Fluffy(4)

“More like television, I think. I’m not sure.”

“Oh, my God, Mallory. This job sounds like it’s p–”

My phone dies.

One other thing about Perky: She’s always right. I do need to charge my battery.

I love her enthusiasm about my new job, though. I’m sure the next word out of her mouth was going to be “perfect.”

But I frown at my dead phone.

Hmm. I called Perky to tell her where I’m going. To be my safety net. Every woman knows that you don’t go somewhere alone to meet a stranger you communicated with on the internet. That’s how people end up chained to basement walls or tucking a fifty-six-year-old man into bed while changing his diaper and feeding him breast milk he bought on eBay from a bottle he trashpicked at the local children’s consignment shop.

Don’t look at me like that. This exact story was covered in a podcast series and the outcome was just as bad as you think.

But I’ll bet even he had a date to his high school reunion.

My phone battery’s dead, so I can’t map the rest of the trip, but I remember the address. 29 Maplecure Street. Pfft. As if maple ever cured anything. Maple bacon, maybe.

Maple bacon donuts? Definitely.

Great. Now I want a road trip to Portland to the Holy Donut and to have a date with a box of bacon-crumble-covered maple potato boyfriends. You can’t have sex with food (American Pie excepted), but it makes for a fine companion when real men aren’t in abundant supply.

Speaking of men, as I pull up to 29 Maplecure Street, I see a cluster of them, three in a circle, all smoking. Beards abound. At first glance, I assume they’re a moving crew.

But they aren’t wearing matching t-shirts with company logos.

Hmm.

As I put the car in park, I take a deep breath and steel myself. Meeting new associates is always nerve wracking. My grey knit dress from Athleta should be just right, the intersection of polished and cool with enough functional stretch for bending and lifting. Real estate agents dress up to look successful; the interior designers I occasionally meet dress up, I think because it's their nature to choose beautiful things.

And they accessorize. I've got big silver hoop earrings and an armful of black beaded bracelets.

“You’re fine, Mal,” I tell myself as I step out of my car. I am my own cheering section. Running a hand through my curly hair, I briefly wonder if I should have done a sleek ponytail. One of the guys looks up and sees me, saying something to the others. Like a herd of gazelles noticing a large lion nearby, all the heads pop up in unison.

I give a small wave, my fingers like wind chimes.

They look away.

“It’s just a four-hour gig,” I mutter, my pep fading fast as I sling my black bag over my shoulder and start toward the front door. The wide walkway is laid in a simple pattern of beige stone. Beige is such a boring word for the subtle kaleidoscope of color that gives the stone texture and nuance. My mother thinks that beige is as exciting as clipping your toenails, but there are thousands of shades in this world designed to evoke emotion.

And each is important.

Whoever owns this house takes fabulous care of it, little details emerging into a gorgeous, discerning whole. Money makes it easy to maintain a showplace, but cash alone isn’t the key.

You have to care.

“Hi, there,” I say to the bearded trio as they grind out their cigarette butts, carefully rubbing them in the perfectly manicured grass then cupping them in their palms. Their care impresses me. I’m not a fan of smoking, but what really bothers me are smokers who leave their butts everywhere.

One of the guys, blond with a full face and a ZZ Top look, holds the door open for me. “Ladies first,” he says in a barrel-chested voice.

The other guys laugh. Being mocked by men isn’t new to me–I got plenty of it in high school, for being the band/drama/honors/newspaper geek–but I’ve learned to ignore it and move on.

“Thank you,” I say with grace they don’t deserve, walking up the granite steps.

“No, thank you,” one of them mumbles, giving me a wink and a short, appreciative whistle as I walk up. “Nice ass.”

I blush. Wasn’t expecting that.

The house is extraordinarily designed, open concept with high ceilings, and I should appreciate it more, but my ears are ringing from being sexually objectified by a guy who looks like he’s an extra on Hardcore Pawn.

I was just turned into a piece of eye candy.

Me.

I’m not sure whether to be flattered or horrified.

After a few seconds, I decide. It’s not hard. I am a mature, capable, competent professional with a high degree of emotional self-regulation and a sharp business mind. I know how to handle myself in any given situation. Perceptiveness and the ability to pivot to gain leverage are key in my profession. The answer is clear.

Let’s go with flattered.

Down a wide hall and to the right, a giant kitchen beckons. From what I can see, the central island is bigger than most boardroom tables. Aha. This must be where the cooking show takes place. I stand in the foyer, hesitant. A few people are walking around, glancing at me, but no one approaches to introduce themselves.

Asking for “Spatula” seems rather gauche. This is the point where I realize I have no idea what his real name is. I’ve been hired by a kitchen utensil used to scrape up wet, goopy stuff.