In Pursuit (7 page)

“
T
hat catty best friend of mine did not mention that you are stunning and super thin. She is awful, that Claire,” my new client says with a sweet Southern twang, and hearty exuberance when she opens the door to her red brick single family home.

And Claire didn’t tell me that she only associates with models,
I muse to myself.

When we arranged our appointment yesterday, my new client was the picture of professional. Now, face to face, she’s more playful, eyes sparkling in delight. We are standing at her doorstep in the heart of the affluent Lincoln Park neighborhood.

Amanda has mile long legs and honey blonde, wavy hair. Makeup is perfectly placed across her face, resulting in an understated elegance. Her movements are controlled and fluid, like I am in the presence of a Stepford Wife. I’m well acquainted with this, because of the politician’s wives who were my clients back in DC, so I plaster on my calmest face and greet her.

“Hi, Amanda. I’m Eddie Neff.” I extend my hand for a shake, just as she throws her arms around me much like Claire did when we met outside our apartment building.

I sigh inwardly, thinking of Claire. Last night, she knocked on my bedroom door when she returned from dinner with her brother. She just wanted to check on me, she said. I had curled underneath my blankets without having  dinner. The interaction with Harris left me legless, and not in the orgasmic way. She lay down next to me on my bed, and we talked about our days and before she left to let me sleep, she kissed me on the forehead and told me how happy she was that we lived together.

I’m having a hard time keeping up with her mood swings. I sort of feel like I’m on a seesaw when I’m with her. However, when she’s sunshine and sweetness, I can’t deny that I enjoy her company.  

“Eddie, I’m so glad you’re here. Please, come inside.”

Despite the opulence, I am not in as much shock as I was when I entered my new home with Claire. When it comes to my clients, I understand they have wealth ̶  that’s why they hire me.

“Let’s sit down and talk first, shall we?”

I’ve already characterized Amanda as a client who likes to be in charge, so I follow her lead. Some clients are unsure of what they want, so they let me control the design process from top to bottom. Others have passionate ideas and I simply provide a guide. From the way Amanda confidently leads me into her formal living room, I think she will be the latter. She indicates that I should take a seat in a dark blue sofa, and she takes a blue, gray and white patterned chair next to me.

“What can I get you to drink? Coffee? Tea?” Amanda does not look a day over twenty-seven, but from the way she behaves, it’s like she’s been the head of a household for at least twenty years.

“A coffee would be great, thank you, Amanda.” Shifting one leg over the other, I pull my portfolio from my tote bag and lay it on the glass coffee table.

“Paloma, two coffees please,” she calls over her shoulder in a gentle, but firm voice.

“You have a beautiful home, Amanda. It’s contemporary and clean, with a twist.” I gesture toward where she sits. Normally, I don’t refer to clients by their first name, but she made it clear yesterday that I simply
must
call her Amanda.

“Thank you! My designer and I worked together for a year to put it together, and I am so pleased with the results. I believe in having a very close relationship with those you hire to work in your home. A successful relationship between designer and client comes from trust and mutual understanding.”

She nods wisely at me and I return the movement in a silent affirmation of her statement. Inside, I’m thinking:
Is she for real? Who talks like this?

A slender Hispanic woman with gray hair pulled into a tight bun enters the room and sets a silver tray on the coffee table. Two teacups, sugar, and milk arrive in pristine white china.

“Skim! As if I would drink anything else,” Amanda says, in reference to the milk.

The maid looks at Amanda for direction, and the lady of the house smiles and waves a hand to indicate that she should pour. Though the entire scene is too formal for my liking; Amanda gives off a warm vibe and her smile seems genuine.

After I pour a hint of milk into the cup, I take a delicate sip and moan softly in my appreciation. “Your coffee is wonderful.”

“Don’t you love it? I got it from a local coffee shop. Claire and I will have to take you there sometime,” she gushes. I settle more deeply into my seat, feeling more comfortable because, despite her stuffy demeanor, she seems kind.

“Let’s talk about what I can do for you and your home, Amanda.”

It’s like the sun decides to peer between the clouds and shimmer down on her directly, making her perfectly styled waves glow, and her stark white teeth shine even brighter; or it could just be my active imagination. I didn’t have any siblings growing up, so I had to entertain myself.

“Yes, you are probably wondering what you are doing in a perfectly decorated home.”

Even though the comment is slightly arrogant, from what I’ve seen, she’s pretty much right. This house is stunning, right down to the crown molding and the accessories artfully placed on a console table against the wall.

“My designer moved back to her home state of New York. We spent a year reconstructing the kitchen, living and dining spaces. The master bed and bathroom were our final projects. We never got to the guest bedrooms, other than some paint.” She pauses to take a tidy sip of coffee. “My husband and I needed a break from our house constantly being under renovation, so we took several months off. At that time, my designer decided to get out of town. I could fly her back and forth to do our bedrooms, but I can’t bother with the hassle. Once Claire showed me your work, I knew you would be the perfect person to help me finish. It was fate that you moved here right when I was ready to pick up the project, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” I agree heartily. “I would love to partner with you to decorate these rooms.” 

