For Want of a Nail
by
Laura Antoniou
published by Luster Editions
an imprint of Circlet press, Inc.
Cambridge, MA
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Copyright © 2011 by Laura Antoniou
Originally published as a bonus story in the Luster Editions/Circlet Press ebook of The Marketplace.
Cover photograph by Lochai, art direction by Madison Young
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Ebook Edition
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FOR WANT OF A NAIL
The ambulance pulled away at two, just as the glazier arrived. Chris could see them both through the window as he waited on hold. Thunder crashed; it was technically too early for a Nor’easter, but water spouts had been spotted off the north shore, and out of a sunny afternoon a deepening gray sky had grown and harsh winds shook the pin oaks on the front lawns. In retrospect, he thought, perhaps this wasn’t the best day for a party.
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“We’d like to give a dinner party; semi-formal, six guests, five courses, I think, with local wine pairings, for Friday next.”
“Very good, Ma’am.” Chris took the sheet of paper Alexandra passed him and scanned the guest list quickly. “Do you have any other requirements or desires for this?”
“Of course,” Grendel interjected from his stance by the fireplace. “I was thinking this would be a good chance to see how well Brian has improved. He needs a test before we send him to auction. So, I want you to be as hands-off as possible about this; let him do as much as he can in the majordomo position of authority. I want Enid and Ramesh as waiters, of course, but they should also do some kitchen tasks.”
Chris nodded and made his own notes. “Full livery, Sir?”
“Oh, God, yes, let’s keep everyone clothed. Oh, and speaking of the kitchen, you’ll have to work with Muira on this; she’s got that night off.”
Chris raised an eyebrow, pen poised. “Would you prefer I hire a chef for the dinner, then?”
“No, I’d prefer you figure out what she can do before she leaves and have the trainees do some prep work. You can finish up in the kitchen yourself.” Grendel looked positively gleeful at the prospect, watching Chris ponder even as the shorter man was nodding in acceptance of the command. “I mean, no sense in letting all that Kaleigh training go to waste. You can manage to finish the meal and do some plating, I hope? Especially since we won’t need you in livery yourself.”
“Of course, Sir. It will be my pleasure.”
“I’m sure it will. Now let’s go see the trainees and beat some sense into them.” And with that, Chris slipped the invitee list into his clipboard, tucked the board under one arm, and unclipped the strap from his belt. That, too, was a pleasure, albeit of a different sort.
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“What about lamb? I could easily finish up a nice roast.”
“That would be if we had a nice roast; remember that terrible piece of flesh that was supposed to be a Sunday joint? That wee Claudia had to give the butchers a piece of her mind over it. No, no, I don’t like the lamb we’ve seen lately at all.” Muira McLanahan was most often addressed as Cook, especially when there were clients in the house, and she was proud of that appellation. “A chef’s nothing but a man in a puffy hat doing the same job women have done for centuries. I cook; who the bloody hell chefs?” she had demanded, years ago, when Alexandra first hired her. Completely unfazed by the presence of naked slave trainees, she enjoyed the variety of her duties and was more than capable of whipping up a splendid gourmet feast from time to time. Chris sat with her over the kitchen table, his butler book and her recipe files at hand.
“Pork then?” Chris scanned the guest list notes and sighed. “No, wait, Nancy and Lawrence are coming; they were at the April dinner and we did a pork roast then.”
Cook allowed a slight sound of scorn to escape. “Sure and they’d perish if they had one again?”
“Definitely,” Chris teased. “How about... ”
“Duck!” She started writing across her notepad with a finality Chris knew from experience.
“Duck?” he repeated. “Remember, I have to finish it. What were you thinking of, cassoulet?
“Not this early, no, although I was going to put up some legs for confit... but last time I was at the farm, they had some lovely ducks.” Muira enjoyed visiting one of the local farms for baskets of fresh produce and eggs. “I can make a cherry and port sauce with the last of those glorious cherries, too.” She was continuing to write and Chris attempted to read her handwriting upside down.
“That’s a lot of... red items...” he offered.
“It’s called a theme, you heathen. Long Island, in scarlet.”
Chris thought of the snowy-white shirts and gloves for the serving staff and sighed. But there was no denying Muira at this point. She was an artist in the midst of creation, all protests to her common roots aside. He could change the shirts to black, or even red to match her theme, and skip the gloves. And really, nothing looked too hard to finish and plate, even upside down.
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“In... in charge? But... am I ready? I don’t know if I’m ready!” Brian Cohen, senior trainee in the house and almost ready for his auction, looked likely to faint or vomit, or perhaps both.
“You’d better be,” Chris warned. “Not only are you being relied upon to conduct yourself with confidence and expertise, but you must manage Ramesh and Enid as well. They will be looking to you for guidance and correction.”
