Work for Hire

by Margo Karasek

  “Okay,” I nodded, but I stood waiting, uncertain where to go. Make myself comfortable? Somehow, suddenly, that seemed impossible.

  I took my eyes off Mr. GQ and noticed the space around me: the clinically white walls; the occasional glimpses of steel; the ultramodern decor. The living room was stark in its sparseness. Even its fireplace and wooden floors—probably the only remnants of the house’s original nineteenth century grandeur—had been painted over with white latex. A black and white painting of a woman hung over the fireplace, but her obscured features only added to the room’s barrenness.

  I shuddered. The central air was on, but the temperature wasn’t that low. The room left me cold. I rubbed my bare arms and looked around again. Where to sit? The sofa was so white I feared staining it just by standing in its vicinity. And the few other furniture pieces in the room, like the two shell chairs, looked extremely breakable. I shuffled away from the chairs, about to risk the sofa, when Mr. GQ caught my eye.

  “Go ahead,” he smiled. “Sit. They won’t break, not under your weight.”

  I smiled back, conscious he now observed my every move, and gently slid into a chair, holding my breath until I knew for certain it would remain standing. It did.

  “See,” Mr. GQ chuckled, “I told you, nothing to fear. And just in the nick of time.” He winked at me. “I think I hear Monique—Mrs. Lamont—coming. If you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to work.”

  Work? I guess he was an employee. Ms. Jacobs hadn’t been kidding when she said the Lamonts hired for looks.

  “Good luck,” Mr. GQ mouthed on his way out.

  And with that encouragement he disappeared from the room just as a statuesque brunette made her way in. I reluctantly took my eyes off his retreating back—he was one fine-looking man, although knowing New York, he was either gay or married—and focused them on the woman. Mooning after Mr. GQ wouldn’t pay my imminent housing bill. But this woman—Mrs. Lamont—could. One word from her, and my financial woes were over.

  She was extremely tall, taller than my five feet eight inches, and close to Mr. GQ’s six feet. Her hair was black, like finely honed obsidian. She was thin yet curvaceous, a throwback to the old Hollywood ideal. Her skin was pale. And her face … beautiful was not good enough to describe it. It was a perfect oval, with a broad forehead and two enormous eyes framed by perfectly tweezed brows. Her cheekbones protruded and contrasted with a narrow nose. Her lips pouted and a tiny mole teased above her left eye. There was nary a wrinkle in sight. If Ms. Jacobs hadn’t told me, I would never guess this woman was a mother of two in her mid-forties. Although I could definitely see why she had a successful modeling career.

  “I am Monique Lamont,” the woman said in a thick French accent as, without pausing, she sailed past me to lounge on the white sofa. She gracefully crossed her legs and rested her bracelet-adorned arm on the sofa’s back. “And you are Tekla. Maybe the tutor, maybe not. No?”

  “Uh,” I stammered in my seat, my body suddenly awkward and inadequate, as any woman’s would be when confronted with such feminine perfection. “Yes. Ms. Jacobs sent me.”

  “Good, good.” Mrs. Lamont tapped her manicured fingers on the sofa’s leather. “I speak with this Ms. Jacobs from the agency, and she says you are perfect. But she says that about the other girls she sends, and they are not, so we will see about you. No?”

  “Uh,” I said inadequately. What to say? In addition to appearing gauche, I was starting to feel stupid. “Yes.”

  “Perfect.”

  Mrs. Lamont re-crossed her legs and adjusted the fold of her slacks. The black fabric fit her so well it had to be hand-tailored. I also assumed it was designer. The experimental cut of the slacks and matching top screamed ‘couture expensive,’ not just ready-to-wear like my Armani.

  “This Jacobs woman says you are very smart. She talks about law school, grades, and rankings, but I know nothing about any of that. Her agency though has a fine reputation, so I will take her word on your intelligence. No?”

  I fidgeted. “Yes.”

  “Right.” Mrs. Lamont pursed her lips. “Although the other girls she sends are also very bright. One is a Ph.D. candidate in English literature at Columbia, and the other two have undergraduate degrees from Harvard. One even has a Master’s in education. Obviously, as you see, fancy schooling is not enough for me. I look for something more.”

