Part-time Princess

by Pamela DuMond

  “Oh my God,” Zara exclaimed. “Mr. Philips. You are extraordinary. It’s like she’s been transformed. You’re so close, Lucille. You’re almost there.”

  So I pictured another Johnny’s pizza—but this time it was super-deluxe, and piled high with mushrooms, sausages, homemade red sauce, and goat-cheese.

  “Yes!” Zara exclaimed. “You’ve nailed the walk.”

  “Splendid!” Mr. Philips collapsed into a seat on the side of the aisle as I practically floated past him. “I dare any gossipmonger to say one harsh word about your lady-like walking skills.

  I cracked just a hint of a smile as I raised my hand and delicately waved to my pretend audience. “Why am I gliding? Why are people going to care about me? What exactly does this job entail?”

  We sat in front of the large flat-screen TV in the suite’s living room as Elizabeth punched a few buttons on the remote. “This is your primary focus as well as the main reason I am hiring you. His name is Cristoph Edward George Timmel the Third.”

  “That’s a lot of names.” I leaned forward and peered at the guy on the screen: he was a younger, more handsome version of Brad Pitt, a Ryan Gosling-esque darling. He could have been a model for an Italian men’s cologne, designer underwear, or graced the cover of a romance novel. “He’s smoking hot.”

  “Yes. He’s also a hot property in the global search for every woman who wants to marry a prince,” Zara said.

  “He’s a prince?”

  “Yes. Cristoph is Prince of Fredonia. First in line to the throne,” Elizabeth said.

  “What’s a Fredonia?” I asked.

  “Fredonia’s a small country in Europe—tucked between France, Italy, and Switzerland in the Alps.” Mr. Philips said.

  “I’ve hired you for a lot of reasons, Lucy,” Elizabeth said. “The first—I need you to travel to Fredonia and keep Cristoph interested in me for ten days or so until I can get back there. Because, due to circumstances that are not under my control, my trip has been delayed.”

  Zara sighed.

  Mr. Philips coughed.

  There it was—the elephant in the room—travelling. I hated travelling.

  “Ah. Okay. Travelling to Fredonia is part of this job,” I said. “Honestly, travelling makes me a little nervous. You know, leaving one’s hometown can be daunting.”

  “That’s an integral part of this job, Lucille,” Mr. Philips said. “It was plainly listed on the ad you answered.”

  “I know, but not everything has to be a perfect fit. Like the ad said you wanted a blonde. I am clearly brunette.”

  “Willing to become blonde for the duration of this job,” Zara recited.

  “Fine. I’ll travel. But how am I going to keep Cristoph interested in Elizabeth? You want me to tell him how great you are? You want me to report back to you if he’s flirting with someone else? You want me to—”

  “I want you to impersonate me.”

  I hacked, slapped one hand over my mouth as the other flew to my chest. How was this even possible? Elizabeth was polished, perfect, and coiffed to the nines.

  I wasn’t.

  I looked at Zara and Mr. Philips. Surely they would burst into laughter. But they appeared very serious and held their collective breath.

  “But he’s going to know I’m not you.”

  “No he’s not,” Elizabeth said. “I haven’t been back to Fredonia in fifteen months.”

  “But I don’t look anything like you,” I said.

  She put her arm around me and we turned to face the gilded mirror on the wall. “Tell me about the girl you see in that reflection,” she said.

  “Well you’re perfect, and blonde, and—”

  “Tell me about you,” Elizabeth said.

  “I’m brunette, hard-working, and kind of cute on a good day.”

  “Look at our cheekbones.”

  “We both have high cheekbones,” I said.

  “Look at our eyes.”

  “They look kind of similar in shape.”

  “Tell me about our lips.”

  “Your lipstick’s perfect. I need a little more Maybelline.”

  “The shape of our lips,” Elizabeth said.

  “Full,” I said. “Oh my God. We do kind-of look alike. I’m like your poor, unfortunate cousin.”

  “Not when we get done with you,” Zara said.

  “We’ve got the right girl.” Elizabeth squeezed my shoulders. “Now we need to turn you into a lady.”

