Part-time Princess

by Pamela DuMond

  “Let me tell you what’s enough for today. What’s enough for today was being yanked out of an elevator and landing on my ass on the floor of the Drake’s Penthouse.”

  “Why is your hand shaking?”

  “Because I haven’t eaten since seven this morning, I’m hypoglycemic and if I go too long without food I get the shakes. What’s enough for today is being made to parade down an aisle thirty-seven times while my gait is insulted with every step.”

  “Oh look there’s a Sweetie Pies frozen yogurt shop. I heard this place has the best fro-yo in Chicago.” Mr. Philips pushed the door open and gestured with one hand. “Ladies first. I’m dying for chocolate. Let’s go inside and succumb to our guilty desires, yes?” He took my arm and shepherded me inside.

  “I’d like a medium size of the white chocolate with the raspberries, please,” he said to the woman behind the counter. “What would you like, Lucille?”

  “What’s enough for today is having all my hair on my entire body either cut or ripped off. And as much as I want to help cancer victims, I don’t think they’ll be wanting the remains of the hairs in my nether-regions, although at this point I’d gladly donate that to them as well.” I glared down at the ingredients in the small metallic containers sunk into the counter top. “Jumbo size. Dark chocolate. Throw in some M&Ms and a dollop of cookie dough. Make that two dollops. It’s been a tough day.”

  We were back on Oak Street walking toward the Drake as we spooned yogurt from our cups.

  “Do you want to terminate this job agreement right now?” Mr. Philips asked. “You can walk away with a two thousand dollar makeover. Say the word, Lucille, and I’ll tear up your contract. You can call it quits and find another part-time job.”

  I thought about it. My hair was already gone. I still needed the money as well as a job. At least, in this gig, I didn’t think I’d have to be a hooker. I shook my head. “No. I’m toughing this one out. You can’t get rid of Lucy Trabbicio all that easily.”

  Mr. Philips coughed and I swear he covered a smile. “Good.”

  And just like that—the prep days for my part-time job flew by. Every morning I’d take the subway from Chicago’s south side and make my way to the Drake Hotel approximately an hour away. Elizabeth, Zara and Mr. Philips had determined from my progress, or lack thereof, what the current day’s teaching schedule would entail.

  Manicure-Pedicure. Tina from We-Nail-It detached my acrylics, filed, buffed what remained of my real nails, pushed back the cuticles and gave me a sheer pink-hued polish. Very elegant. Very boring. Very royal.

  Speech lessons. Apparently I had a ‘Midwestern accent’ and needed to homogenize that. A nice lady named Susan taught me how to correct my “lower back vowel merger.” It wasn’t as painful as the waxing.

  And then there were:

  Royal waves, handshakes, and curtsies.

  How to sit like a Lady.

  How to rise from sitting like a Lady.

  How to eat like a Lady. Mr. Philips poured peas on a plate and insisted I spear them in an elegant fashion. When I elegantly told him off with my middle finger he made me watch the scene in Pretty Woman ten times where Hector Elizondo teaches Julia Roberts about fork placement.

  How to dress like a Lady. Elizabeth and crew did not appreciate Cheswick’s of Boston. I was a little curvier than Elizabeth but I could still wear most of her clothes. Her shoes however were a different matter. I wore a size 7 ½. She wore a nine. Suddenly the Drake’s suite was piled high in Zappos boxes filled with tasteful pumps, sandals, and elegant shoes for evening wear.

  “These are great,” I tried on shoes made by some guy named Jimmy Choo. “Where are the workout shoes?”

  “Elizabeth doesn’t like to workout,” Zara said.

  “But I love working out,” I said. “It’s how I deal with stress.”

  “It’s not that I don’t ‘like’ working out. It just takes a lot of time and ruins my makeup and I’m not all that fond of sweating.” Elizabeth held out some shoes. “Here, try on the Stuart Weitzman’s. These are my favorites.”

  “Fine.” I wrangled the pump onto my foot. “I’ll bring my own Nikes.”

  But perhaps the most embarrassing part was the…

  How to be Naked like a European Lady.

  Because Europeans weren’t all that nervous about public nudity. They got naked on beaches, in spas, stripped off their clothes in front of their royal dressers and assistants.

