At this she gives me a look and says softly, “Now forgive me if this is presumptuous, my dear, but I’m guessing you’re not exactly used to being waited on hand and foot?”
“You guessed correct,” I reply with a shrug.
“I thought so. You look like a girl who knows how to take care of herself. Well, my dear, I certainly applaud that. But please – do not feel shy to ask foranythingyou need. And for starters, to show you exactly what I mean, I’m going to bring you a cup ofthe mostdelicious hot chocolate you’ve ever tasted in your life. Sound okay?”
“That sounds great,” I reply.
She’s right, I’ve never asked for anything. There were some years we were so broke, I didn’t even dare ask for anything on my birthday or Christmas – we were so damn poor, and I didn’t want to stress my Mom out, and there was no way she could afford anything anyway, so I just pretended like I didn’t want anything.
Helena slips out of the room, leaving me alone to explore. I shake my head – still marveling at just how damngiganticthis place is. Then I remember the walk-in wardrobe, and I just cant resist taking a peek.
I gingerly approach the same panel of wall that Helena touched and lay my palm on it softly and sure enough, the whole section of wall begins to revolve, revealing the mostamazingarray of designer clothes and shoes.
I can hardly bring myself to touch them as I step timidly into the long room, adorned at one end with a huge mirror, running my fingers along the silken racks of garments – every design and color under the sun.
Never in my life have I been in the presence of so many amazing clothes before. You should know this about me: Iloveclothes. Since I was old enough to thread a needle, I’ve been making my own outfits, and modifying my own clothes, and reading up everything I can online about the world of high fashion, spending whole days with my nose pressed up to the computer screens in the public library, imagining what it would be like to actually be ata catwalk exhibition, or to try on a twenty thousand dollar Stella McCartney dress.
And now here I am, standing in a room with more designer dresses than the whole of Paris fashion week rolled into one!
I remember what Helena told me: that I need to choose something fortonight. For dinner with Marcus. And I’m guessing it’s not onlydinnerthat’s on the menu.
I feel another sudden lurch of nerves, as I realize all over again just what I’ve got myself into ...
And as I’m still deliberating, I hear a sharp knock at the door. I quickly pad back through and here’s Helena, carrying a tray with an elegant silver-handled glass of steaming hot chocolate on it.
“I’ll leave you in peace,” she says with a brief nod and a smile, setting the tray down on a side table and then slipping out of the room once more.
I gingerly pick up the glass, lifting it to my lips and taking a small sip.
Oh my God.
She’s so right! The chocolate is absolutely delicious; sweet and milky and gorgeous – by far the best I’ve ever tasted.
Okay, so maybe Icouldstart to get used to this kind of lifestyle after all, I think with a smile.
Nine
Jennifer
A few hours later,there’s a soft but stern knock on my door, and when I dash over to answer it, there’s Helena once again.
“Mr Whitelaw is ready for you now,” she announces. And then, not so subtly, she checks out my outfit from head to toe.
I’m wearing Louboutins: a black strappy sandal with a killer heel and a kind of cutout design so it looks like there are hearts weaving their way up my ankles. And even though they’re skyscraper high, to my surprise they’re also super comfortable, probably because they’re so perfectly designed, so finely balanced that there’s no uncomfortable pressure anywhere on your foot. It’s amazing.God damn, that man’s a genius, I think. And I’ve paired these amazing shoes with that amazing white and black Stella McCartney dress that first caught my eye.
“Not bad,” Helena says, begrudgingly impressed at my clothes choices. “Not bad at all.”
“Thanks,” I smile back, but she’s already turned and begun racing down the maze of corridors again at her usual breakneck pace.
I follow her as best I can, trying to keep up with her on these crazy heels, wondering if perhaps I should have chosen something a little smaller. But it’s too late for that, and before I know it, we’ve come to a halt outside a large ornate mahogany door, somewhere on the ground floor of this strange, sprawling house.
“Don’t look so terrified,” Helena says with a comforting little smile. “Just enjoy yourself.”
And with that she turns, leaving me all alone outside that huge door – behind which, I’m guessing, is Marcus Whitelaw.
I take a final deep breath and then use all my strength to heave open the huge, heavy wood of the door, and sure enough there he is behind it, sitting at a small dining table waiting for me.
The moment he sees me, he stands up, and the whole picture: the small beautifully lit room which looks like some kind of study, lined with thousands of leather-bound books, the deep mahogany of the floorboards, the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, the meticulously laid dining table, and of course Marcus: dressed in an immaculately tailored black suit, his blue-grey eyes blazing, his thick blonde hair shining in the flickering candlelight, and his full sensuous lips curling into a warm and inviting smile – well, the whole thing just takes my breath away.