  Chapter 7

  I wore a pair of Elizabeth’s wrap-around sunglasses and her tasteful trench coat with its hood pulled up over my head. Mr. Philips hustled me down Oak Street in Chicago’s Gold Coast neighborhood. We passed trendy boutiques, pricey restaurants, coiffed-to-the-tens shoppers, as well as sweaty, sunburnt tourists. I practiced my royal wave on a few of them until Mr. Philips caught several folks staring at us, grabbed my hand, curled my fingers into a fist, and shut it down.

  “Let go of me!” Sweat poured off my forehead, bubbled on my chest, and trickled down my cleavage.

  “Only if you promise not to call attention to yourself.” He squeezed my hand even tighter.

  “Fine! I promise!”

  He dropped my hand.

  “Why couldn’t we take the limo to D’Alba’s like Elizabeth and Zara did?” I asked.

  “It’s essential that the public not see you and Elizabeth together. We do not need a randomly snapped picture uploaded to Instagram to blow her cover. Besides, Elizabeth is paying you a tidy sum of money for serious reasons—one of which includes her privacy.” He paused in front of the white-bricked facade of a tiny storefront. ‘D’Alba’ was lettered in cursive on the bricks. “We’re here.”

  “Who’s D’Alba and clue me in on what we need to accomplish?”

  “Please,” Mr. Philips said.

  “Please what?” I asked.

  “Always say ‘Please’ when you ask someone for help or a favor.” He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his sweaty brow. “Or if you have a preference. For example, ‘Please don’t smoke next to me.’”

  “Got it,” I said. “Please, Mr. Philips, could you pretty please take off your sweater vest when it’s ninety-nine degrees outside?”

  “More like, ‘Please Lucille, could you please attempt to refrain from intrusive non-lady-like questions?’ It’s only a part-time job—remember? This won’t last forever.”

  “Fine,” I said.

  “Oh, and by the way, D’Alba is a bit of a…” He looked up toward the sky and frowned.

  “Sweetheart?”

  “No.”

  “Perfectionist?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Asshat?”

  “Yes. But you cannot tell anyone that I divulged that information.”

  “Got it, Philips.” I nodded.

  He cradled my elbow with one hand and opened the door to the shop with his other. “Ladies first,” he said.

  I sashayed through the doorway in front of him, and curtseyed to an older woman whose head was covered in small rollers under a hair-dryer. She squinted at me and looked perplexed.

  “Don’t call attention to yourself,” Mr. Philips hissed.

  “Do I know you?” the woman asked.

  “I don’t think so,” I said.

  “You look familiar. Did you just curtsey to me?”

  “No Ma'am,” Mr. Philips said. “She has a trick knee.”

  “Old powder puff football injury. Good luck with your perm!” I gave her a thumbs up.

  “Do you not recall the privacy confidentiality agreement you signed three hours ago?” Mr. Philips asked.

  “Of course,” I said. “Was that on page forty-eight or eighty-four of the contract?”

  Did anyone really read those “Click here to promise you have read the fine print,” agreements?

  “I have to practice this stuff if I’m going to pull off this gig. When am I going to get a chance to practice?”

  “Soon. But not in public—yet. By th
e way, if D’Alba calls you a bitch—he means that as a compliment.” He smoothed a hand over his silver hair.

  “If D’Alba calls me a bitch I’ll deck ’em.”

  “It’s similar to how certain persons call their friends ‘phat.’ Another compliment.”

  “Where I come from calling someone fat is definitely not a compliment.”

  “You stated in your resume you could roll with the punches.” Mr. Philips said. “Improvise.”

  “There was nothing in your job description or on page forty-eight or eighty-four that stated people would call me a fat bitch.”

  We stood in front of a small, granite-topped reception desk. Large framed photos of gorgeous models with immaculate styled hair hung on the walls. The receptionist sat behind the counter, glanced at us for a heartbeat, and then gazed back at her computer screen. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “We’re booked for a month and I’m in the middle of important salon business.”

  I craned my head forward: she was playing Candy Crush on Facebook.

  “But you’re in luck. There’s a Super Amazing Cuts right down the street, just two blocks away.”