  Mr. Philips reserved a private hot tub suite at the Drake’s Spa that was upscale but still featured more modest American customs. I squeezed my eyes shut and clamped my hands over them as Mr. Philips and Zara stripped down in front of me. “Please, Mr. Philips. Please I beg you,” I said. “At least keep your sweater vest on. And possibly tug it a little lower on your body—like down over your hips.”

  I heard splashing.

  “Ah,” he said. “The jets are soothing for my lower back.”

  “Come on, Lucille,” Zara said. “After all the stresses we’ve been under, the mineral waters feel incredible.”

  I opened my eyes, turned around and spotted them relaxing in the misty mineral hot tub. The scent of eucalyptus wafted through the air.

  “Why can’t I wear a bathing suit?” I asked.

  “Do you have one on you?” Zara said.

  I huffed. “Fine. Don’t look.” I stripped down to my underwear, flung my clothes onto a stand in the room’s corner and descended into the waters.

  “Puritan,” Zara said.

  “Be nice, Zara,” Mr. Philips said. “After all this beautiful country was colonized by those brave, strong people.”

  “Yes, but they never got to enjoy the co-ed baths at Baden-Baden.”

  “The water feels great,” I said. “This is a real de-stresser. I could totally get used to this.” I rose up for a second to pull my hair back.

  Zara stared at me, freaked. “Oh my God what are you wearing?” she asked. “We totally forgot to buy you decent underwear. Can you take care of that Philips?”

  “Of course! I’ll ink that note into my brain.” He sunk further into the tub. “Purchase fancy panties is now on my to-do list.”

  There were the endless memorization sessions in front of the large flat screen TV that included pictures and descriptions of Elizabeth’s relatives and people I was supposed to know.

  Elizabeth’s dad, Lord David Henry Billingsley, was incredibly wealthy and looked a bit like George Clooney. When she was young, he was conservative, strict, overprotective and didn’t give her enough freedom. She felt trapped. Now he’d mellowed, was more of a sweetheart and somewhat forgetful. He was to be called Papa—not Daddy.

  His new fiancé was the gorgeous, fifty-something Duchess Carolina von Sauerhausen. She descended from the line of nobles that built the town of Sauerhausen, now the bustling metropolis and the capital of Fredonia.

  They talked for a few minutes about Elizabeth’s friends and flashed a few pictures on the screen: Lady So and So. Lady Blah diddy Blah.

  Then they brought up the gossips and the ne’er-do-wells—apparently there were too many to mention. Be nice to everyone. Suspect everyone.

  The list was endless: so many faces and names and titles. It was impossible to memorize all of them.

  “There are a zillion people. How will I know who’s my friend and who’s out to get me?” I asked.

  “You only need to remember the important people,” Elizabeth said. “The rest you’ll feel out. Get a sense of who they are. Then you’ll have to wing it. You said on your application you were good at winging it.”

  “Yes, but this is an awful lot of winging,” I said. “If we were at KFC, this would be three whole buckets of wings.”

  “Don’t worry about that. Either Philips or I will be with you 24/7 or just a quick text away.” Zara hit the remote and an image of a handsome older man with salt and pepper hair appeared on the flatscreen TV mounted on the wall. “This is the King of Fredonia—Frederick Wilhelm Gustave Timmel
the Fourteenth. He speaks his mind, runs a tight ship with his country but is generally regarded to be a fair man.”

  “Got it.” I said. Note to self: the guy who looked like a younger Sean Connery was the King. “Curtsey?”

  “Definitely curtsey,” Elizabeth said. “Next.”

  Zara clicked the remote. A photo of a pretty, blonde, middle-aged woman hugging three Labrador Retrievers popped up.

  “She looks familiar,” I said.

  “Thirty years ago Cheree Dussair was a beautiful actress poised for stardom. But she dropped out of Hollywood to marry Frederick,” Mr. Philips said.

  “Queen Cheree adores her children and is obsessed with Labrador Retrievers,” Elizabeth said.

  “Curtsey?” I asked.

  “Definitely curtsey,” Zara said. “You can also earn her favor by doing or saying anything nice about a Labrador.”

