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MARA
My fingers clutch stiff bedding when a door creaking open reaches my ears. I glance up as multiple footsteps clatter over expensive oak floorboards, catch a glimpse of a gold cufflink, and then shift my focus back to the task at hand.
My job isn’t to pry into the lives of the wealthy residents who call the Chrysler building home. I am here to wash the sheets, clean the toilets, and only be seen when summoned.
Rarely does the summoning come from the people wearing designer labels and tailored suits. They’d never associate with the “help.” They bark their orders at my supervisor, who then passes them on to me for far less than the exorbitant fee charged by the company responsible for maintaining and cleaning the apartments in the most sought-after building in Myasnikov.
A turndown service is the reason for two hours of overtime this evening. It doesn’t take two hours to turn down sheets and fluff pillows. The “help” hadn’t serviced this apartment in over three years, so the floors needed vacuuming, and the opulent, larger-than-my-apartment bathrooms required restocking.
I could have sworn I overheard Mrs. Whitten telling my supervisor that the building’s latest short-stay tenant wasn’t arriving until late this evening. It’s not even seven. Surely they’re not early. I’ve yet to meet a rich person who isn’t chasing their tail.
Curious, I take a second glance at the trio entering the suite from the far entrance. The apartments in the Chrysler building are large enough to require multiple entry points. Only owners and guests may use the main entrance. The rest use the servants’ entrances and corridors wedged between priceless paintings and opulence most can only dream of achieving.
Mrs. Whitten, the building supervisor, leads the procession with such animated gestures that she resembles a headless chicken moments from being dunked into a pot. She is slim and a few decades older than me and has a sharp wit and intelligence. I like her, though I doubt she knows who I am.
I am an expert at remaining hidden. No one pays attention to me, not even the stout man with a thick mustache who tosses his bag onto the bedding I recently straightened before he unbuttons his trousers like he is without an audience.
Mrs. Whitten dips her chin in appreciation when I silently move toward the servants’ entrance. She often says she wants her guests to feel at home while under her roof. The unnamed man looks ready to do just that.
Once I reach the safety of the alcove, I fumble for the EarPods in my pocket. They were a gift from Mr. Whitten. They were dusty enough to show they weren’t new, but they’ve made my commute home far less boring over the past month, and for that, I am forever grateful.
With my head down, I breeze into the employee locker room, grab my gym bag from its hiding spot, and make a beeline for the shower block. I don’t usually change out of my maid’s outfitat the end of my shift, but today is different because it’s Tillie’s tenth birthday.
I promised to meet her and Mrs. Lichard at the bowling alley at 7:30 p.m. sharp. The bus trip home will eat into time I don’t have. My schedule is always tight, but it’s even tighter this week.
The unisex bathroom is quiet. Only the chefs and lead housemaids remain on the premises at this hour. They’re allowed access to the upper levels after hours and take full advantage once their coworkers leave.
While the latest hit from Måneskin blasts my ears, I dump my bag onto an ancient bench inside a wall-less shower cubicle and strip.
Everything in this building is antique, including the radiators. It takes forever for the water to heat up. Since I’m in a hurry, I opt for a deodorant bath instead of drenching my hair as my pounding temples are begging.
In seconds, I smell like one of the women who stand on the corners in my half of Myasnikov late at night, hoping for theirPretty Womanmoment. My hoop earrings are cheap, as is the comb I hurriedly rip through my hair, but they add a touch of sophistication to my outfit. They make it look more like a date ensemble than a mom hoping the blowout-budget present she bought will keep her off her daughter’s shitlist for being late to her first and likely last birthday party.
I’m not dressing up with the hope of securing a date. That ship sailed not long after I gave birth. Barely sixteen with a baby in tow doesn’t attract many suitors, and the rare few who assumed my child meant our date would end with more than a kiss never made it past the first course.
I am merely hoping a little glam and a flirty smile will lower the bill of a birthday party for ten of Tillie’s closest friends. I didn’t consider how inflated non-luxury items had become in the past few years. I wouldn’t have suggested a bowling party ifI knew it would cost fifty dollars per guest to knock down some pins.
Alas, I promised Tillie she’d enter her double-digits era in style.
I am a woman who keeps her word.
The fact I’m working as a maid announces this tenfold.
My parents aren’t wealthy, but they could purchase an apartment in the Chrysler building if they were willing to sit across from a bank manager.
I can barely afford a bus fare to this side of town. I shouldn’t complain. Wealth comes with a heap of conditions most consenting adults wouldn’t agree to.
I walked away from my family to ensure my daughter would never have to consider their terms, much less follow them to the wire as I was forced to when I was a child.
Although it isn’t close to glamorous, we have a good, stable life.
After shaking off haunted memories that will cause more than my vocal cords to shake, I replace my nonslip shoes with heels, stuff my uniform into my oversized purse, and then spin to face the exit.
Partway around, the truth hits me. I forgot to replenish the aftershave in the primary bedroom of the west wing apartment. The grandeur that takes up almost every floor on the west side of the building was serviced first thing this morning.
Although most apartments are stocked with high-end department store cologne, Mrs. Whitten was adamant that this tenant required a special order. She promised to deliver her selected purchase to my service trolley within the hour so I could unbox it and display it before her VIP tenant arrived late this evening.