The Price of Inertia

by Lily Zante

  When your mother stops loving you at a young age, and you live your whole life waiting for her to say she made a mistake, waiting for her to say she was sorry, straining your ears to hear her beg for forgiveness—and none of this happens, it sinks you into a funk so big that nothing and no one can help you dig your way out.

  Today’s training session was a waste of time. I didn’t make any progress, and I didn’t really work out. Rob thinks he can click his fingers and I can magically transform and spring into action.

  I fucking can’t.

  After Trevor leaves, I return to my den. There’s no need to shower because I haven’t worked up a sweat, but now there’s something else to worry about. I can’t concentrate because she’s here.

  Somewhere.

  The new housekeeper. Rob told me to show her to her room and to give her a quick tour of the house.

  The bastard.

  As much as I love and respect the guy, he’s made more work for me. I haven’t decided which room to allocate her and I’ll wait for her to come to me. At least the house is big and there are plenty of rooms so I won’t have to run into her.

  I sit down to write but the words don’t come easily. Too much has happened today. Rob doesn’t understand how much this new setup is going to derail me. I was already struggling to do that simple task—sit down at my desk, put my favorite pen in my hands, and start writing, always on loose sheets of paper, with my notebook of plot points and characters to hand.

  I always write a few chapters longhand, then let that sit before I go back and tweak it. Later, I type it up into my computer for what will form my first draft, and I flesh and deepen things as I type. I chisel at some things that are not needed. Working this way, the story transforms, changing, and growing, and becoming a story worth telling. Once the first draft is complete, I’ll read it again, and fix it, then read it some more, and fix it some more. I do this for as long as it takes to perfect the idea that was once in my head as it takes form on paper. And during that entire time, nobody but me gets to read it.

  But I haven’t been able to do this since my mother died.

  Those six pages are all that I’ve managed.

  With these new changes to my day, I am determined to finish this book so that I can get back home to my normal routine and get my life back. I look through the loose sheets of paper and read through what I’ve written.

  It’s garbage.

  Then I look through my notebook hoping for inspiration but the doorbell rings. The interruption knives through my concentration. I glance at the clock and am shocked to see that it is late evening. I’ve lost track of time. The doorbell rings again, and I ignore it.

  The new housekeeper has already failed in her first task. “Mary!” I roar, not wanting to get up. She won’t hear me. The house is too big and she could be anywhere. I’m going to need a bell or something to summon her with. Or get a pair of walkie-talkies so that I won’t have to physically look for her.

  “Answer the goddamn door!” I bellow, my rage simmering as I am forced to leave the cocoon of my study.

  I hear a shout and banging on the door. I head towards it and open the damn thing myself. Two curious faces stare back at me. One of those faces belongs to the new housekeeper. What the hell is she doing outside?

  “It’s Ma-ree,” she says.

  “What?”

  “It’s not Mary. Ma-ree.”

  I blink at this woman telling me how to pronounce her name. This woman who should not be here. This woman I am stuck with as a punishment from Rob who foolishly thinks it will help me to finish my book.

  Now there’s an incentive if ever I needed one.

  “I thought you were inside. Where did you go?” My eyes shift to the guy standing next to her.

  “I had to get my stuff. Rob told me to move in as soon as possible.”

  “I bet he did,” I grumble.

  “This is Jamie,” she says quickly, introducing me to the grinning idiot. He’s had a smile on his face the entire time. I sense that any moment now he’s going to ask for my autograph or a selfie. Of course, I’ll have to decline both.

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Maddox.” The guy holds out his hand. I refuse to take it, and I turn away. I have words to write.

  Or words to pretend to write.

  Or a chair to try to sit in and pretend to look busy in.

  I walk away to return to my den and leave them talking. She tells him she’ll be fine but by the tone of his voice, the guy doesn’t seem to think so. Then the door closes, just as I approach the door to my study.

  “Wait!” The housekeeper’s loud yelp pierces through me, forcing me to turn around.

  This.

  This is what I did not want.

  Or need.

  Tight-lipped, I turn around and glare at her.

  “These are for you.” She hands me a bag which I refuse to take.

  “What is it?”

  “Take a look, you might like it.” She laughs nervously.

  I still refuse to take it. “What is it?”

  She looks at me, wide-eyed and nervous. I can smell her fear.

  “It’s something she brought for you,” her friend says.

  “Donuts. Rob said you liked them,” she explains.

  I take the bag and peek inside. I recognize the box. It’s fancy looking and from one of the most expensive bakeries in the city. I’m curious as to why she went to so much trouble. “Donuts?” I say.

  “You like them?” Her eager expression wills me to like them. I dislike neediness in people. I dislike people, full stop, but neediness pisses me off completely. “I don’t know.”

  “Haven’t you tried these ones before?” She’s eager to please me.

  “Can’t say I have,” I lie.

  “These are supposed to be the best—”

  “I guess Mr. Maddox will try them in time.” Her friend puts a restraining hand on her arm.