I mentally pat myself on the back when she encourages me to continue. “Would you like to review my portfolio before we venture to the guest rooms? That way you can call out any pieces or concepts you like.”

Once the words are barely out, she gracefully hops up and slides onto the open piece of sofa next to me. We smile at each other like we’re sharing a secret and I forget that she could probably buy and sell me down the river in a minute; right now we’re just two girls looking at a picture book.

As we flip through the pages, Amanda praises my work and makes note of some techniques I used. We comb through the book together, both excitedly discussing ideas that might work. To my surprise, Amanda seems very knowledgeable about design concepts.

“You really know your stuff,” I say to her softly. We make eye contact over my leather bound book, and she smiles tentatively at my comment.

“Thank you.”

“Forgive me for being so bold, but I think you could be a great interior designer. If you’re ever interested, I could help you.”

“Me?”

Since she doesn’t appear to be put off by my boundary breaking statement, I keep going. “You clearly have an eye for design.”

“Oh, I couldn’t,” she says, immediately returning her eyes to the book. One finger strokes an image of a dining room so slowly, it could be mistaken for longing. “My husband needs me at home to run our house. We’ve been married for five years, and we have our routine.”

I nod as though it makes sense, but to me it doesn’t. If she wants to be a designer, she can definitely afford the schooling and she likely has a huge client network built in with her friends. But I recognize my place as her employee and keep my lips shut. “I understand family obligations, for sure. I hope I didn’t offend you. I only meant it as a compliment.”

“I know. Thank you, Eddie. You are too kind.” The polite mask is firmly back in place, with a canned smile. 

We finish looking at the book in silence. It’s not uncomfortable, but the bond we shared just a few minutes earlier has dissolved into the air conditioning. I close the book with a satisfying thump and give her an eager smile, trying to bring back our lighthearted connection.

“Would you like to show me the space?”

“Yes! How about a house tour first? You can see what we’ve accomplished already,”

She leads me into a formal dining room, with a white marble tabletop and curved chairs.

“I like white marble,” Amanda admits, almost sheepishly, when she walk into her bright kitchen.

“Stunning,” I say appreciatively. The look she tosses my way says,
I know
.

We climb a staircase off the kitchen up on the next floor, but we pass it so she can show me the master suite on the third floor. Amanda describes the process it took to get the custom bedding for her king size bed, but I am caught next to a photo of her wedding day. She and her husband Peter are posing on a terrace overlooking a vineyard. The black and white photo enhances the milky perfection of her lace dress. Amanda’s husband, Peter, is gazing at her with adoration and she is coy, looking down at their joined hands.

“What a lovely, lovely photograph. You two are so in love.”

“Yes, it was a great day.” The word choice agrees with my statement, but begs the question –
what about the days after that?

“It’s magical, that photo. Are you sure that you and Peter aren’t models?” I ask, trying to break up the suddenly dour mood.

Amanda laughs lightly. “You want to talk about models, how about Claire and Harris? I can’t really speak about my best friend that way, wouldn’t want it to get back to her that I am complimenting her.” Amanda winks at me, and I join her laughter. “But, Harris. Fuck me, he is sex on a stick.”

My mouth drops open. Who knew Amanda had that language in her?

“Don’t look at me like that! If I wasn’t a married woman, I would be all over him like a hungry girl on a cheesecake. You disagree?”

“No!” I splutter through laughter. “He is totally hot, but Harris and I don’t really get on that well.”

Amanda shakes her head as we exit the bedroom and start our descent down the stairs. “Harris doesn’t ‘get on well’ with anyone. Now, Claire blames it on a lack of sex, but he has no problems finding friends, if you know what I mean.”

My heart sinks at the nugget of information.
Stop!
I tell myself, I have no ownership over him. He’s just my roommate’s brother.

But you wouldn’t mind something more.

“Peter, my husband, told me about some of his escapades. They are friends, both are partners at the firm. According to Peter, Harris is discreet, and basically fucks ‘em and chucks ‘em.”

Using her relaxed mood to my advantage, I ask her, “Why is Harris so closed off?”

We pause at the foot of the staircase while Amanda considers the question. “Well, I’d say it’s because he doesn’t have steady sex, but that’s not it, because I know for a fact he could have any woman he wants. No, there’s more to it, but Claire barely talks about it, and I don’t want to push her.”

Talks about what?

This conversation is turning a bit heavy for a client and employee relationship, and I would rather not be accused of having too much interest in Harris, so I change the topic when she enters the first bedroom. “Why, Mrs. McDaniel, I never knew you could be so vulgar.”     

“Only with my friends.”

I feel a warmth unfurl in my gut at her friendliness. I pull a tape measure from my bag and we set off to get the dimensions of the room and talk shop.

This time I lean up to hug Amanda goodbye. “Thank you for trusting me to help you, Amanda,” I say genuinely.

“I’m so happy to have met you. I’ll talk to you later this week?” she asks as she retreats.

“Yes, I will be in touch soon with an official proposal.”

“I can’t wait!” Her eyes light up with excitement, and she clasps her hands together. “Bye, Eddie.”

“Enjoy your day,” I singsong to her as she gently closes the door. In addition to establishing a new client and pseudo-friend in Amanda, I leave rich with the promises for referrals from my new client.