  She eyed me expectantly.

  “Uh, yes,” I said. Agreeing with a potential client seemed like a good idea. “A good tutor should be more than just excellent grades and fancy schools.” Though what, besides academic excellence and good teaching ability, a tutor should possess was beyond me.

  Mrs. Lamont smiled, seemingly satisfied with my response. She slipped out of her pumps and curled her legs beneath her. In the casual pose, she looked just like the woman in the painting hanging over the fireplace. Startled by the possibility, I glimpsed at the canvas again. It was Mrs. Lamont, maybe a few years younger, in the same white room wearing similar black clothing.

  “As a fashion photographer,” Mrs. Lamont continued, “I am often away on shoots. Paris. Milan. Los Angeles. My husband too does a lot of travel. Even when I am here, my English is not so good. I speak easily, but my reading and writing are not good. So my children need someone to check over their schoolwork and help them with tests. I think an hour a day for each is good, no?”

  “Yes,” I agreed again as my head jerked. An hour a day for each kid! That meant two hours for five days, or $1,500 per week. If I landed this, I would earn $6,000 per month. That was more than most people made working eight-hour days! I could afford my new housing and food. Maybe even the tuition. Please, please, please, let me land this client.

  “They have nanny for this in the past,” Mrs. Lamont said, completely oblivious to my budding excitement, “but now they are too old and say to me, ‘Maman, we are too old for nanny … all the other kids in school have a tutor.’ So what am I to do? I fire the nanny and look for a tutor. I have the money for the best, so I ask other parents where they find theirs, and here you are, no?”

  “Yes,” I said, now fairly confident all I should do is agree with Mrs. Lamont for the meeting to go well.

  “But this,” Mrs. Lamont sighed dramatically, “is not so easy. First tutor comes, and she is too fat. Second tutor has pimples all over her face. The next one looks like a grandmother. And the last one is fat and old! My children are upset. I am upset. This is not acceptable. Because of my profession, my children grow up in a world with pretty people, skinny people, young people. They are always in my office and in my studio where we hire the best. We have standards. I say this to the Jacobs woman.”

  “Yes,” I nodded, feigning sympathy. Was this woman serious? Since when were tutors supposed to be beauty queens, even those that earned $6,000 per week? I wanted to cringe, but instead pasted on a smile, determined to stick it through. I really needed the money. Living with my mother was not an acceptable alternative.

  Though, suddenly, I wondered if maybe I too wasn’t skinny enough or young enough or pretty enough to be a tutor. And I also had pimples. Just three days before, I broke out with a monstrous zit on my chin. Was it still there? My hand itched for a mirror. I had just known acne would someday be the death of me.

  “I am glad you understand,” Mrs. Lamont said as she straightened on the couch. Her feet hit the floor, and she slid back into her shoes. “Do you follow fashion?”

  “Uh,” I stalled. The truth was no. I knew enough to recognize the big designer names and knew some of the models from TV, but the only time I glimpsed a fashion magazine was when I passed by a newsstand. “I don’t have much free time outside of schoolwork, but I do like clothes.” I held my breath.

  “Merveilleux,” Mrs. Lamont said before she got up from the sofa and walked to a phone. Did she like my answer? Why hadn’t I studied French?

  “I want you to meet my children. In this family, we are a democracy. They too can say if they like you. You will go to
lunch and talk, and then they tell me if you are okay for them, no?”

  Lunch? I glanced at my wristwatch and worried. It was already past one. If we went to lunch that would be, at minimum, another hour. I wouldn’t be back at school until well past two, and would definitely miss my Evidence class. Still, I would have more than enough time before the Con Law lecture and, well, we were talking about $6,000. Per month. For ten months.

  “Lunch would be great.”

  “Fabuleux.” Mrs. Lamont picked up the phone. “You go wait in the foyer and I call the children.”

  I retreated from the room and retraced my steps to the front door, sorry that Mr. GQ wasn’t there to show me the way. I paused in the foyer and looked around for a seat. I didn’t find it.

  Fifteen minutes later, I was still standing. Alone. Fidgeting from foot to foot. Did Mrs. Lamont forget? Should I go back to remind her? She might think that rude, so I leaned against the wall, determined to wait some more. Five minutes later, a teenage girl came barreling down the stairs, two barking beagles dogging her every step.