  The housekeeper steps back, looking disappointed. “I don’t know where my room is. Rob said you would show me. This is a beautiful house, by the way. I’ve never stayed in a place so beautiful be—”

  “Please stop talking.”

  She clamps her mouth shut.

  “I can’t think with so much noise.”

  She looks shocked. “But I don’t know what my duties are. Rob didn’t have time to show me much.”

  This is the shit I shouldn’t be dealing with. I scowl back at her.

  “He had to rush off. He said you would do it. He had a flight to catch and he was in a rush, so I—”

  “Please! Stop talking.” I swipe a hand across my face. The woman will be the death of me before I get to the end of my book. I gape at her as if all the energy has been sucked out of my body, and it has been, almost, or will be, soon.

  What have you done, Rob?

  I am not used to living with someone. I’m not used to being around people. I am not used to being told what to do. I live in fictional worlds with fictional characters. It’s safer that way. Most of all, I despise having to show this woman around.

  I miss Freya. She makes my food and leaves it in the kitchen. The house is always clean. We can go weeks without passing one another even though she comes every week day.

  It works.

  This isn’t going to. For a start, this one talks too much. She’s going to kill my concentration.

  “If you’re busy, writing and all, I can make my own way to my room. Just tell me which one it is. I don’t want to bother you too much. Rob said you had a book to …” She’s doing it again, talking too much, but as I watch her silently, her voice trails away. She’s getting the hint.

  “That’s better,” I say.

  I now have a choice. I can either show her around or go back to my study and stare at the blank page.

  So I take the easy option.

  Chapter Six

  MARI

  * * *

  With my suitcase in my hand, I follow him around like an unwanted dog he is tryin
g to lose. He rushes around, although ‘races’ is the wrong word, given his heavy build.

  The house is beautiful. He shows me around downstairs.

  “I expect my writing room to be dusted and cleaned every day, preferably when I’m not in it.”

  “When will that be?”

  “It varies. I can’t give you an exact time.”

  I try not to say something smart and sassy back, even though I’m privately pissed that he expects me to be at his beck and call.

  “Don’t mess with things on my desk. Leave things as you find them. Don’t read anything. I don’t want to have to stow things away and get them back out again, it messes with my process.”

  “Got it.”

  He leads me into a room which has the biggest TV I’ve ever seen. This room is littered with chip bags, donut boxes and drink cartons and cans. It’s four times bigger than my bedroom was in my last apartment. As I glance across, I can see into the kitchen. “Sometimes I like to relax in here,” he says, as I watch and wait to see if he’ll bend down to pick up the trash from the floor. He doesn’t. “There’s a TV in your room.”

  “Oh, so I can’t watch TV in here?”

  He looks taken aback. “You’re not on vacation. You have a job to do here.”

  I open my mouth, then close it quickly before I say something else I will regret. He’s so rude. I wish I hadn’t bothered making a detour into town to get him those donuts. He’s so unappreciative and nasty.

  A tightness forms in my gut as I follow him out of the TV room and into the entrance hall where I should have left my suitcase instead of dragging it around with me everywhere.

  I miss Jamie.

  He’s a real gentleman.

  This man is not.

  He shows me the other rooms: the place where all the cleaning supplies are kept, and the pantry, the kitchen. He tells me that he will leave me his credit card on the kitchen island and that I can buy what I need and order groceries, and if I prefer to go out, to look online and find out what stores are nearby. Then he shows me the library before opening another door.

  “This is my study.” He opens the door quickly, and lets me step inside. It’s dark in here and such a contrast to the rest of the house. “I need it polished and clean, every surface spotless. And my desk,” he walks over to it and slides a finger along the sleek wood, “my desk has to be neat and tidy.” I walk over and find myself paying extreme attention because he seems so serious about the matter. “You must not mess up the order of things.” He lines up the papers and pencils and pens again, even though they were already neat. “And you must never read anything.” He pins me with a ferocious stare that makes me stop breathing. He’s expecting an answer, I realize.

  “I won’t,” I say quickly. “I won’t read a thing.”

  “I want everything back in its place.”

  I nod.

  “My pens and pencils. My MontBlanc. This is my lucky pen.” He picks it up and examines it before setting it back down again.

  Weird.

  “You can open the windows to let in some air while you clean, but I want the room left exactly as you found it.”

  “Understood.”

  “I don’t know anything about you. Rob hired you and took care of all that, but let me be very clear. You are not to read anything I have written.”

  “You’ve already mentioned that.”

  “I’m telling you again.”

  I have to force myself not to roll my eyes. “Again, I understand.”

  He ushers me out before closing the door. Then he marches up the stairs and I stand at the bottom, watching him with simmering resentment. Not once did this man offer to take my suitcase from me. Not once did he offer to assist me.

  “What are you waiting for?” he asks, turning around when he’s a few steps up. There is tension is his voice. Always. It’s like he’s permanently annoyed and bitter. He’s made it perfectly clear that my presence here is unwanted, but I need this job.

