my cheeks burning. I tapped my pencil on a Gainsborough drawing so forcefully that I almost tore right through a picnic scene.
After work one afternoon, I decided to explore Harrods, the luxury department store I’d been hearing about at work—an enormous five-acre structure that housed everything from truffles and teeth whitener to an elliptical treadmill, a leather mahjong board, and thousands of diamond trinkets. There was even a real miniature black Mercedes for children. Well, Arab children. I loved watching the Saudi princesses come into the store in a cluster of burkas, hijab s, and khumar . Clearly, while bowing backward out the door, they had told their husbands they were going to the open market to buy turnips. What they did instead was take the white Bentley straight to Harrods, their daytime playground. They would all bundle into the elevator, and “ding”—Ladies’ Lingerie. And there the gang stripped down to their Versace bras and panties, drank champagne and smoked Benson & Hedges Lights, and gossiped about Michael Caine and Joan Collins. After hours of doubling for extras out of a Robert Palmer video, they would spray themselves with Lysol and chew a few breath mints, get back into their black habits, and scuttle home. This was the original housewives’ reality show.
On my fourth day of work, Mr. Talbot, who clearly needed a kitten in his life, screamed at me yet again—this time for my choice of earrings. I was wearing hoops, and only diamond and pearl studs were acceptable. Why? I thought. As far as I could tell, there weren’t many girl gang wars under way at Christie’s. I had spent an hour comparing two watercolors of haystacks when from down the hall I heard a holler. “Alexandra!” I froze. First of all, Christie’s was a silent institution; second, how many Alexandras could there be? And third, who the hell was screaming out my name?
I gingerly walked into Mr. Talbot’s office like a geisha at her debut. “Did you call me?” I said, practically bowing.
“Yes. I would like a lapsang souchong tea with lemon.”
I didn’t know how to interpret this. “That sounds good, sir.” I think I even bowed again.
“No, I want you to get me a tea with lemon.”
I spent the next two hours trying to find tea and master the pronunciation of lapsang souchong . At last I placed the tea on Mr. Talbot’s desk. “He’s gone to lunch,” I heard from the adjoining room. A ginger-haired woman was holding up slides of Cézanne fruit bowls to the window.
“I’m sorry?” I said, adding a hint of British accent like Madonna.
“Mr. Talbot has gone for his lunch. It’s twelve noon.” She acted like it was common knowledge that Mr. Talbot took his lunch at twelve noon. Why, that’s the reason Big Ben tolls. I was steamed the whole walk home. Sod it. I started planning my own Boston tea party.
O n the fifth day, I spent the morning on sixteenth-century pastoral scenes. Green trees, two sheep; green trees, four sheep, and a cow; six sheep, two cows, and five geese. And so on. Suddenly I heard it again: “Alexandra!” I threw down my artist eraser. I marched down the hallway with purpose, but no ideas. When I entered Mr. Talbot’s office, he didn’t look up. “Tea.”
“Please?” I answered jokingly.
He looked up at me like I had just thrown a dart at Mona Lisa’s face. “You’re excused.”
I could feel my cheeks burning. I tapped my pencil on a Gainsborough drawing so forcefully that I almost tore right through a picnic scene.
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