  “We could be here until next year looking at pictures,” Elizabeth said. “Get to the good stuff.”

  Zara clicked the remote and an image of Prince Cristoph Edward George Timmel the Third—he of the wide shoulders and sexy smile appeared. My eyes widened and I dabbed a little drool from the corner of my mouth.

  “Curtsey?” I asked.

  “Under no circumstances curtsey. You need to be considered his equal. I’ve never curtseyed to him, shown him deference and I never will. I do need you to flirt with him, Lucille,” Elizabeth said, “but when push comes to shove—”

  “And trust me there will be ‘shove,’” Zara said.

  Elizabeth wagged her finger at me. “Which is another reason I hired you. You need work but you’re not a working girl. So when he tries to get you in the sack—”

  “Get out of town! A prince is going to try and get me in the sack?” I asked.

  Mr. Philips nodded. “There will be sack-attempts.”

  “Oh my God!” I said.

  “You can’t give into him, Lucy. You won’t give into him,” Zara said. “You’ll simply leave him wanting more.”

  I watched the screen as a video popped up of Cristoph playing rugby with his mates while girls swooned on the sidelines: batting their eyes, tossing him articles of clothing, flashing skin.

  “Cristoph’s family and mine are in the process of sealing a business deal that they inked twenty years ago. Just keep him interested in me for ten days tops, while I finish up my pressing business and a few personal matters in the States,” Elizabeth said.

  “Um—okay,” I said. “But I need to know. Are you all, have you all, like—have you and Prince Cristoph done it?”

  Elizabeth rolled her eyes.

  Mr. Philips and Zara inhaled sharply, stared wide-eyed at each other and held their breath.

  Elizabeth shook her head. “No. We have not,” she finger quoted, “‘done it.’ Although I do believe he’s done it with just about every other girl that he’s met.”

  Mr. Philips broke Zara’s stare and looked at Elizabeth. “You need to tell her.”

  “I did,” Elizabeth frowned. “Cristoph and I have never consummated our relationship, flirtation or sealed the deal on our family business agreement.”

  “Seriously, Elizabeth. I agree,” Zara said. “I think you should tell her.”

  Elizabeth tossed her hair. “Fine. Yes, we’ve made out on several occasions and he’s quite the kisser. Takes your breath away if I do remember correctly. But if I can resist—so can you.”

  I stared at Cristoph’s wide, defined muscular shoulders. His dirty blonde hair and his sexy smirk. The sweetness on his face as he kissed that little girl’s cheek. The kindness when he held that older lady’s hand. The intensity in his eyes when he kicked a soccer ball.

  Oh, just kill me now.

  “I’ll do it Elizabeth. I’ll keep him interested in you and I promise I won’t succumb,” I said.

  She sighed and placed one hand on her chest. “Perfect,” she said. “Thank you.”

  “But I’m scared I can’t pull this off. There’s so much.”

  “I’m accompanying you, Lucille. I’ll be there for you 24/7 should you get in over your head,” Mr. Philips said.

  “Everything will be just fi—” Elizabeth’s face paled and she broke out into a sweat. She stood up—not so elegantly might I add—and raced out of the room. Zara ran after her.

  Chapter 9

  “What’s wrong with her?” I asked.

  “Nerves.” Mr. Philips tapped the list. “Since Elizabeth will be incredibly busy, you’ll be communicating primarily with Zara and me. Let’s figure out our secret code names for communication once we depart base camp.” He tapped his chin with his index finger and stared at the ceiling. “Your code name is Groucho.”

  “As in Marx?” I asked.

  He nodded. “It seemed fitting. Now, you give it a try.”

  Ooh, I loved all this spy stuff.

  I jumped to my feet. “I’ve got it!”

  Mr. Philips frowned and shook his head.

  I sat back down. Then rose gracefully. “I do believe I have your secret code names.” I curtseyed.

  He smiled, bowed at me, then winced and clamped one hand to his lower back.

  “You really should take me up on my Thai massage back-walking offer,” I said.

  “Proceed.”

  I kicked off my Keds.

  “Not the massage—the code names.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Well Zara is titled royalty—so I thought—Lady. What do you think?”

