Chore Whore (15 page)

You Hollywood types.

“Mostly it's just stuff you'll be too busy to do. Like Lucy says you have a little boy, so you can't really travel with her as much as you used to. And she said you work with other people, too, so you're not available as much as she'll be needing you,” Jolene adds.

“I've never not been available for Lucy,” I say, defensively.

“Oh no, she never said you weren't, but what with Tommy Ray and all. He has a lot of needs. He's sort of a high-maintenance hick.” Bobby Sue titters at Jolene's remark.

“He always says he can call himself white trash, but he don't want no one else to say that,” Bobby Sue adds.

I let them keep talking, resolving not to give any of my information away for free.

We pull into the Stallion repair place and I tell them I can take it from here. Then, as if I'm graciously teaching them “the ropes,” I offer, “This is where I get Lucy's car repaired. I'd let you two drive it back, but I'm the only additionally insured driver.”

They drop me off and leave at 3:59. As I pay for the repairs with Lucy's credit card, I call her on my cell phone.

“Hey, it's me. Listen, the girls took so long, I'm going to have to pick up Blaise from school before I return your car. I hope that's okay.”

“Take all the time you need. We're not going anywhere,” Lucy purrs.

In the background, I can hear Tommy Ray laughing as Lucy hangs up without a goodbye.

Ever since the 1994 Northridge
earthquake knocked down a part of the freeway that affected all north- and southbound traffic, Angelenos's driving patterns have changed. What used to be a quick bypass for me on Crescent Heights Boulevard is now the clogged normal route for drivers trying to make it south to Inglewood or north to Hollywood. Even after the freeway overpass was reconstructed, commuters stuck to their newly learned patterns.

I creep along Crescent Heights in Lucy's yellow Ferrari just like all the other creatures of habit heading home after a long day of work. My cell phone rings.

“Hello,” I say, on autopilot.

“Corki, this is Drew Cheriff from Three Arts Entertainment.”

The name sounds familiar, but I can't place her immediately.

“Yes?” I say.

“Your name and number were given to me by a member of the team at Brillstein Grey. I'm calling because you were highly recommended as a reliable personal assistant. Our client Jennifer Aniston needs a full-time assistant to help her.”

Drew continues explaining what will be needed, what the pay is and the extent of benefits, time off, vacation pay, sick days, etc.

“Drew, I am very interested in this position and I think I could be of great assistance to Jennifer,” I say in my best professional manner.

We make an appointment for the next afternoon at three o'clock to meet in their offices on Wilshire Boulevard in Beverly Hills. With Daisy gone, Jock absent for six months, Lucy handing out my work to her lover's assistants, Liam and Esther only needing me occasionally and Veronique potentially running off to Italy with her new man, Corki Brown has been left high and dry.

I've always avoided working for just one person, because celebrities often “clean house,” leaving their personal assistants to fend for themselves. But here is an opportunity to work for someone at the top who has a reputation as being an honest, fair woman. And she is willing to pay handsomely, with medical and a 401(k) to boot!

As I pull up in front of Blaise's school, I feel like a weight is off my shoulders. Maybe my career's future won't be as grave as I thought.

I walk quickly through the schoolyard and see Blaise playing handball with his friends. Quietly, I sit on a bench and wait for him to finish the game. Afterward, he and his playmates run up and a young Russian boy named Boris plops down next to me.

“Mrs. Brown? Blaise called me Stalin.”

“Blaise! What an ugly name to call him!” I say, embarrassed.

“Mom, I said he was stalling.”

“No, you said I was Stalin,” Boris says, indignantly.

“You were!” Blaise exclaims.

“Enough,” I say. “Just apologize to Boris for the misunderstanding.”

They exchange apologies, shake hands, and we walk toward the parking lot.

“Guess what? I have Lucy's car instead of ours.”

“Very cool. Can we drive through the parking lot one time so my friends can see me in it?”

“Sure.”

My phone rings. It's Shelly.

“Oh my God, Corki, I'm so glad I got you. Slight emergency. My sister and I went to Arcadia to buy some Indian fabric and now we're stuck in traffic. There is no way we're going to get home in time to pick up the girls. Are you available for a rescue?”

“How much money do you have?” I joke.

“However much you need. We'll be back in L.A. probably right around six to six-thirty. You're a lifesaver.”

I hustle up Eden
and Star from various places on the playground. While they admire the car, I come to grips with the fact that Ferraris only have two seats. I have four people. Ferraris don't come with a minivan option or small bucket seats in the back. With the children's hips squeezed harder than they've ever been squeezed before, and the seatbelt stretched around all three, I start the engine and head for Lucy's.

As I cross into the Beverly Hills city limits, lights behind me twirl red and blue and a short blip of a siren tells me to pull over. I do so and wait for the sunglasses-and-bulletproof-vest-clad officer to approach. I keep my hands on the top of the steering wheel and stare straight ahead as every black person, no matter what sex or how light of skin, is taught to do by their elders upon the day of receiving their driver's license.

“Driver's license and proof of registration please, ma'am.”

I pull the registration from the leather owner's manual in the glove compartment and slowly wrestle my purse from under the kids' legs. Knowing good and well that I'm breaking the law by having so many people stuffed in a two-seater, along with my license and insurance papers, I hand him my CCW, my license to carry a concealed weapon. It's gotten me out of trouble before. CCWs, when presented, let the officer know that the owner has been cleared with the Department of Justice and perhaps the officer should cut this person some slack. I also know the reputation of the Beverly Hills Police Department, hard-ass and unforgiving. I've never had to deal with them before.

“Ma'am, is there a weapon in the vehicle?”