“Where will you be?” Brian could hardly believe how terrified he was at the mere thought of Chris not being there, being in charge. Was it really just a few weeks ago he had seen this man as an enemy? Or at least an encumbrance, a barrier to getting what he thought he really wanted. Now, Chris seemed more like a lifeline, full of information, encouragement, coaching and support, plus one hell of a hand on a well-worn leather strap. That hadn’t changed. Brian’s attitude toward such correction had changed instead.
“I will be in the kitchen, finishing the meal. When duties permit, and you will make sure they do, you will all have some time helping me with one task or another. But I will be strictly back of the house staff for all intents and purposes, and the kiddies will be forbidden to come to me for help—they must go to you and you must be able to supervise them.”
The kiddies—his fellow trainees. Chris’s nickname for them was wildly inappropriate, as they were both older than Brian. But they were, as he had been, novices at slavery, just barely a month into their training and struggling with things he remembered keenly. There were times when he despaired of them ever learning how to do things he took for granted, like knowing when to kneel and when to bow and when to just nod. But at the same time, whe
n he caught them studying his form or heard what sounded like actual respect in their voices when they asked him for advice, he felt like an impostor. Didn’t they realize what he had to go through to get here?
“Here are the parameters for the dinner,” Chris said, passing Brian a folder. “Guest list, menu, the china and crystal Ms. Selador has selected, and my own notes. I want to see entries in your butler book tonight. Tomorrow morning, you and I will select some wines for approval, tomorrow afternoon you will meet with me and Cook to discuss what will need to be done to order, store, and prepare the menu items. Over the weekend, you will drill your staff in table service. Is this all understood?”
Brian stiffened at the instructions. “Yes, Chris.”
“Then get your ass out of here and let the kiddies know you’ll be their boss for a while. Speaking of which, are you still lusting after Ramesh?”
Brian barely suppressed a grin. The trainee in question was almost forty-six, and in a leather bar Brian probably wouldn’t have noticed him except for the novelty of seeing an Indian man there. But here, in a sexually charged yet sexually frustrating world, the quiet, older man with his toffee-colored skin and deep, brown eyes and silvering hair was quite the sexpot. More to Brian’s taste, at least, than their other roommate, Enid. Also, after getting a chance to know him, Brian found him sensitive, thoughtful, a true intellectual; his accent gave him an edge of cosmopolitan elegance and he carried himself with dignity even in terribly undignified circumstances. To Brian’s surprise, Ramesh seemed more and more like his type of man—a daddy type, wise and patient and sexy.
“He still looks good to me,” he answered honestly.
“Good. If your dinner is passable, then you may have him for the remainder of your stay, once a day, for whatever activity you prefer inside of thirty minutes.” Chris waved Brian off and Brian knew enough not to stand there gaping and asking stupid questions. Instead, he bounced on out, gleeful. The glee lasted until he opened the folder and realized the scope of the task ahead of him. Typically, he responded as he usually did when faced with difficult tasks and decisions; he did not tell his fellow trainees what was in store for them all until the following day, after Chris kicked his ass well and good for not following orders.
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Still, the trainees were prepped, their rehearsal sessions honed to exact timing and movement standards, and Brian found himself automatically doing things he would never have imagined two months ago. Almost without thinking he swatted the painfully thin Enid on her unpadded ass when she fretted instead of walked; he schooled Ramesh to not frown when given an unexpected order or questioned about the menu.
“I only mean to show that I am very seriously considering their request,” he had explained, when the behavior was pointed out to him.
“Yeah, well here, it looks like you’re confused, or you, uh, don’t approve. So, you look kind of...” Brian paused and composed his face into what he hoped was his best how-may-I-help-you expression. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Chris watching them and giving a very slight nod. I can do this! he thought, feeling dizzy. Oh my God, I can do this. Confidence and excitement grew all week as the day of the dinner party approached.
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“Oh, Chris, it looks like we’ll have five guests tomorrow,” Alexandra said, right before dismissing him to send the trainees to bed. “Ali called to say her date couldn’t make it. Also, Nancy and Lawrence decided to train it out. Make sure to get them?”
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“But... we practiced doing the plates two at a time!” Brian stammered. “What do we do now?”
“Now, you will also carry a plate, and stagger the presentations so no one has to wait longer than thirty seconds to get theirs. We’ll cover it tomorrow morning after breakfast.” Chris’s checklist had notes already, and he showed them to Brian. “We also need to change the table settings, make sure not to use the extra floral decoration, and the seating has been rearranged like this. Make your own notes and meet me at six a.m. for review.”
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“Car’s up at th’ garage,” Jack said when Chris visited him. “Had a bit of a bingle this morning, ran it over to th’ Shell. Richie there gives me a mates rate. I can use the big one, then?”
Chris nodded. “We’ll need it in the morning to pick up some of the food, but we’ll be long done with errands before the train gets in.”
Jack nodded and looked up at the dark sky. “It’ll be a storm, y’know.”