  “Darling girl.” Mr. Phillips leaned one forearm on the marble countertop, winced and propped up his lower back with his other hand. “You are enormously helpful. I’ll be sure to mention that to D’Alba during our private appointment with him. Check your book. Groucho has arrived.”

  Her eyes snapped up at him then boomeranged back to her laptop. She double-clicked on her computer grid. “Groucho?” Her eyes widened. “Absolutely. We’ve been expecting you!” She catapulted off her ergonomically designed chair and beckoned. “Follow me.”

  She led us through the tricked out salon where women slumped in swiveling chairs with foil on their heads and dye on their roots as they checked their e-mails and flipped through gossip magazines.

  Moments later I was seated in front of D’Alba’s station facing a thousand mirrors while he snapped a vinyl cape around my neck. Hairbrushes and shiny tubes of hair products with his name emblazoned on them tilted in tall glass vases on the counter in front of us. Zara and Mr. Philips sat on folding chairs off to the side and sipped cool drinks in sweaty crystal tumblers.

  “Where’s Eliz—”

  “She returned to the Drake. An urgent matter. She’ll see you back at the Penthouse,” Zara said.

  D’Alba was a skinny dude in his forties, with overly gelled, slicked back hair. He wore thick, black glasses and sported a goatee. He ran his hands through my waist-length hair and breathed a little heavy. I looked in the mirror: he appeared to be enjoying this moment just a little too much.

  “I was thinking, D’Alba,” Zara said, “that you could cut and style Lucille’s hair in soft waves that fall right at her shoulders: long enough for a casual, short ponytail for that fun look, as well as the perfect length to easily style into a chignon for more formal events. It has to be bouncy and frame her face when she wears it down for daily events. And weave in a few natural looking highlights. She needs to be blonder.”

  “That sounds just like Elizabeth’s hair,” D’Alba said.

  “You’re right!”

  “Hah!” D’Alba laughed. “Second to ‘The Rachel’ it’s the most copied hairdo in the world.”

  “Especially on the royal circuit,” Mr. Philips said.

  “No!” I reached behind my head and clutched my waist-length locks tightly with one hand. “I’ve been growing my hair since high school!”

  “Lucille,” Mr. Philips said. “You agreed to participate in a beauty make-over.”

  “I thought that meant a mani-pedi and perhaps an eyebrow wax because Zara made such a fuss over that. Long hair is my signature look.”

  “Lucy,” Zara took my hand and squeezed it. “Have you never heard of Locks for Love?”

  I shook my head.

  “People with long, beautiful hair cut it off and donate it to a charity that benefits cancer-victims. You seem like sweet girl and I already know you’re so helpful. I was thinking D’Alba could cut your gorgeous hair and you could help someone who was going through a rough patch. Besides,” she leaned forward and whispered into my ear, “You need to look like Elizabeth.”

  I pulled her ear toward my mouth and whispered back, “Maybe Elizabeth grew her hair out during the last fifteen months she was in the States?”

  Zara shook her head and stepped back. “Trust me on this one.”

  D’Alba fondled my hair. “You pretty phat bitch.”

  “Cancer victims?” I asked.

  Zara, Mr. Philips, and D’Alba nodded.

  “Do it before I change my mind.” I shuddered. “But make him stop calling me that.”

  “It’s a compliment,” D’Alba said.

  “Not where I come from!”

  Two hours later I peered into the mirror as D’Alba rubbed mousse between his hands and dragged them through my hair. I had soft flowing layers, multi-colored highlights and hair that bounced.

  “Wow!” Zara beamed like a kid on Christmas morning who discovered presents under the tree. “Now that is fabulous hair.”

  “It’s so short,” I said. “I don’t even recognize myself. It’s not me!” My eyes welled up for a second. But in all honesty, it really was fabulous. I don’t think my tresses ever looked this good.

  “Amazing,” Mr. Philips lay on the floor with his legs and feet propped up on a chair. “Perhaps I was wrong about you, D’Alba. Perhaps, you are a gentleman, after all. And thank you for the Percocet.”

  “Oh Philips,” D’Alba said. “You pretty phat bitch. I think this means you like me.” He winked at him and snapped his fingers high in the air.

