Clean Sweep

by Jane Heller

  “I’m supportive of all my people, yes,” Alistair said distractedly, then checked the time on his watch.

  “—I thought perhaps you might recommend me for a job at one of the national magazines. I hope to interview celebrities for People magazine, for example, just as I’ve done for your newspaper, which, may I add, is an absolutely topnotch paper, thanks to your very capable daughter Bethany, who’s a true professional and a pleasure to work with.” Shovel, shovel. Grovel, grovel.

  “Delightful of you to say so, dear.”

  “So as I was telling you, I’d like very much to work for a national magazine like People, but I feel I need a really good reference, just to get my foot in the door, a recommendation from someone who has influence with the media. Someone such as yourself.”

  “I’ve been on the cover of People magazine three times, and they tell me my covers sold the most issues in the magazine’s history, not including the Elizabeth Taylor and Jackie Onassis covers, of course. But then those two are Democrats, so what do you expect? Ho ho.”

  “That’s very interesting, Senator. Really it is. But getting back to my situation, which has become somewhat dire…”

  “I’ve been interviewed by every magazine in the world,” said Alistair, pulling a white linen handkerchief out of his smoking jacket pocket and giving his nose a loud honk.

  “Yes, Senator, I know. You’re quite an interesting man.” And an egomaniac too.

  “Yes. Ho ho. I enjoy being interviewed. Always have. Come to think of it, why haven’t you interviewed me for our little newspaper?” Alistair said with a chuckle.

  “I’m sure Bethany thought you’d be far too busy,” I said. Now can we get back to me and the fact that I need a job?

  “Nonsense, dear. I’m never too busy to help a member of my team—especially such an attractive member.” Oh, save it. “You want to interview me sometime? Is that it? Don’t be shy. Just give my secretary a call.”

  “Well, thank you, Senator Downs. I’ll do that. But to get back to my job situation…”

  “As a matter of fact, I’ll be back in Layton the end of January unless, of course, the weather at Lyford is too glorious to give up. You just tell Mrs. Hives over at the newspaper that I said it’s okay.”

  “That’s super, Senator. Really. Now if I could just—”

  “An interview with me will help you get that big job you’re after, dear. You’ll see.”

  “I’m beginning to.”

  “And now, if you’ll excuse me, dear. I must get going or Mrs. Hives will have my head. She’s got me so overcommitted I’m apt to forget my own name.”

  Fat chance. If there was one thing Alistair Downs would never forget, it was his name.

  “Daddy, I’m leaving to go back to the paper and I—Alison! What are you doing here?”

  Alistair was about to dismiss me when Bethany marched into the library munching on a jelly donut and sprinkling powdered sugar on the dark plaid carpeting. Julia was right. She did have a white mustache. Judging by the look on her face, I was the last person she expected to find in her father’s house.

  “Hi, Bethany,” I said. “I just stopped by to—”

  “She came to interview your old dad,” Alistair said.

  “Well, if she wanted to interview you, she should have come to me first,” Bethany told her father.

  “She must not have known that,” said Alistair. They were talking about me as if I weren’t even there. “I’m sure she’ll go through the proper channels the next time.”

  “I’m sure she will,” Bethany said, eyeing me suspiciously. “Everyone tries to get to my father, so I have to be very protective of him,” she explained. “Especially now that Melanie Moloney, that low-class, low-life—”

  “Now, now, Bethany honey,” Alistair comforted her. “Let’s not get all upset about Ms. Moloney. She may be a little too curious about my life for my taste, but we all know that it was curiosity that killed the cat, don’t we?”

  Bethany nodded, then gave her father a peck on the cheek as he put his arm around her.

  I’d had it with the Downses. I said goodbye and got the hell out of Evermore. No wonder Alistair Downs had found stardom as a dance instructor. That bastard could dance his way out of any situation. He had no intention of helping me get a magazine job. He had no intention of hearing what I had to say. He had no idea who I was!

  You’ll be okay, you’ll be okay, I told myself, as tears of anger and frustration stung my eyes. You don’t need a rich man to save your life anymore, Alison. Not this time.

  Chapter 5

  By the middle of January, Janet Claiborne still hadn’t produced a real buyer for Maplebark Manor. The last person I showed the house to wasn’t even sure she wanted to live on the East Coast, much less in Layton. Of course, if Janet had showed the house herself, maybe things would have gone differently. But she was busy having a new car phone installed in her Jaguar and couldn’t possibly cancel her appointment. A good car phone installer, she said, was as rare as someone who could make a good martini.

  I finally got to see the brochure on the house, though. Cullie had left a handful of copies in my mailbox with his business card, on which he had scribbled, “Here’s the finished product. I do nice work, eh?” He was right; the photographs were spectacular. Maplebark Manor looked grand. I do nice work, too, I thought, remembering all the time, energy, and money that had gone into the renovation of the house. Now if someone would only buy the place, I’d be in business.

