a crystal-and-ebony desk set and a state-of-the-art computer. “You brought references?” She held out her hand.
Faye took a sheaf of papers from her purse and gave them to Mrs. Eastbrook, who slipped on her glasses and read.
In the striped silk lute-back chair facing the desk, Faye waited quietly, hands in her lap, ankles crossed in a ladylike manner, covertly scrutinizing Mrs. Eastbrook.
She was a petite woman, and exquisitely beautiful, with large blue eyes and straight blond hair falling crisply just to her collar. She had to be somewhere between forty and fifty, for her daughter Lila was twenty-three, but her skin stretched blandly over her bones, erasing the years. No wrinkle marked her smooth forehead, thanks, Faye assumed, to an injection of botulism, and her lips had the youthful pout of someone recently injected with collagen. She was, of course, thin.
Faye wasn’t slender, but she did look
appropriate
in her modest gray suit, low court heels, and single string of pearls. Her white hair, in its usual chignon, was correct. The suit didn’t fit as well as her clothes usually did, because in real life, for an occasion of any importance, she used a dressmaker who altered everything exactly. But here she was not supposed to look like someone who could afford to have her clothing perfectly fitted. She was supposed to look like an educated, dignified, and slightly impoverished woman who had worked all her life, and Faye felt she’d accomplished that when she bought the taupe pantsuit with its blessed elastic waist and slimming thigh-length jacket.
Beneath the jacket, Faye’s heart did the salsa. Her hands were clammy. Monday night, in the company of the others, Faye had felt brave, even lighthearted. She thought it was rather like joining the CIA but without the danger. But now that she was actually here, under a false name, talking to a real person, her nerves shot hot flashes through her body, one after the other, like Roman candles.
Eugenie Eastbrook murmured, “You worked for thirteen years for the Maine Corbetts.”
Faye nodded. “Yes.”
Eugenie looked up. “I like that. It speaks well that you stayed with one family for so long.”
“Frances Corbett wanted me to go with her when her parents died, but I preferred to stay in the East,” Faye said.
“I see. Well, now.” Mrs. Eastbrook leaned back in her leather desk chair. “My husband, as you know, is a plastic surgeon, and the director of the clinic. My daughter and I share the duties of supervising the offices and staff. The housekeeper’s duties are confined to the house. We need it to run smoothly, always. We often hold dinner parties for prospective clients to meet satisfied patrons, and occasionally we have potential clients as guests in this house. It goes without saying that discretion is of the utmost importance.”
Faye said, “Of course.”
“This establishment must run like clockwork,” Eugenie Eastbrook said.
“I understand,” Faye replied.
“My family works six days a week and are on call for seven.” Eugenie Eastbrook punched out her words in sharp verbal bullets. “From time to time your duties will intersect with those of the spa and clinic. The housekeeper must liaise with me, the cook, two maids, two chauffeurs. She must be able to perform some secretarial functions—you do know how to use a computer?”
“I do.”
“She must be capable of giving orders without hesitation and of receiving orders without resentment. She must look appropriate at all times.”
Faye said, “I understand.”
“Well, Faye, it looks like you might be just the right person for the job. Can you start right away?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent.” She rose. “Let me give you a tour of the house.”
Faye followed her prospective employer out of the office into the hall, her heels sinking into the plush carpet. It was like walking on marshmallows. The thought made her stomachs perk up.
“Living room, dining room, my office,
Faye took a sheaf of papers from her purse and gave them to Mrs. Eastbrook, who slipped on her glasses and read.
In the striped silk lute-back chair facing the desk, Faye waited quietly, hands in her lap, ankles crossed in a ladylike manner, covertly scrutinizing Mrs. Eastbrook.
She was a petite woman, and exquisitely beautiful, with large blue eyes and straight blond hair falling crisply just to her collar. She had to be somewhere between forty and fifty, for her daughter Lila was twenty-three, but her skin stretched blandly over her bones, erasing the years. No wrinkle marked her smooth forehead, thanks, Faye assumed, to an injection of botulism, and her lips had the youthful pout of someone recently injected with collagen. She was, of course, thin.
Faye wasn’t slender, but she did look
appropriate
in her modest gray suit, low court heels, and single string of pearls. Her white hair, in its usual chignon, was correct. The suit didn’t fit as well as her clothes usually did, because in real life, for an occasion of any importance, she used a dressmaker who altered everything exactly. But here she was not supposed to look like someone who could afford to have her clothing perfectly fitted. She was supposed to look like an educated, dignified, and slightly impoverished woman who had worked all her life, and Faye felt she’d accomplished that when she bought the taupe pantsuit with its blessed elastic waist and slimming thigh-length jacket.
Beneath the jacket, Faye’s heart did the salsa. Her hands were clammy. Monday night, in the company of the others, Faye had felt brave, even lighthearted. She thought it was rather like joining the CIA but without the danger. But now that she was actually here, under a false name, talking to a real person, her nerves shot hot flashes through her body, one after the other, like Roman candles.
Eugenie Eastbrook murmured, “You worked for thirteen years for the Maine Corbetts.”
Faye nodded. “Yes.”
Eugenie looked up. “I like that. It speaks well that you stayed with one family for so long.”
“Frances Corbett wanted me to go with her when her parents died, but I preferred to stay in the East,” Faye said.
“I see. Well, now.” Mrs. Eastbrook leaned back in her leather desk chair. “My husband, as you know, is a plastic surgeon, and the director of the clinic. My daughter and I share the duties of supervising the offices and staff. The housekeeper’s duties are confined to the house. We need it to run smoothly, always. We often hold dinner parties for prospective clients to meet satisfied patrons, and occasionally we have potential clients as guests in this house. It goes without saying that discretion is of the utmost importance.”
Faye said, “Of course.”
“This establishment must run like clockwork,” Eugenie Eastbrook said.
“I understand,” Faye replied.
“My family works six days a week and are on call for seven.” Eugenie Eastbrook punched out her words in sharp verbal bullets. “From time to time your duties will intersect with those of the spa and clinic. The housekeeper must liaise with me, the cook, two maids, two chauffeurs. She must be able to perform some secretarial functions—you do know how to use a computer?”
“I do.”
“She must be capable of giving orders without hesitation and of receiving orders without resentment. She must look appropriate at all times.”
Faye said, “I understand.”
“Well, Faye, it looks like you might be just the right person for the job. Can you start right away?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent.” She rose. “Let me give you a tour of the house.”
Faye followed her prospective employer out of the office into the hall, her heels sinking into the plush carpet. It was like walking on marshmallows. The thought made her stomachs perk up.
“Living room, dining room, my office,
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