  I can’t afford for him to get rid of me on a whim, and with Rob gone, it wouldn’t surprise me if this guy tries to look for any opportunity to get rid of me.

  How wrong I was. How disappointed Jamie will be when I tell him what this guy is really like. I assumed he would be nice because he was famous and successful, but I was so, so wrong.

  “Uh …” Telling the truth isn’t going to help me. “I was admiring the staircase. It’s … it’s beautiful, the way it curves around the —”

  “Hurry up,” he snaps, marching on ahead. “I don’t have all day.”

  I grab my suitcase and bound up the stairs, catching up with him in no time. “I did say you could tell me where my room was and I would find it. I know you have work deadlines and a book to fin—”

  “Stop,” he growls. “I can’t take your constant whimpering.”

  I have the sudden urge to tell him to shove his job up his huge butt, but I am trapped by my circumstances. My mom depends on me. I’m doing this for her.

  And I don’t have a better option.

  “I’m sorry. I won’t talk if it upsets you that mu—”

  He turns to me at the top of the stairs. “There you go again.” He does a zipping motion with his fingers against his lips. “I can’t think when you’re constantly yapping.”

  “But you’re not writing now,” I protest, noticing his ugly satin robe again. It looks ridiculous and makes him look much older than he is.

  “I’m always thinking,” he mutters, pointing his finger to his head. “I’m always thinking of the story. Your voice is like the sound of nails scratching a blackboard.”

  That’s an overdramatic exaggeration. I hate him. I hate him more than I believed was possible. I zip my lips together and resolve not to say another word.

  “You only need to clean my room once a week, otherwise you don’t need to be on this side of the house.”

  I nod, then follow him like a sheep as he heads down the other hallway on the left. He opens the first door of many. “Take this one.” He flings the door open but doesn’t step inside. “I trust it will suffice?”

  I step inside, as he switches on the light.

  Will this suffice?

  My heart leaps for joy. Yes! Yes, it will.

  It’s huge with the biggest bed I’ve ever seen, and a dresser, and closets, and another door presumably leading to a bathroom. “This is wonderful!” I cry, my insides jubilant with joy as I walk inside. I set down my suitcase and bags, too excited to speak, but also under strict orders not to.

  This is my room.

  Mine.

  For the duration of this prison sentence. Excited, I walk inside and look around and inspect the room. There’s a walk-in closet, though I don’t have enough clothes to even fill one of the racks. The closets are extra space lined around the room.

  Who has this many clothes? Or possessions or things?

  I turn around, needing to ask him something, but as I come back out and step into the room, he has disappeared. I run towards the door, and peer down the hallway only to catch a glimpse of the edge of his robe as he turns the corner and disappears.

  He didn’t tell me what I needed to wear; whether there was an outfit or uniform I should wear. He hadn’t told me anything. I don’t know what time he expects breakfast, or what type of food he likes to eat, and ditto the same for lunch and dinner.

  I’m in the dark about all of this.

  The only thing that makes my stay here palatable is that the house and my room are the most luxurious I’ve ever had.

  It’s a shame that the price I must pay for this luxury is to live with that swine.

  The next day I wake up bright and early, then lie in bed feeling inexplicably happy. Staring at the ornate lampshade above my head, and the beautiful silky wallpaper around the room, makes me happy. Being surrounded by things of beauty, instead of peeling paint and broken-down things, make for a positive state of mind. I’ve often had to imagine better things for myself, and the struggle has bee
n real, especially these last few weeks, but today I am really here, living in a multi-million-dollar mansion in the Gold Coast area.

  For that privilege alone, I can suffer this position.

  I get up and shower and get ready, making the decision to wear what I wore at work: smart clothes, just because I need to feel that I’m ‘at work’. Not smart like a blazer, but a blouse and a skirt with my work pumps. Hopefully, I’ll find an apron somewhere.

  I’m dressed and in the kitchen by 7:00 a.m., rummaging around in the supplies cupboard where I find an apron. I walk past the study because I want to clean ‘his’ area and get it out of the way. I’m not sure if he’s in here though, so I knock and when there is no answer. I go inside and breathe with relief to find the room empty. It’s dark and smells of mothballs and mustiness.

  How does he find inspiration in such a setting? I walk around the room taking a good look because he didn’t show me around properly last night. His desk is messy around the edges, but in the center, papers and books and stationery are lined up neatly. Lamps are dotted around, and there’s a long soft leather couch and side table. I start pulling up the blinds and opening the windows to let in the fresh air. Then I return to his desk and start polishing it to perfection, my eyes flickering over his sheets of papers. He has notebooks, and Post-it notes, scraps of paper, a pile of books, and yet some more notebooks on the floor. Handwritten notes litter his desk. I’m careful not to let my eyes stray. He’s warned me not to read anything, but I also don’t read horror, so this isn’t going to be a problem.

  Cleaning his study doesn’t take long and after that, I decide to get his breakfast ready even though he’s given me no indication of his dietary choices. I didn’t make office manager so fast by being told what to do. I used my initiative.