  “I’m coming, Maman,” she yelled over the dogs’ excited yelps. “But I can’t find Xander.”

  She came to an abrupt stop when she spotted me. The dogs skidded behind her. Tails wagging, their symphony of barks grew even louder when they ran from behind her legs and sniffed me.

  “Uh, nice dogs,” I said as I patted their heads and pressed my back to the wall when one aimed its snout at my crotch.

  “Coco, no!” The girl snapped her fingers and the dog plopped its butt down on my foot.

  I looked up from the dog and returned my gaze to the girl. There was no denying she was Mrs. Lamont’s daughter. She had the same dark hair and large eyes, but somehow her features were less dramatic. Her face was fuller, her lips narrower and her cheekbones less pronounced. She was also shorter and stouter. Poor girl. It couldn’t be easy growing up in the shadow of her mother’s perfection.

  “Hi,” I said, and slipped my foot out from underneath the sitting dog. “I’m Tekla.”

  She glowered, and yelled “Maman!” again. The dogs resumed their barking.

  “I am here, petit gosse,” Mrs. Lamont said as she walked into the foyer.

  The dogs jumped at her voice and, tongues lolling, happily left me alone in pursuit of their new prize.

  “Ah, and I see you meet Tekla.” Mrs. Lamont crouched down so the dogs could slobber over her flawlessly made-up face. “She is a tutor, and you will go to lunch to talk. You pick where. I give you my credit card.” Pushing the dogs away, Mrs. Lamont stood back up. “Where is Xander? He is also to go.”

  The girl scrunched her nose and moved towards her mother. Her black shirt and pants were similar to Mrs. Lamont’s, but on her teenage body the clothing looked less refined.

  “I don’t know. He won’t answer when I call him, though I think he’s in his room.”

  Mrs. Lamont sighed. “I go get him,” she said, and disappeared up the staircase, taking the dogs with her and leaving me alone with the girl.

  If this girl were to decide my employment, some friendly conversation was in order. “So,” I began, “what’s your name?”

  “Gemma,” she answered and turned away from me.

  Well, that was a non-starter.

  “Pretty name,” I tried again. “Where do you go to school?”

  “The Bartlett Academy,” she turned back to face me. “Have you heard of it?”

  “Ah, yeah,” I sputtered. Lauren always joked about Bartlett. She called it the Big Easy: easy on the academics, and full of easy rich girls. Luckily, Mrs. Lamont’s returning footsteps—heralded by more gleeful barks—cut short the need for further reply.

  “We are all finally here,” Mrs. Lamont announced as she dragged a lanky teenage boy behind her.

  Her son was tall and skinny, clad in a navy blazer, white shirt and red tie. His hands were shoved in his tan trouser pockets. Like Gemma, he also strongly resembled his mother. Yet his features retained Mrs. Lamont’s distinguished traits. He had the same narrow nose and dramatic cheekbones, but a ruffled mop of black hair hid most of his eyes and forehead, and his pouty lips seemed to be turned down in a permanent sneer of displeasure. Boy, the girls must love this one.

  “Let’s get this show on the road,” he scoffed, walking past his mother and opening the front door.

  Gemma and I followed. The dogs leapt after us.

  “I haven’t got all day,” Xander complained. “And Maman, can you please call the dogs before they go outside and get run over?”

  “Oui.” Mrs. Lamont did as her son ordered before handing Gemma a credit card. “I wait here until you come back. Au revoir,” she said as she shut the door behind us.

  I contemplated my prospective students. Gemma was rooted to the spot, clearly reluctant to move further. Xander, by contrast, was like a yearling, eager to bolt at the slightest provocation. Neither acknowledged me.

  What now? Someone should take charge and make lunch plans. I was the oldest, but I had no clue where to go—and Gemma had the credit card. So I stood staring, hoping for divine inspiration.

  It didn’t come.

  Instead, Xander turned and strutted down the block, away from the house, wholly unconcerned that he was the only one walking. Gemma slid the credit card in her Gucci purse and pulled out a cell phone.

  I frowned at Xander’s quickly retreating back, then Gemma’s phone.