  I called the number on Cullie’s business card so I could thank him for taking such beautiful pictures, but I got his answering machine and hung up. Let’s face it, the man intimidated me. He was handsome and talented and called his own shots. What’s more, he seemed to have confidence in himself and his abilities, which was something I certainly didn’t.

  It was hard to have confidence in myself and my abilities when the bank had begun foreclosure proceedings on my house and I couldn’t find a job. Day after day, I called magazine editors in New York, and day after day I got nowhere. I decided what I needed short-term was some local, part-time work to supplement my meager income from the newspaper while I waited for one of the big-time magazines to hire me. But where would I find local, part-time work? The only things I knew how to do were interview famous people and clean house. Maybe I could clean house for famous people, I laughed. But seriously, what was I going to do?

  I pulled out the latest edition of the Community Times and flipped to the classified section, where there were Help Wanted ads for a legal secretary (not qualified), a dental hygienist (not qualified), a computer programmer (not qualified), and a fitness trainer at a gym (not qualified—my idea of “going for the burn” was ordering the Hot ’n’ Spicy Buffalo Chicken Wings at McGavin’s). Then I turned the page and saw the following ad:

  HOUSEKEEPER WANTED

  Honest, reliable, discreet, English-speaking person needed to clean house, do laundry. Must be well organized, have excellent references, drive own car, and have superb cleaning skills. $25/hr. Tuesday thru Friday. Call 555-7562.

  I surveyed the other ads on the page—for a short-order cook, a bilingual bank teller, a manicurist, a stenographer, and a lane assigner at a bowling alley. There was also a big ad that read: “The Gap is opening another store in Layton. Sales help needed.” Finally, a job for which I was qualified!

  I called The Gap and arranged for an interview. When I showed up, I was told by the store’s sixteen-year-old manager (or so she looked) that I wasn’t quite right for the position, which was another way of saying I was too old. According to this manager, the kids who shopped at The Gap would feel mothered by a woman my age, and if there was anything kids didn’t need when they were buying a new pair of jeans, it was a mother. Back to the drawing board.

  My next attempt at part-time employment was equally humiliating. Since retailing was familiar to me (I’d done my share of shopping over the years), I interviewed for a position as a salesperson at a shop that
sold maternity clothes and related accessories. The interview was going along nicely until the manager of the store asked me if I knew how to operate a breast pump.

  I did not get the job.

  As the winter wore on, the newspaper’s classified section got slimmer and slimmer. The recession had settled on top of Layton like a dense fog; there were no jobs—at least none that I was capable of performing. Each week, I scanned the paper for possibilities, and each week my eyes rested on the same ad:

  HOUSEKEEPER WANTED

  Honest, reliable, discreet, English-speaking person needed to clean house, do laundry. Must be well organized, have excellent references, drive own car, and have superb cleaning skills. $25/hr. Tuesday thru Friday. Call 555-7562.

  Boy, this lady must be hard to please, I thought as I reread the ad for the umpteenth time. There were plenty of housekeepers out of work. It was hard to believe the job hadn’t been filled.

  What if I called the number and applied for the job? Twenty-five dollars an hour for eight hours a day, four days a week, came to $800 a week. That would keep the heat and lights on at Maplebark Manor until a buyer came along. But could I, Alison Waxman Koff, mistress of Maplebark Manor, be a housekeeper? It was bad enough that I had to scrub my own toilets, but somebody else’s? What would people who knew me say if they found out? What would people who didn’t know me say if they found out? It would be the hottest gossip in Layton since the socialite up the street was arrested for running an escort service out of her house.

  But why would anyone have to know that I was a housekeeper? Why couldn’t I just gather up my Windex, my Fantastik, and my Pledge, hop into my Porsche, drive over to the woman’s house, do the work, collect my money, and leave? Who would be the wiser? Nobody, that’s who. Not Sandy. Not my mother. Nobody. If anybody asked where I went on Tuesdays through Fridays, I’d say I was in New York City meeting with magazine editors. If Bethany wanted me to do a story for the newspaper, I’d tell her I was free on Mondays or weekends.

  I picked up the ad and read it again. HOUSEKEEPER WANTED. HONEST, RELIABLE, DISCREET, ENGLISH-SPEAKING PERSON NEEDED. I was honest, reliable and discreet, most of the time, and I spoke English well enough to communicate with everyone but my mother. MUST BE WELL ORGANIZED, HAVE EXCELLENT REFERENCES, DRIVE OWN CAR, AND HAVE SUPERB CLEANING SKILLS. I was very well organized (anal retentive, Sandy used to say), drove my own car, and had, maybe not superb, but certainly above-average cleaning skills. What I lacked were the excellent references. The only people who knew how well I could dust a table, scour a sink, and mop a floor were my mother and Sandy, and I wasn’t about to ask them for a reference. Cross that bridge when you come to it, I told myself.

  I ran my finger over the ad and felt my heart race. Call the number, call the number, a little voice whispered. Follow your instincts. Show everybody you can take care of yourself. Don’t be a wimp.

