Indecent Encounter: The Silverhaus Affair (2 page)

“
J
ust resend
the pages from the last three scenes.”

I leaned back in the leather chair, crossing one leg over my knee. “We’ve got a team here ready to fix the ending. We’ll let you know when we’re ready to move forward,” I said as I tapped a finger on the dark, mahogany wood of the conference table.

There was a pause on the other end of the line. I swore I heard the director grind his teeth before he snapped, “You expect us to reshoot the entire ending? That’s months of scheduling, not to mention all the special effects editing. I have another commitment coming up.”

“Sorry. You’ll have to give it up. We can’t have the franchise die because of one film.”

I raised my eyebrows and turned my palms up to the team around the conference table. They all nodded in agreement as my father spoke up, “I’m sorry, Jim, but Alex is right. It’s just the way it has to be.”

“Henry, we go back a long way,” Jim said to my father. “You know how it is. If I’m not available for the start of the other project, then I’m out.”

“You heard him, Jim,” I said. “It’s just the way it has to be. The rocket has to miss, no matter how many storylines that unravels. Wait for our decisions, then get it done.”

I leaned forward, and pressed the button that ended the call. The small team around the conference table let out a collective sigh, everyone that was except for my father. He stood, straightened his perpetually perfect tie, and buttoned his suit jacket. I knew he was tallying the costs in his head.

“The story needs integrity in order for it to have a sequel,” I insisted. “The ending has to be changed, otherwise anything that comes after won’t make a bit of sense.”

“What doesn’t make sense to me is all this fuss over the ending. Don’t be so idealistic, Alex. The ending isn’t what people come to see. Our viewers are in it for the experience, and
that’s
what’ll keep them coming back for more. I know what I’m talking about. In case you’ve forgotten, I’ve been making hits for years.”

My father, Henry James Silverhaus, was the head of Silver House Productions, and he prided himself on his business acuity. The films he made were about the money. An emigrant from Holland with nothing in his pocket, my father had taught himself exactly what audiences wanted, and he delivered it without apology. Lack of content, character, or cohesiveness never bothered him, because Silver House Productions created blockbusters. Details didn’t stack up next to the ‘wow’ factor he always put first. It was what made him such a wild success.

I stood as the other team members gathered up the various laptops, tablets and smartphones they used in business meetings. My father used nothing to take notes except an occasional small calendar/planner he kept in his inside suit jacket pocket. He believed in keeping his creative mind unencumbered with too much organization, lest it put a damper on his next big idea.

“Look, we can have the ending turned around within the week. If Jim can stick to a schedule, instead of his usual circus, the film can be done on time.” I was adamant. I wasn’t going to back down this time, like I always had before.

Staring at me with my crossed arms, my father didn’t look convinced. His eyes narrowed slightly and he lowered his voice a notch. “I backed you. See it through.”

My arms dropped to my sides. There it was. He’d put me in my place just like he always did, but today I wasn’t going to let it stop me. I had a project of my own. It burned with my own creative ideas, and gave me the gumption to be bold enough to ask, “Before you go, can we talk about the Indie project?”

The team had slipped out the conference room door and it was just the two of us left. Henry gave me a placating smile as if to avert any serious discussion of my ideas and steer the conversation back to his genius conceptions. “Did I tell you we secured April?”

“The blond from the sunken ship movies?”

“Exactly,” he said, smoothing down his suit coat. “People recognize her and your little project needs all the help it can get guaranteeing an audience.”

“She’s a terrible actress,” I protested, holding back from slamming my hands down on the conference table.

“She’s hot right now.”

“Oh, I get it. You think she’s hot.”

Henry laughed. “And what if I do? Just because you’ve been working too hard lately to notice the fairer sex doesn’t mean all of us have to live like monks.”

I furrowed my brows.
Damn him
. He was pushing all my buttons. “I’m not living like a monk.”

“Come on, Alex,” he scoffed, “you’re obsessed with work. You need an outlet.”

I'd predicted this conversation, and it was impossible not to smile to myself as I said, “Funny you should mention that. I went ahead and took a piece of advice I overheard from one of your other executive friends.”

My father had pulled his small calendar from his pocket. He examined it as if there were something very important on its pages. With his eyes on the calendar and an air of unconcern in his voice he inquired, “What advice would that be?”

The intercom buzzed and my secretary’s voice said, “Mr. Alex, your new employee has arrived at the airport. Your driver will take her to the house within the hour.”

“Thank you,” I said and gathered up my laptop.

“What new employee? What advice?” Henry asked again.

“You know, one of those websites that set up sugar daddies with a little summer treat. You’ll be happy to know your profile picture landed me a really tasty new live-in maid.”

Henry’s mouth gaped open as I sauntered to the door, glad my back was to him so he couldn’t see my wicked smile. I tossed over my shoulder, “Your friend, Albert, said he was really pleased with what the little college girl he got did for him until his wife came back from Europe…early.”

