There isn’t a single item out of place, no dress shirts hanging over the back of the chaise lounge, no old water glasses on the side or cufflinks on the dresser. My feet pad over the plush grey carpet, sinking into the soft warm fabric. It smells like him in here, warm and almost comforting which is a surprise since thereisn’t a single inch of that man that’s inviting. White walls with black accents, it’s modern in comparison to the rest of the house.
There is only one painting in this room, hanging above the bed which is more abstract than the rest of the ones I’ve seen dotted through the house, the colors a mix of greys and whites and blacks. His huge bed sits in the center of the room, king size with a leather black headboard and monotone sheets that are tucked in and straightened to within an inch of their life.
The bedside units hold a single lamp each, but nothing else, I can’t even see a cellphone charger plugged in. It’s like no one lives here. I might have questioned if I was in the right place if I hadn’t headed to the walk-in closet to find shelves and shelves of his clothes and shoes. They dominate one wall of the closet, which is huge in its own right. All his clothes are color coordinated and then hung by designer.
I nearly laugh at how meticulous it is, with the shirts and the jackets all hanging without a single crease. His shoes are lined neatly in little cubbies and next to that is a large cabinet which showcases his array of designer watches, cufflinks and rings. There’s a drawer full of ties, folded neatly.
“Surely not,” I open the first drawer and find that even all his socks are folded and sorted by color. Only black and white of course because clearly the man can’t have any other color.
Shock runs through me, this is not what I had expected but then I think back to the short time I spent with him at the dining table, how he had fiddled withhis cutlery until they all sat in a line and how he spun his glass around every time he picked it up before he set it back down.
Someone likes a little order in their life.
A smile works up my mouth.
Order can so easily be interrupted.
Closing the drawer, I head down the line of hanging clothes, running the tips of my fingers over the softness of them. Money oozes from the fabrics, luxury soaked into the very walls, and I just grab the first shirt I find.
It’s huge which is hardly surprising when the man towers over me but then I walk back down the line, tucking the shirt between two suit jackets. Petty? Definitely. But do I feel better about it? Yes. Yes, I do.
I turn and find all my things put away opposite his. It’s the same set up, my clothes organized and put away based on color and what they are. Even my underwear has been folded into the drawers and my jewelry placed delicately in the cabinet. My shoes are all lined up and cleaned and the only reason I know that, is because the nude pair of Prada heels I wore a few days ago had a scuff on the toe from where I tripped in them, and now that scuff has been buffed out.
Rolling my eyes, I find the drawer with my pajamas, grabbing the first set on top, and then pick out an outfit for tomorrow, with a pair of shoes to match. I don’t want to have to come back here tomorrow. I locate my makeup in a box on one of the shelves and grab everything else I might need before I walk out of the closet, purposely leaving on the light as I cross the room to the bed. Grabbing the corner, I rip the sheetsdown and then I leave.
The satisfaction it’s given me, just to fuck with his system a little, is well worth it.
Shutting myself in the bedroom next to his, I strip out of my robe and get into the comfy pajamas I grabbed before I sink into the bed. Warmth envelops me as I tug the blankets up to my chin and pluck up my phone, playing the film I’d started before I was forced to dinner.
But it’s not long before fatigue works through me and I fall asleep barely half way into the movie.
A heavy, irritated knock wakes me the following morning, my phone buried under the sheets and my arm numb since I slept with it above my head the whole night.
“Miss Lauder.” A stern female voice I now recognize as Miranda’s, filters into the room. “Miss Lauder.”
Her impatience stresses me out.
Grumbling, I trudge to the door, “Yes, Miranda?”
“Breakfast.” Is all she comes out with before she spins on her polished black shoes and heads back down the hall.
She reminds me of my old etiquette teacher. So grumpy all the time.
With a yawn, I head back into the room and get ready for the day. I dress in a pair of blue denim jeans and a turtleneck sweater before I tie my hair back and apply a small amount of makeup.
When I head downstairs, memorizing the way from the night before, I go to the kitchen where I can smellfresh food being cooked. Miranda is nowhere to be found but there is a man in a chefs uniform whizzing through the kitchen.
“Well good morning, sunshine,” He beams at me when he spots me in the doorway staring at him. He has an accent, French maybe and age lines his face, the smile lines around his eyes and mouth instantly putting me at ease. “You must be Olivia.”
“Um hi,” I give him a little wave which makes me feel ridiculous.
“Mr. Farrow made me aware of your stay here at the estate,” He smiles, “I’m Louis, but you can call me Lou if you like.”
He goes back to whatever he is doing on the counter.
“You work here?” I ask, wandering further into the kitchen.
“All my life,” He says with enthusiasm, “Here. Sit. Sit.” He ushers me to one of the stools around the island. “I hope you like salmon.”