  “Not that secretive,” he said.

  “Actually it is because there are a ton of Ladies. And it gets better,” I said. “You, Mr. Philips, have a sweater vest addiction and perspire like a stuck pig in hot weather.”

  “Thank you for putting that so delicately.”

  “So for you? The Damp.”

  “Lady and the Damp?” He cracked a smile. “I think you’re going to do better than we ever dreamed possible Lucille.”

  And just like that a week and a half flew by. I had one free day to wrap up my outstanding business, say goodbye and make excuses to my near and dear ones why I wouldn’t be around for a couple of weeks. I could send the occasional e-mail but I wouldn’t be giving hugs via Skype or Facebook—per my contract, I was to stay off both sites until my job ended.

  My BFF, Alida, her son Mateo and I sat in the nosebleed section of U.S. Cellular Field’s bleachers (please—it will always be Comiskey Park.) The White Sox were playing some team I didn’t care about, but they were still the White Sox and I was a south side girl, which meant I loved them.

  We stood up and sang along to “Take Me out to the Ballgame” during the 7th inning stretch.

  “I just can’t get over it, Lucy,” Alida said. “You look like you and yet, you look completely different.”

  “It’s the hair,” I said. “I’m the same old Lucy. Nothing’s changed except I have a little bit less in the hair and nail department.”

  “You still can’t tell me the deets about your new job?”

  “I signed a confidentiality agreement.”

  “I’m going to miss you,” Alida said. “I already miss you at MadDog. That asshole Whitford hired some chick with big hair and long fake nails who wears bubblegum pink lip-gloss.”

  “That sounds like me.”

  “Well she’s not you—she wears her skirt so high she’s practically giving the goods away every time she bends over to drop off a drink. And the new customers are tipping her like crazy—way better than they tip me.”

  “You don’t know what they’re tipping her for,” I said. “And I doubt you want to be in her line of work. Get over it. This job I’m starting is just a part-time gig. I’ll be back home in no time. And if MadDog still sucks, we can look for new jobs together.”

  “I’ll miss you!” She hugged me.

  “I’ll miss you too Señorita Sassy Pants.” I hugged her back and my eyes welled with tears.

  “What about me?” Mateo’s long brown hair flopped over one eye as he tugged on my arm. “I’m going
to miss you!”

  I leaned down, brushed the hair back onto his forehead and squeezed him to me tight. “I’ll miss you the most, dude. Take care of your mama for a few weeks while I’m gone. Yes?”

  “Um…” He gazed out onto the field as the players took their positions.

  So I tickled him. “Promise me, little man!”

  “Yes!” He giggled and squirmed. “I promise, Lucy!”

  A few hours later I squared off against Uncle John at Vail Assisted Living across a Ping-Pong table. I slapped the ball back at him and it skimmed the net. He leaned forward, scooped it up with his paddle and drop shot it over onto my side of the table. I leaned in for my shot but hit the net.

  “And that my dear,” he smiled, “is match. Your dear old uncle beat you three out of five.”

  “Hey I won two this time. I think that’s a record. Are you happy here?” I asked and chugged from my water bottle. “I’m leaving town for a bit. And it’s going to be super tough for me to leave if I know that you’re not happy here.”

  “But you don’t like to travel.” He sipped from his water and eyed me.

  “I know, but this is for my new job. And it won’t be that long. Like two weeks—max.”

  “Promise me that you’ll come back?”

  “Of course I’ll come back.” I said.

  “Your dad said the same thing. But then he and your mom were in the accident and they never did. Promise me. I want to hear you promise me.” His voice rose.

  “I’ll come back, Uncle John. I promise. I will never leave you.” I hugged him tight as we both shed a few tears and both tried to hide it.

  I wore Elizabeth’s Chanel suit and sat composed, lady-like, in the cool air-conditioned back seat of the spit-polished, black town car that had picked me up at my tenement—I meant, apartment building.

  “Thank you so much for picking me up today at my friend’s place. How are you doing today?” I asked the uniformed chauffeur as my heart did flip-flops, my stomach churned acid and I tried very hard not to wring my hands, tap my feet or bite my fingernails.