Working for my father wasn’t exactly a piece of cake. He always got what he wanted and flaunted what he had; everything from suits to cars to mansions and mistresses. Now, my little ruse would make it appear to everyone that he had to hire a woman. That he couldn’t get one on his own. For once I had the upper hand, the last laugh.

I shut the door behind me before I actually laughed though. The look on his face had been a priceless mix of embarrassment and anger. I definitely felt better.

A
tall man
in a dark chauffeur’s uniform stood at the baggage claim area holding a sign that read ‘Chelsea Carerra.’ I rubbed my eyes. The flight had been long, more than eleven hours, and I was sure jet lag was getting the best of me. I’d just come through customs and my eyelids felt like bricks. If I didn’t know better I would’ve thought someone snuck sticky glue in them while I’d slept on the plane.

“I’m Chelsea Carerra,” I said to the man. He nodded and gave me a sharp dip of his matching uniform cap. “Do you need to see my passport or I.D.?”

“No, miss. Please, let me take your bag. This way,” he replied politely, his English heavily accented. He picked up my suitcase and strode through the busy airport without looking back to see if I was following.

Once outside, I was taken aback. I hadn't been prepared for the busy metropolis that met my eyes. I shook my head. I'd researched Holland and the city of Rotterdam on the Internet, but somehow, I'd still expected nothing but tulip fields and windmills.

When the man in the dark uniform stopped in front of a sleek black BMW. I looked around in disbelief. “I’m sorry, there must be some mistake. I’m here to work for Alex Silverhaus.”

“No mistake,” the driver said. “Mr. Alex sent me to pick you up. I’m his chauffeur. He will be waiting at the house when we arrive.”

He loaded my suitcase into the trunk and opened the back door for me. Still confused, I slipped into the luxurious leather interior and let him close the door behind me.

Once he was in the driver’s seat, I said, “This really isn’t necessary. I’m supposed to be working as a maid.”

“I was given the understanding you will have a variety of duties.” He flashed a quick look at me in the rear view mirror.

I wondered what he meant by that comment, but soon we started driving, and the sights of Rotterdam enveloped me. We passed countless museums housed in stunning architecture from the time when dukes and viscounts had lived as near the city center as they could. The streets were studded with monumental old buildings testifying to eight centuries of governance in this historic city. The fairytale-like splendor was romantic and mesmerizing. Nothing like back home.

The driver roared past the seat of the Netherlands’ parliament without even a glance. “I’m sure you’ll find Mr. Alex’s estate to your liking.”

“I’m sorry, did you say
estate
?” There had to be some sort of translation error.

“Yes. The manor and grounds were a gift from his father. Mr. Alex comes every summer.”

As the tires ate up the road, the modern and medieval mix of The Hague flashed by the car windows. My mind reeled with cityscape impressions. Graceful skyscrapers glowed in the afternoon sun, rising above regal courtyards and statuesque fountains. On either side, people sat enjoying the sunshine in sidewalk cafes. It was all so picturesque. It made me want to join them, and take my time to sip coffee while taking everything in.

Instead, I relaxed back into the lush leather and took a moment to clear my senses. As tempting as it was to close my eyes, I knew that would only lead to sleep, and I didn’t want to miss a moment of the scenery. Not to mention the impression it would make.

I felt the smooth acceleration of the car, and soon we sped into more open countryside. The driver told me it wouldn’t be much farther, and I allowed myself to enjoy the view. Long driveways led to palatial mansions tucked in between ribbons of immaculate lawns that unfurled like endless green carpets to the edge of the road or to grand wrought iron gates.

Zach had been right. As soon as I saw tulip beds I thought of him. A smile crossed my face as I remembered his warm gesture with the flowers, but in the next moment it faded. Looking at these mansions made me realize how different I was from the people who owned them, but no matter how out of place I felt, I knew the distance from my life back home would do me good.

“Is Mr. Alex a good employer?” I asked, focusing on the job and the money I needed to earn to help my brother.

“Yes. Very fair. And your workload should be light. The house is run single-handedly by Mr. Jamison,” the driver said.

“Mr. Jamison?” I asked as we turned down a long gravel driveway. That sounded so formal and stuffy. Would I be expected to bow or curtsey to the master of the house? A nervous flutter arose in my stomach as I wondered if I would be competent enough, have the correct manners and etiquette needed for such high standards. After all, I was just an American college student, and both of those labels equaled casual.

“The butler. There he is on the front steps.”

The front steps–more like an entire stage, I thought as my vision went hazy. I finally remembered to breathe and sucked in giant gulps of air. It was hard to reconcile the elegant mansion with my place of employment.

Behind the sweeping expanse of the front steps rose a stone facade dominated by a turret. Bright windows framed with ivy stretched out on either side, and I quickly estimated a crazy number of rooms. The posting had said the owner was a bachelor, and yet the mansion was massive.

“No wonder the pay is so good,” I muttered and threw open the car door. That place was going to take forever to clean.

