Fluffy(5)

Huh.

Well, I might be a bit intimidated, and I may be out of my element, but there is one thing any good stager can do: arrange a room.

So I begin.

To my left is a sitting room. It's mostly empty, but there is a big ottoman, a red circle made of leather, and a cream-colored sofa. Oddly enough, the sofa–an overstuffed, three-cushion monstrosity with huge arms that looks like something out of a bad QVC television set–is horribly positioned, at an odd angle, as if someone brought it in and just put it down anywhere. Starting to work before I’ve even met my boss, I try to shove the sofa into better alignment, but it's surprisingly heavy. Instead, I grasp the red ottoman and move it, positioning it in front.

This furniture definitely doesn't match the house it's in.

I scan the room. Metal stands with huge lights are set here and there, with big power packs and heavy cords on the floor nearby. They must be doing the interview with the chef in here. In a corner, I see an aquarium filled with small orange fish. A long, narrow table behind the sofa holds a giant gold bowl, cracked like a mirror mosaic.

It is overflowing with small packets of ibuprofen.

And bottles of coconut oil.

I pause, bent over the red circle, mind roaming. I know coconut oil is all the rage these days, so maybe it’s just trendy, but what a weird decoration in the living room. Or maybe it's a cooking ingredient?

My eyes pick up on three red packets that say “Ribbed.” Wait a minute. Are those condoms? I stifle a laugh. As a home fluffer, you can never underestimate how quirky some people can be. At my old job, we once fluffed a house full of one-eyed dolls dressed to look like Liberace.

Riding black horses.

But condoms in a bowl are a little bizarre, especially in a group setting. Coconut oil breaks down latex. Is someone here actually stupid enough to combine the two?

And–wait. Why would someone here combine the two?

“Hey!” one of the beards shouts at me from across the room, interrupting my thoughts. “Why’d you move that?” He points to the red ottoman.

I crook my finger at him and beckon. My first impulse is to apologize and move everything back, but then some stronger part of me kicks in. I’ve been hired for my expertise. This client is ignoring me. Some employers want a lap dog. A yes person. Others need you to show them you’re in command in order to get respect.

I lift my chin up as I motion for him to come to me. “We need to move this sofa,” I declare.

“Why?” The other two beards look at me, as if they are one hive moving in unison.

“Because the energy is all wrong.”

“Energy?”

“Look at this,” I declare, moving my hands in grand gestures, taking up space before I plant them on my hips. Power pose. Research shows I can increase testosterone levels in my body just by putting my palms on these large-and-in-charge hips.

Large, anyway.

“Look at what?” ZZ Top seems intrigued, his dark sunglasses suddenly lifted up to reveal intelligent blue eyes framed by wrinkles. He’s about my dad’s age and looks calm and resigned, like men in their fifties sometimes do. He knows himself, and unlike the other two beards, who are poking each other and snickering, he’s actually willing to listen to me.

“Feng shui living room principles say you’re inviting serious medical harm if you position this furniture the way you have it.”

“Medical harm?” ZZ Top says, moving his hand toward the other two guys to shush them.

A small man with a concave chest, wearing a moss-green henley shirt and old, paint-splattered jeans moves swiftly in from the hall. His baseball cap says something about the Red Sox, which is about as common in the Boston suburbs as seeing someone drinking coffee from Dunkin’ Donuts.

“Medical harm?” the small man echoes, mouth pursed. Thick wrinkles around his mouth tell me he’s a serious smoker. The reek of cigarette smoke that fills the space between us is a tipoff, too.

“If you want to attract prosperity, avoid pain, and keep the energy flowing properly, you need to move the entire room around,” I insist.

“But the lighting’s all set,” ZZ Top says. “Sound checks done. It’ll set us back an hour if we have to redo it.”

Little Man holds up one finger to the guy, who shuts up instantly. “You’re serious?” he asks me, dark brown eyes taking me in, his expression changing quickly to something sexual and not a little creepy. “Wait a minute. You’re Mallory.”

I sigh with relief and extend my hand for a firm, professional shake. “Yes. Mallory Monahan. Are you Spatula?”

“Yup.” He shakes my hand like it’s a window sheer.

No one blinks at his name.

“Guys, this is the new fluffer!” he calls out. His eyes roam up and down. “Man, you dressed up. Don’t need a dress for this.” He looks down at my wedge heels.

Murmurs of appreciation ripple through the room, followed by some laughter. “Want some extra work?” one of the beards calls out, winking at me.

I start to say more to Spatula, but he cuts me off. “What’re you saying about how we position the set?” He looks at the red ottoman. “Who moved that? Now Jasmine’s gonna complain about her knees.”

“I moved it.” I point to the beam above. “Did you know that positioning anything you sit on at that angle is–”