“No, I don't think so, but it's not my car so I'm not sure. However, I do have permission to drive it. In fact, you'll notice that my name is listed as an insured driver.”

The officer doesn't say anything. I sit quietly. My three charges don't utter a peep. He takes my information back to his cruiser and gets inside. We all wait in silence. I see through the rearview mirror that he is returning.

“Miss Brown, will you please step out of the vehicle.”

Son of a bitch. I know I'm in trouble now. My legs are trembling as I exit the car. I wonder what he's going to do with the children while he's hauling me off to jail for endangering kids' lives by piling them in the car as if I'm trying to break a world record in a 1960s Volkswagen cramming session. I step up onto the curb and finally look directly at the officer. He looks severe and tough, with his police-issue sunglasses that penetrate me like laser beams.

“Cornelia Wren Brown?” he says, seriously.

“Yes, sir.”

“You clean up pretty nicely.”

“Sir?”

Mr. Police Officer cracks a slight smile followed by removal of his laser beams, and I realize that this SOB was my knight in shining armor a few days ago at the bank.

“Officer Holt, right?” I ask, relieved.

“Gregory Holt, yes,” he says as he extends his hand. “Nice to remake your acquaintance under better circumstances.”

I take his hand and unabashedly hold it for too long. Shelly always says that I am way too flirtatious, but I notice he doesn't mind.

“I don't know if getting pulled over on Sunset Boulevard with all of L.A. driving by is a ‘better circumstance,' ” I say, sweetly.

“Well,” he ponders, “all things considered, I'd rather be pulled over than pulled out of a tear-gas-filled vault.”

“Come to think of it, me too.” Embarrassed, I clear my throat, cough a few times for good measure and go on to explain how I stuffed four people into a two-seater and more importantly, why I stuffed four people into a two-seater. Gregory, as he asks me to call him, lets me go without a ticket. I can't wait to call Shelly. For the first time in what feels like forever, a guy has asked me out. I have a date!

After hustling the kids
into Betty, I back Lucy's Ferrari down the hill into the garage the way Lucy likes because she always skims the bushes trying to back out uphill. I look around, but don't see the Mercedes that Jolene and Bobby Sue were driving, anywhere.

Knocking on the door lightly, I let myself in and put the car keys on the kitchen counter—the usual spot Lucy and I leave things for each other. A note for me is there under a fancy vase with a pointed, decorative lid. It reads: “Corki, Please see me before you go. Love, L.”

I walk through the house. The place is dead quiet.

“Lucy!” I call out in a whisper. “Luuuu-cyyyy,” I try a bit louder.

No answer.

Suddenly, her bedroom door opens and she comes out in a light pink thong and nothing else. She doesn't bother to cover her bare breasts except to hunch her back and put her index finger up to her mouth to shush me. She motions for me to follow her to the kitchen. I follow her, tiptoeing across the wood floors.

Without a hint of reservation or modesty, she gathers up a few rolls of film setting on the counter, puts her hand in mine and deposits the film.

“Corki, these rolls have some extremely private pictures on them. I want you to get them developed, but when you do, I expect you to stand behind the man doing it and watch to make sure he gives you one copy of every picture and all the negatives. Understand?”

“Of course. But Lucy, everything is computerized these days. These pictures can be regenerated without the negatives! Maybe you should have used a Polaroid or, better yet, a digital camera.”

“Well, these are already done and the moments can't be re-created, so I need them developed. But you have to promise to stand right over him. I don't want any copies getting out,” she restates emphatically.

We stand there for a moment in silence. I know I need to ask her if I'm about to lose my job to Jolene and Bobby Sue. Looking down, I stare at the film she's entrusted me with.

“Lucy, I need to talk to you about—”

“Oh, I'm sorry, I do have one more thing to talk to you about. As I said, Tommy and I are going to buy a house together and I don't want to hear one complaint. Just be happy for us,” she says as she playfully holds her hand over my mouth.

I try to concentrate on what she's saying instead of where her hand has been.

“Tommy Ray's in a weird position living in a hotel and all, and the girls are just moving here so they're sort of in transition, too. And here we are planning on moving and getting rid of stuff. We need to just clean everything out. You know I have so much stuff I can never find anything I need. I think you're the only one who knows where everything is in my life.”

“Yes,” I reply, “it's all in my apartment and garage . . . a very full garage, I might add. In fact, every year when I do my taxes and the IRS insists that I can't write off eighty percent of my place as workspace, I invite them over.”

Lucy smiles as she places her hand on the beautiful vase under which my note lay earlier. She hesitates a moment.

“You know I'm a little phobic about certain things, Corki. Well, Tommy wants me to keep this in a safe place, but I just can't do it. You know me. I really need you to keep this in your house, in a safe place, not in your garage.”

She hands me the vase, which is surprisingly heavy.

“This is his most prized possession and he wants to know where it is at all times. He needs to know it's safe, and with all the packing and everything, I could see it getting lost really easily here.”

“Lucy, how much is this worth?” I ask.

“It's irreplaceable,” she says.

“Does he have adequate insurance on it that will cover it staying at my house? Some policies—”

“Corki, it's irreplaceable. It can't be insured. It's his mother.”

I almost drop the vase as I put it back on the counter with a thud. “Lucy, I've got Blaise waiting in the car. I think I better go and maybe we can discuss this later.”

Lucy picks it up, puts it in a Whole Foods double paper bag and hands it to me with a look that means I can't say no.

“Corki, don't be squeamish. This is the woman who gave birth to the man I love, and we need you to watch over her. Oh, and Tommy's so sweet, he offered to take over your weekly paycheck and give you that three-dollar-an-hour raise you were asking for so I won't have to worry about it since I'm between films.”