“Me?” I can’t believe she’s talking to me. Her under-eye area is clogged with mascara dust. She has wrinkles but she is probably younger than me. She just doesn’t have a good doctor.
“It would be more expensive if you bought all the ingredients separately.” She crosses her arms. She carries a shopping basket, but it’s empty.
I set the pasta sauce back on the shelf, stamp my foot, throw up my hands. “I have no idea what’s in pasta sauce!” I say, like nobody does.
“I can help you”—she shifts her hip—“if you want.” She purses her chapped lips. Those three necklaces glitter with menace. But Graham would be so impressed if I made my own pasta sauce. Even more impressed if I had someone make it for me.
The corner of my Kelly bag is digging into my side, so I adjust it. “Oh, would you? I would so appreciate it.” She nods eagerly. I indicate my cart. “Would you mind? It’s so hard to carry a bag and push a cart.” I frown.
She hesitates, face closing. She doesn’t know what it’s like having to carry a Kelly bag everywhere. It’s not like I can just put it in the cart!
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.