  This did not bode well for me.

  Xander would likely disappear—not to be heard from again until I was safely out of a job—and Gemma was probably calling a friend, also ready to ditch me. She had a credit card, and her mother’s permission to use it. What would Mrs. Lamont think? If I couldn’t even get these kids to a restaurant, how could I possibly force them to do their homework?

  I was about to bomb royally, defeated by two uncooperative brats.

  No.

  I took a deep breath and focused on Gemma. She was closer and, therefore, my first target. She also seemed more in awe of her mother.

  “Are you calling a restaurant?” I asked and mentally crossed fingers. I had a plan: direct confrontation.

  “No,” Gemma snapped the phone off, but still held it in her hand.

  “Oh, well,” I said while I shrugged and adjusted the strap of my bag. Better to look nonchalant, else she sense fear and pounce. “If you’re not, then maybe you should put the phone away. Your mother specifically said we should talk over lunch. But if you’d rather not, I can always go back and tell her you had other plans. I’m sure she’ll understand.”

  I held my breath. No way was I going back to Mrs. Lamont to admit defeat, but Gemma didn’t need to know that.

  Gemma narrowed her eyes and clutched the phone harder.

  “No, that’s fine,” she finally said before she slipped it back in her purse. “I was just checking to see if I had any messages. I don’t. So if you’re ready, we can go. Do you have any food preferences?”

  “Not particularly,” I smiled. One down. One to go. “But how about your brother? It seems like he has other ideas.”

  Gemma turned, searching for Xander. He had stopped at the corner of the block, hands still in his pockets, staring at the clear overhead sky, whistling. The sun glared in his face, but he didn’t seem to mind.

  “Don’t worry about him.”

  Gemma turned back to face me. Her lips turned up in a slight smile and her shoulders relaxed. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was trying to encourage me.

  “He just likes to show off,” she explained before she started after him.

  I meekly followed.

  “What are you doing?” Gemma snapped as she stopped in front of her brother and kicked his Converse All Stars. “You heard Maman. We are all supposed to go to lunch. And I’m not getting into trouble because of you.”

  “Whatever,” Xander hedged.

  He looked down from the sky, only to focus his attention on the dirty sidewalk and scuff the sole of his left sn
eaker along the pavement. He must have found the activity satisfying, because he repeated it with his right shoe.

  “I was ready to go five minutes ago, but the two of you just stood there gawking at each other and wasting time,” Xander bitched. He pulled his right hand out of his pocket and shoved it through his mop of falling black hair. “And where are we going, anyway?” He narrowed his eyes at his sister. “You better not pick anything expensive, or we’ll go bankrupt doing this.”

  Bankrupt? Now I scoffed. His parents were about to dish out $150 an hour on his tutor, and he worried about the lunch bill on his mother’s credit card?

  “I don’t know.” Gemma looked around her. “Sushi, maybe?”

  “Sushi!” Xander shoved his hand back in his pant pocket. “That’s at least fifty bucks. I don’t think so.”

  “Well … ” Gemma bit her lower lip. “I don’t know about anything else. If not sushi, then I want some place where they’ll serve a salad. Do you know any?” she asked me.

  I shook my head no. For God’s sake, this was their neighborhood. “Where do you usually go?” I asked.

  “She doesn’t eat lunch,” Xander volunteered and sneered at his sister. Sweat slowly percolated around his hairline, yet he refused to abandon the blazer.

  Gemma kicked him again. “Very funny, Xander. Just because I don’t eat like a pig—or you—doesn’t mean I don’t eat … oww,” she screeched as Xander kicked her back. “You asshole!”

  She aimed an upraised palm at Xander’s head, but stopped it inches from his skull at my sharp intake of breath. I inched between Xander and Gemma to avert any future physical exchanges. Bruises and cracked heads probably wouldn’t look good for me.

  “I know!” Xander said, stepping around me to face his sister again. Obviously he was not impressed by my physical authority. “How about pizza?”

  “I don’t do cheese, Xander” Gemma said. “It’s bad for the skin.”

  “Whatever,” Xander shrugged. “Lunch is wasted on you two anyway.” He tipped his chin in my direction. “She doesn’t look like she eats either.”