Chris examined the cloudless evening sky with skepticism and checked the weather report for the next day. Sure enough, a storm was coming in. So much for cocktails in the garden; they’d move them to the library instead. The last minute changes would be good practice for Brian to think on his feet.
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Brian stayed awake until he heard the clocks chiming nearly three in the morning. With a flashlight, he re-read his scrawled notes over and over, and the instruction book on dining practices he’d been given when he started the second stage of his training. Just as he was falling asleep at last, he heard Ramesh wake up with a violent sneeze.
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“Go the fuck away!”
“Rachel... sweetheart, I need you today,” Chris said cajolingly.
“And I need fucking Advil! And a massage and I need to get fisted and if you are not here with drugs and a fucking glove on, get the fuck out!”
With the wisdom of years of experience, Chris backed away and massaged his own temples. Rachel did occasionally have hellish periods. And this one was early. Good thing the house was mostly spotless and prepared; there was some work to be done in the library, and the second bathroom on the main floor needed a run through, but if he just adjusted Enid from her second floor duties, handled the library himself, asked Jack to make the market pickups and requested delivery for the other items—oh, yes, and booked Julio to come by and give Rachel a massage...
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Ramesh kept sneezing with an almost explosive quality, and Brian pulled him off the final buffing of the silver before he covered the eating and serving utensils with snot. “What’s the matter with you?” he asked, as panic started to rise.
“It is the hay fever, the seasonal allergies,” the older man said, blinking his watering eyes. “It is very bad today. Perhaps it is the flowers for the table as well.”
“Well, got God’s sake, take some Benadryl! I need you at one hundred percent!”
Obediently, Ramesh went in search of the drug and Brian tried not to crumple the notes in his hands about rearranging the table and the service order. Enid came out of the kitchen where she had been slicing the tomatoes for roasting, and he grabbed her by one arm, making her squeak in alarm. “Enid! I need you to tackle the second floor bathroom, the one with the shower stall. Get in there and make it sparkle, OK? And quick, I have, like, a thousand things left to do!”
“Yes, Brian!” she said in her sweet-toned voice. Brian had teased her about it being “dark brown” like Lola’s, but she hadn’t taken well to that little quip. He’d learned to be more sensitive since that day. He’d never seen a transsexual woman so tiny before; she had the shape of a skinny adolescent girl, tiny, sweet tits, and a tangle of reddish hair where her cock used to be. Pale as snow, too. Definitely not his type at all. But she was a hard worker, thank God. He checked his notes again and realized he couldn’t even read the next line.
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As a pebble creates the avalanche, Chris thought, as Jack shouldered his way into the kitchen, bearing bags from the market. “Talk to me about why there’s a cab outside,” he said, his voice steady.
“Well now,” Jack said depositing the bags on the chopping block. “There’s a bit of trouble with th’ steering.”
“The steering? Bad enough so it’s not safe to drive?”
“Oh, yeh. Locked up on bloody Main Street, didn’t it? Fuckin’ power steerin’, bloody waste of money. I had Richie come and fetch it. He’ll call when it’s ready.”
Chris took a deep b
reath. “OK. Let’s assume it won’t be ready by tonight. Brian!” he raised his voice enough to reach the dining room. “We’ll need to rent a car or engage a car service. Get my butler book and meet me in the library!” He ducked away from Cook as she started sorting through the bags, hearing her cry, “These are not Meyer lemons, you Aussie nitwit!” and did not stay for the following hors de combat.
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“Chris? Ali just called, she says Horace will come with her after all, so please re-set his place?” Chris smiled thinly as he nodded and then stopped himself before he turned to grab Brian again. Alex’s brows were taut, her fair skin almost ghostly. When she pressed her fingertips against her temples, he knew.
“Migraine, Ma’am?” he prompted gently.
She sighed, hating to reveal her weakness. “Yes, I think it might be. You keep with what you’re doing, I’ll take care of it.”
“I’ll send Enid with something to drink,” he said.
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“Oh my God, oh my God.” Brian stammered, staring at the rearranged table. “But... you said not to use the extra arrangement, so I... I...”
“You threw it away?” Chris’s voice was low and even. “Did I tell you to throw anything away? Brian, tomorrow you are going to wish you’d been quartered and served for dinner with a cherry port reduction. But for right now, call the damn florist.”
After Brian took care of that, his anxiety reached a new high and he yelled at Ramesh, making him drop the mandoline he was washing in the kitchen. Naturally, it fell apart, which make Cook hit the two of them with a look of such fury they both fled. When Brian then discovered Enid had never reached the second floor bathroom because she had been hijacked to deliver drugs and drinks to Alex, he almost wanted to throttle her. Instead, he yelled at her, too. Oddly, it didn’t make them any more efficient or make him feel any better.
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Chris reassembled the insulted mandoline after hand-cleaning the blade and then calmed Cook about her Meyer lemons. She was showing him her diagram for plating the salad when they both heard a man’s cry of alarm from the second floor. Chris ran.
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For Want of a Nail Page 1