  Mr. Philips face turned red as he attempted to rise from the floor.

  A female assistant raced up to D’Alba’s station. “Lovey,” he said. “Escort Lucy to the back room for her next appointment.”

  “Yes, sir.” She took my hand.

  “Next appointment?” I trailed behind her, still wearing the smock as I peered over my shoulder at D’Alba, Zara and Mr. Philips.

  “It’ll be over in no time.” Zara said.

  “What’ll be over in no time?”

  Zara gave me a thumbs up and smiled.

  Mr. Philips eyed me, winced and crossed himself as he knelt on the floor next to a chair and pushed himself to standing.

  Chapter 8

  The assistant opened a door to a small room with a tiny table with a sheet on it. A middle-aged brick of a woman with skin as shiny as Vaseline and perfectly groomed brows smiled at me. “My name ees Gertrude. Dese von’t hurt a beet. Laze down here.” She pointed to the table.

  “Okay.” I plopped on the table. “I mean, yes.”

  D’Alba’s assistant raced out of the room.

  “Take deep breath, hold it and don’t move.” Gertrude applied hot wax around my left eyebrow, stuck on some gauze on top, tamped it down with her finger and ripped it off.

  I flinched.

  “No bigzies, right?” she asked.

  “No bigzies,” I said.

  She repeated the procedure on my right eyebrow and then held a hand mirror in front of my face so I could inspect the results. Yowsa! I had brows that even Oprah would approve of.

  I popped up off the table. “Thank you so much! I’ll make sure Zara leaves you a tip. I never would have guessed in a thousand years that waxing would be this easy.” I had one hand on the doorknob, when her meaty hand grasped my wrist.

  “Back on zee table and drop pants pleez.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I haz five customerz after youz. Hurry. No time for fun and games.”

  I laid back on the table and scooched my pants down my hips.

  “Ach—virgin forest. So exciting.” Gertrude applied wax to my nether-regions. “I am honored, Liebchien.” She pressed the gauze down, a determined look on her face.

  As she ripped it off I realized what the back room was all about and screamed like a chick in a slasher movie.

&nbs
p; “You did gut! The exfoliating facial will be cake compared to zees,” Gertrude said. “Go!”

  My face was smothered in a gel concoction and I could only squint out of my left eye, as someone held my hand and led me to another stall in another back room. “Lie down here,” a woman said. I did and blinked as she peered at me through a large, round, lit magnifying glass aimed at my face. “Decent complexion for a thirty-year-old.”

  “I’m twenty-one.”

  “Oh. Sorry. I see blackheads around your T-spot areas.”

  “I thought those were freckles.”

  “Nope. Blackheads. Don’t you want to look pretty?”

  “I thought I already looked kind-of pretty?”

  “Perhaps to half-blind people. At D’Alba’s we are dedicated to helping you look pretty to the world,” she said. “You’ll feel a tiny pinch.” She leaned in and scraped a metal instrument across my nose.

  “Ouch!”

  I hobbled out D’Alba’s front door onto the Oak Street sidewalk and glared at Mr. Philips. “Where’s Zara?”

  “She left to help Elizabeth. Except for your very shiny, red nose, Rudolph, you look beyond lovely.” He popped a large straw hat on my head and slipped the over-sized, black Jackie-O sunglasses onto my face.

  “I may not be who you envisioned hiring when you and Elizabeth placed this ad on Daveslist. I may not be perfect and coiffed and have every manner known to human kind. Or know who just won the Nobel Prize or who was indicted in the latest political scandal. But, Mr. Philip Philips—I, Lucy Marie Trabbicio, will be your star, your knight-tress in shining armor, your saving grace and the girl who never lets you down.”

  “We’ll see about that,” he said.

  I pulled away from him and jabbed my finger in the air toward his face. “I’m your fucking one. Could you at least have been an honest soldier and told me what kind of battle I was walking into?” And my hand started to tremble.

  He sighed. “I’m trying Lucille. This hasn’t been an easy day for anyone. We’ve decided that you’ve learned enough for today.” He stared at my hand.