We both laugh.
“Not actual baboons, I hope,” Etta Jo says.
As Giselle goes on to describe the finishing school and the open position, it actually doesn’t sound half bad, except for the celebrities and high-profile figures part. All the while, they both encourage me to go for it.
“You were a princess. Of course, you can teach classes at a finishing school,” Etta Jo says.
I bite my lip, unsure. But the rent is due, and given Giselle seems to stumble across opportunities and windfalls, perhaps I should give it a shot. Worst case scenario, I don’t like it and I quit. “If I’m going to keep a roof over my head, maybe I should apply.”
Etta Jo picks up a chip slathered in chocolate, offering a toast. “To Princess Maggie and a bright future ahead.”
We clink and say, “Cheers.”
Giselle holds up her finger. “There’s just one thing.”
I tip my head to the side in question.
“It’s in Concordia.”
I’ve been all over the country and traveled abroad numerous times. It feels like my eyebrows burrow together on my forehead because I’ve never heard of Concord-what’s-it. “Where is that?”
“I have family there. Well, my cousin Cateline—Cate for short. Actually, she’s originally from France like me. She got a cushy position at Blancbourg Academy d’Etiquette of Concordia.When the former headmistress retired, Cat took over.” Like all of Giselle’s stories, there are a lot of glamorous details—she grew up in Paris after all. The difference between Giselle and other people that float in her atmosphere is that she’s the real deal, works hard, and isn’t shallow. I’ve waded into those waters and can attest to the fact that isn’t always the case.
“Do they speak English in Concordia?” Etta Jo asks as if fearing the opportunity will require French, Russian, Greek, or a combination of the three.
“Of course. Concordians have their own dialect, but it’s English—the country is a few clicks north of the UK. Most of the clients are American.”
Some people would think Giselle is a liar because she lives in this crummy apartment building and works at a restaurant while traipsing through life, collecting famous friends, stories of wild adventures, and so many boyfriends we’ve lost count. The truth is, shewasrich and a former European pop star who left that life for one of relative anonymity here in the States.
Hashtag relatable.
She doesn’t have to work another day in her life, but loves people. Just not the ones who mob her, ask for her to sign things, and follow her everywhere. She once said she just wants to be normal. I understand her aversion to the spotlight all too well.
“So, it’s overseas?” I ask, awash with uncertainty.
Giselle pulls out her phone, taps a few times, and then shows us the map.
Concordia is indeed a remote island north of England.
“You’re suggesting I move abroad? I can’t.” My mind races with the reasons that’s impossible.
“Not that I want you to leave, but answer this: you can’t or you won’t?” Etta Jo asks.
She has a point.
Giselle passes me her phone, showing me the email from her cousin with the job offer. The pay is triple what I earned as a princess. The catch is I have to work closely with the client on a one-on-one basis for thirty consecutive days. Then I’ll have a couple of weeks off before getting a new client.
“What’s the currency conversion? Because that is a lot of zeroes.” Etta’s mouth forms anO.
“It’s in US dollars,” Giselle says.
“That’s probably the family rate.” My spirits dip.
Giselle shrugs. “You’re family. One of the Berghiers.” She winks.
But I’m not related to Giselle. I’m aPrucell. Even though I don’t use my given namebecause of the connotations. I use my mother’s maiden name,Byrne.The moment I made that decision, I also vowed to earn my own way in the world and not ride on my childhood coattails of fame or my parents dangling opportunities to earn money like a bunch of rotten carrots.
As if sensing my hesitation, Giselle says, “Come on, you’d be doing her a big favor. I’d love to jet over to Concordia and help, but I have to see how things go with number fifty-seven.”
