Chore Whore by Heather H. Howard Page A

occasion?”
    â€œEvery once in a while I like to shock people. Keep them off balance. Mary, I need two Cristal Rosés—they’re $350 each, right? And a bottle of cognac . . . the Rémy Martin in the Baccarat decanter.”
    â€œOkay,” Mary says as she gets up, takes her keys and unlocks a glass-enclosed case. “The Cristal is $350 but you know this Rémy Martin is from Louis the Thirteenth’s private reserve. It’s hundreds of years old.”
    I think guiltily of the Rémy Martin I threw down Lucy’s kitchen sink when I got too tipsy to drive.
    â€œHow much is it?” I ask, mentally apologizing to Kevin Kline . . . such a nice gift he gave Lucy.
    â€œMost places sell it for fifteen hundred. I sell it for thirteen and change.”
    â€œI’ll take it! You have a regular bargain basement here!”
    She rings up my $2,164 purchase.
    Â· · ·
    At home, I wrap the Rémy Martin in blue and white Hanukkah gift paper for Bob. My illegal Cuban cigars, though, I open and carefully dump out on my kitchen table. Removing the rice paper and then the layer of cedar with the word “Havana” burned into it, I take each cigar and cautiously remove its band. After wrapping the cigars in one carefully chosen gift box and the cigar box, cedar and bands in another, I make out separate FedEx labels and put them in their respective mailing boxes. To reduce the chance of jail time, I have to separate the cigars from their origin—Cuba.
    I know why I go to the trouble for Veronique, but don’t know why she goes to the trouble for Harvey Weinstein. My one and only lasting impression of him was in a client’s brand spanking new home theater, where he refused to use an ashtray and let his cigar ashes build up in a pile on the carpet.
    I send the Weinstein gifts to New York and wrap and deliver Woody’s Cristal champagne and six Tiffany champagne flutes to his office. I wrap the same gift for Demi, drop it off to her holiday beach house in Malibu and deposit Julia’s gift at the front door of her beach house a few miles up the Pacific Coast Highway. I have driven 155 miles and am finally done for the day at nine P.M .
    At ten P.M . I’m eating a reheated dinner of shrimp pesto pasta when my phone rings. I let the answering machine pick it up.
    â€œCorki, it’s Jock Straupman.”
    After all the years I’ve worked for him, he still uses his full name when he calls to leave a message. His voice drips syrup and I wonder if he’s going to tell me about Paris.
    â€œHow are you tonight? I need you to come over first thing tomorrow morning and gather up some things to return to Britt. Just some clothes and personal effects. Oh, and return the things you picked up at the cleaners to her, too. She should pay for the cleaning. Also take her Georgia O’Keeffe coffee table book. You know, Georgia’s the artist who made everything look like a vagina.”
    His voice tightens around the word “vagina.” Britt must have mentioned the word “commitment” or something, because obviously she’s getting dumped, and I’ll be the one doing the dumping.
    â€œAlso, if I’m not here, there’s a letter I’d like you to deliver along with her things.”
    The “Dear Jane” letter, I’m sure.
    â€œAnd I’ll leave her address on a note for you. Thanks.”
    He hangs up. This is the second goodbye letter and return of personal effects I’ve handled in the past six months. God, I hate being the deliverer of bad news.
    My phone rings again.
    â€œCorki, it’s Jock Straupman. I also need you to clean my collection. It’s time, right? Hasn’t it been two months? I’ve been going to the range a lot lately. I think it’s time. Please. Sometime after the holidays would be good. Thank you.”
    Break up with conquest of the week and clean my guns. Fantastic.
    Fifteen years ago,