Good Rich People(3)

She sighs and swings her plastic basket into my cart. I follow her to the produce section. She finds me the priciest tomatoes, precut garlic, red onions. It’s a good thing I’m there, because one of the onions looks dirty and I make sure she swaps it out. As she shops, she explains to me how to mix everything together. Of course, I don’t pay attention. I hate listening to people when they talk.

“Got it?” she asks when all the ingredients are in my cart.

“No,” I say blithely. She shifts from foot to foot. “I’ll never get it! We used to have a housekeeper who did all this, but we had to let her go,” I lie. “She was very religious.” That part is true. She suggested we were all going to hell. I privately thought hell couldn’t be worse than Margo. At least in hell you don’t have hope.

“I could help you,” the woman says, “if you want.” She adjusts her empty basket. “I’m actually looking for work.”

I find myself considering it. She seems to know her stuff, and I do need to hire someone before Margo does. It looks like I would be doing the woman a favor. Her hair is knotted. Her eyes lack sleep. Her nail beds are dirty and uneven. She’d be very lucky to work for us. There are far worse places to be.

Her necklaces remind me of something, but I can’t remember what.

Maybe it’s someone I used to know.

Or maybe it’s me.





LYLA



My new housekeeper helps me unload the bags and carries them to the gate. As I unlock it, my eyes shoot automatically to the tower. I have to remind myself she can’t see us.

My housekeeper notices. “That’s a big house. Who lives up there?”

“Margo. She’s Graham’s mother. Graham is my husband.” The key sticks and I have to fight the lock.

She sets down the bags and helps me. “I’m Astrid, by the way.”

“Oh.” The name is too pretty for her. “Lyla. But you can call me Mrs. Herschel.” It’s dangerous to be on intimate terms with staff. Not just for me.

The gate groans as she unlocks it. “It’s a beautiful gate,” she says.

“Thank you. Graham got it from some monks or something.” I hate the gate. It’s some elaborate wood-carved delicate thing. It always seems on the verge of snapping, and the lock sticks.

She readjusts the bags and follows me into the courtyard. She stops at the fountain. “What a nice water feature.”

“It’s loud.” I was always taught to never take a compliment well. It’s rude.

She gasps when I open the front door. Most people do. To the untrained eye, the house looks like it is floating. Guests are always careful when they take their first step out on the floor. My housekeeper is no different. She steadies herself on the side table. “This house is stunning.”

“Yes, it’s a work of art. But it’s a terrible place to live. Maybe people aren’t supposed to live in works of art. The kitchen is this way,” I say although she can see it. Everything but the bedroom and the bathroom are open-plan. The floor is segmented by modern furniture, a fireplace we never use. At the wrong angle it looks like a game of Tetris sliding toward the glass.

The view is the most spectacular, so clear that it sometimes seems the mountains are inside with you, the trees and the houses all close and collected.

“When will your husband be home?” she asks as she sets the bags on the kitchen counter. The setting sun pierces the glass. She raises a hand against it. Her face is blue and yellow.

“Not for another hour. Can you finish by then?” I say. She nods. I set my bag on the counter and lean in close. The sun catches in my eyes but I let it. “I need to ask you a favor.”

She nods, but I wait until she croaks, “Okay.” There is a fuzz of sweat along her top lip. I can tell she is uneasy. It’s something about this house that does it. People feel themselves falling. It took me ages to get used to.

“Don’t mention to my husband where we met. Let’s pretend you’re an old friend, someone I can trust. I can trust you, can’t I?”

“You just met me,” she says, which proves her trustworthiness.

“Exactly.” I straighten my spine. “I can’t trust anyone I know.”



* * *





    I SIT ON a bench at the kitchen island and watch her cook because I don’t have anything else to do. It’s soothing actually, the way she knows just what to do and when. It’s like watching a witch cast a spell, a pinch of bay leaves and a sparkle of salt. I am not used to seeing people do things with their hands. There is something so earthy about it. Her necklaces glint and twist together.

“Where did you learn to do this?” I imagine taking cooking lessons but what would be the point when you can hire someone better without lifting a finger?

“My mother taught me.” Her voice is monotone. She’s in a cooking trance.

“We used to have a tenant who cooked.” I sigh into my knuckles. “You could smell it rising up all the way from down there.” I indicate the yard beyond the glass, which is blackening by the minute.

“A tenant?”

“Yes, we used to take tenants in our guesthouse. It was our way of giving back. We would find someone in need and try to help them. This world can be so inaccessible.” I have repeated this spiel so many times, it comes easily off my tongue, but my nose crinkles, my tongue sours.