I have gone the exact opposite direction with my appearance. I may be over ten years younger than the woman sitting across from me, but I don’t want her to feel at all threatened by me. So for my interview, I selected a long, chunky wool skirt that I bought at the thrift store and a polyester white blouse with puffy sleeves. My dirty-blond hair is pulled back into a severe bun behind my head. I even purchased a pair of oversized and unnecessary tortoiseshell glasses that sit perched on my nose. I look professional and utterly unattractive.
“So the job,” she says. “It will be mostly cleaning and some light cooking if you’re up for it. Are you a good cook, Millie?”
“Yes, I am.” My ease in the kitchen is the only thing on my resume that isn’t a lie. “I’m an excellent cook.”
Her pale blue eyes light up. “That’s wonderful! Honestly, we almost never have a good home-cooked meal.” She titters. “Who has the time?”
I bite back any kind of judgmental response. Nina Winchester doesn’t work, she only has one child who’s in school all day, and she’s hiring somebody to do all her cleaning for her. I even saw a man in her enormous front yard doing her gardening for her. How is it possible she doesn’t have time to cook a meal for her small family?
I shouldn’t judge her. I don’t know anything about what her life is like. Just because she’s rich, it doesn’t mean she’s spoiled.
But if I had to bet a hundred bucks either way, I’d bet Nina Winchester is spoiled rotten.
“And we’ll need occasional help with Cecelia as well,” Mrs. Winchester says. “Perhaps taking her to her afternoon lessons or playdates. You have a car, don’t you?”
I almost laugh at her question. Yes, I do have a car—it’s all I have right now. My ten-year-old Nissan is stinking up the street in front of her house, and it’s where I am currently living. Everything I own is in the trunk of that car. I have spent the last month sleeping in the backseat.
After a month of living in your car, you realize the importance of some of the little things in life. A toilet. A sink. Being able to straighten your legs out while you’re sleeping. I miss that last one most of all.
“Yes, I have a car,” I confirm.
“Excellent!” Mrs. Winchester claps her hands together. “I’ll provide you with a car seat for Cecelia, of course. She just needs a booster seat. She’s not quite at the weight and height level to be without the booster yet. The Academy of Pediatrics recommends…”
While Nina Winchester drones on about the exact height and weight requirements for car seats, I take a moment to glance around the living room. The furnishing is all ultra-modern, with the largest flat-screen television I’ve ever seen, which I’m sure is high definition and has surround-sound speakers built into every nook and cranny of the room for optimal listening experience. In the corner of the room is what appears to be a working fireplace, the mantle littered with photographs of the Winchesters on trips to every corner of the world. When I glance up, the insanely high ceiling glows under the light of a sparkling chandelier.
“Don’t you think so, Millie?” Mrs. Winchester is saying.
I blink at her. I attempt to rewind my memory and figure out what she had just asked me. But it’s gone. “Yes?” I say.
Whatever I agreed to has made her very happy. “I’m so pleased you think so too.”
“Absolutely,” I say more firmly this time.
She uncrosses and re-crosses her somewhat stocky legs. “And of course,” she adds, “there’s the matter of reimbursement for you. You saw the offer in my advertisement, right? Is that acceptable to you?”
I swallow. The number in the advertisement is more than acceptable. If I were a cartoon character, dollar signs would have appeared in each of my eyeballs when I read that advertisement. But the money almost stopped me from applying for the job. Nobody offering that much money, living in a house like this one, would ever consider hiring me.
“Yes,” I choke out. “It’s fine.”
She arches an eyebrow. “And you know it’s a live-in position, right?”
Is she asking me if I’m okay with leaving the splendor of the backseat of my Nissan? “Right. I know.”
“Fabulous!” She tugs at the hem of her skirt and rises to her feet. “Would you like the grand tour then? See what you’re getting yourself into?”
I stand up as well. In her heels, Mrs. Winchester is only a few inches taller than I am in my flats, but it feels like she’s much taller. “Sounds great!”