The butler waited, eyebrows raised, until I finally tore my eyes away from the fairytale-like setting and smiled at him. He scowled in return, and said in a clipped British accent, “Welcome, Miss Carerra. You may call me Jamison.”

“Nice to meet you, Jamison. This place is amazing.”

“Yes, this place is
amazing
,” he sniffed. “You will be staying in the servants’ quarters. I will take you there now.”

He led me across the highly polished white marble floor of the two-story foyer and through a doorway half-hidden under the stairs. It opened into the servants’ hallway, and from its narrow confines I only caught glimpses of the other grand rooms. I was anxious to see more of the house, but we veered into what looked like a large storage room. Floor to ceiling cupboards were built in to the walls in between hutches to store china.

“This is the butler’s pantry,” Jamison said. “I know Americans are not familiar with such things, but this is where we keep all the silver, china, serving dishes and the like. It’s also where we stage the meals for the dining room.”

“Got it.” I gave a nod. “I’m a fast learner, Jamison, and I’m ready to work.” I wanted to show him that I was eager to do a good job, but I quickly got the impression that I was being a little too exuberant.

He looked me up and down from above the bridge of his pinched nose. “I’m sure you are. However, I think you’ll find your duties more menial than you were expecting.”

“Oh, well, I was only expecting to be a maid.”

“Good. The master of the house is a very busy man and does not associate with the help,” Jamison said. He opened the bottom drawer and selected a white skirt and a white button down uniform blouse. “I assume you purchased the proper shoes as indicated on the paperwork you signed, white, similar to the ones worn by nurses and waitresses.”

The reference to a waitress stung more than “nurse,” but I brushed it off.

“Whatever enticements the website posting may have promised, they’re not welcome here. The household staff wear uniforms,” he said as he tossed me the uniform and added a bright white apron to go with it. “The apron is to be worn when you are preparing and serving food. We must make a good impression.”

I checked the labels and saw he’d given me a tiny shirt and oversized skirt. I tucked the shirt under one arm and held the skirt up to my body. Geez, did my hips look that big? Not only would I have to cinch the waist with a safety pin, but also the length of the skirt made me look like some kind of a nun. Maybe that was the intention. I looked up from scrutinizing the skirt to say something, but before I could protest, Jamison had swept out of the room.

I followed him out of the narrow hallway and into an arched ceiling kitchen. It was like coming out of a crawl space and into a church. I gawked again. A center island as large as a king-sized bed gleamed under a domed skylight. The tiled backsplash formed a beautiful mosaic, and I smiled as I saw my first windmill.

An enormous restaurant-quality cooktop dominated the back wall and prompted me to ask Jamison, “Who else is part of the household staff?”

“I run Mr. Alex’s household,” he sniffed.

“All by yourself? This huge place? I bet you’re glad he finally hired a maid.”

Jamison said nothing and led me through the kitchen door to the outside of the house. We walked across a short cobblestone courtyard to the servants’ quarters. It was more a cottage than an extension of the house, with clean, white stucco walls and exposed pine beams inside. A tiny staircase led from the front sitting room up to the kitchen. It was small, but after the whirlwind of the airport, The Hague, and the huge, unexpected mansion, I finally felt comfortable.

“I love it,” I said.

Jamison frowned. “My rooms are through there. You will be staying in the attic room.”

Delighted despite his obvious disapproval, I trotted up the narrow corner staircase. My room was tucked under the eaves with slanted ceilings. A soft white bed covered in a white eyelet duvet, a white wicker armchair, and a narrow writing desk were the only pieces of furniture in the dreamy attic room.

“You passed the built-in wardrobe and drawers on the stairs. You’ll find a bathroom through there, however, the shower is broken. You’ll have to use the shower in the pool house.”

“Thank you, Jamison, this is perfect,” I said with a smile.

He scowled. Before leaving, he said, “I just got word Mr. Alex expects to see you in half an hour. Be dressed in uniform.”

I noticed my carry-on bag sitting on the bed, and I dove into its large pocket to find my laptop. My fingers itched to hit the keyboard and write down all the scenes and characters I’d experienced so far. I studied business for practicality sake, but creative writing was my passion. An ocean away from all my responsibilities, I gave myself the luxury to think about what I truly wanted to do. If time could stand still for a moment, I would sit at the table and start the screenplay that was burning inside me.

After I ceremoniously placed my laptop on the writing desk, I pulled out a notebook and my collection of various pens, fine point Sharpies and pencils that I used when creating characters and scenes. I used different colors of ink, or writing utensils for each purpose. It was just one of the things I did to put myself in the creative zone. Dumping my ideas onto paper first was part of my process. I’d let anything and everything come out. Then I’d transcribe the ideas onto the computer, giving the raw material more shape as I worked.

I placed the notebook to the side on the tiny writing desk and opened the laptop instead. When my social media page popped up, I realized I only had enough time to send a quick message to check on Karl before I had to be dressed in uniform. With long distance phone calls costing twenty cents a minute and Karl’s slow communication skills, I’d promised to keep in touch through emails and private chat messages.