  I took a deep breath and dialed the number. I was about to speak when I realized I had reached an answering machine.

  “This is 555-7562,” a woman’s voice said. “If you’re calling about the ad in the paper, don’t even think about leaving a message after the beep unless you’re absolutely sure you’re qualified for the job. Beep.”

  I gulped and hung up. Who was this bitch? More to the point, was I absolutely sure I was qualified for the job? Of course not. The only thing I was absolutely sure of was that I could practically taste that $800 a week. I waited a few minutes and called again.

  “This is 555-7562,” the machine said. “If you’re calling about the ad in the paper, don’t even think about leaving a message after the beep unless you’re absolutely sure you’re qualified for the job. Beep.”

  “Good afternoon,” I said, trying to sound perky and efficient. “I’m calling about your ad and I’m absolutely sure I’m qualified for the job. My name is Alison and my number is 555-8184. I look forward to hearing from you.”

  The die was cast. Now what would I do if the woman called back? I went downstairs and poured myself a glass of Almaden. What if she turned out to be someone I knew? Calm down, I told myself. If she calls you back, you can always say you’ve already taken another job, or that you dialed her number by mistake, or that you suffer from multiple personality disorder and one of your other personalities placed the call.

  At four-thirty that afternoon my phone rang. I jumped. I considered letting my answering machine pick it up, but decided to be a big girl.

  “Hello?” I said cautiously.

  “Is this Alison?” a female voice demanded.

  “Yes, this is she,” I said.

  “You responded to my ad in the paper. Tell me about yourself,” the voice challenged.

  “Well, I have superb cleaning skills,” I began, as little beads of sweat formed above my top lip. “And I’m used to working in luxury homes.”

  “Really? Where are you working now?”

  “At a Georgian mansion on Woodland Way.”

  “Woodland Way. Nice address. Been there long?”

  “About five years,” I said, recalling the day Sandy and I closed on Maplebark Manor.

  “Why are you leaving? Did you have a run-in with your employer?”

  “Not at all. The couple who own the house are in financial trouble.”

  “It’s happening all over. Did they get killed in the market?”

  “I have no idea. My job is to keep their house clean, not ask questions.” I remembered that the ad had said something about being discreet.

  “I like that. I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon at three-thirty. Number 7 Bluefish Cove. What’s your last name?”

  “Er…um…Koff.” Everything was moving so fast.

  “Fine. Tomorrow at three-thirty.”

  “But wait…I…I’m not sure I can—”

  “Oh, right. I forgot. My name’s Melanie. Melanie Moloney. Perhaps you’ve heard of me. See you tomorrow.” Click.

  Melanie Moloney? That’s who wanted a housekeeper? Oh, baby. Now what was I going to do? If Bethany Downs ever found out I was going to see Melanie Moloney, it would be the end of my career at the newspaper, maybe the end of me. Well, fuck her and her father. I needed to earn Melanie’s $800 a week a lot more than I needed to worry about incurring the wrath of the Downses.

  Of course, there was no guarantee I’d even get the job. There was the pesky problem of those excellent references I didn’t have. But I figured I’d deal with that matter when the time came. Meanwhile, I concentrated on the positives of being Melanie Moloney’s housekeeper. First, there was the money. Second, there was the fact that I wouldn’t have to give up my work at the newspaper or discontinue my search for a magazine job in New York. Third, I’d be working in virtual anonymity; no one except Melanie would ever have to know I was cleaning toilets instead of furthering my career in journalism. Since Melanie was an outsider in town, I’d be able to keep my secret from everyone who mattered. And finally, I’d be working for an author of best-selling celebrity biographies—a woman who wrote about famous people, just like I did, only for millions of dollars instead of pennies. Maybe Melanie was my ticket to stardom. You’ve heard of those Hollywood moguls who started out in the mailroom of ICM or William Morris? Well, what about starting out as some famous person’s housekeeper? Maybe by cleaning Melanie’s kitchen, dusting her office, and ironing her camisoles, I’d be able to get close to her, study her technique, find out how she got people to tell her things, learn how she rose from newspaper reporter to mega-author. Maybe she’d see how efficient and capable I was and make me her assistant, then her associate, then her coauthor. Anything was possible, wasn’t it?

  My fantasy was interrupted by the phone ringing. It was Julia suggesting we have dinner.

  “I can’t afford to eat out. I’m into reality now, remember?”

  “I’m proud of you, Koff—so proud I’ll treat. See you at McGavin’s in an hour.”

  I hadn’t been to McGavin’s in months, and I was shocked to see how much the clientele had chang
ed. A ramshackle hamburger joint that used to cater to Layton’s “underclass” (i.e., people on a budget) as well as to the Community Times staffers who worked next door, McGavin’s had evidently gone trendy. Instead of seeing the usual array of four-by-fours and pickup trucks in the parking lot, all I saw were BMWs and Mercedes. Inside, the place was jam-packed with tanned and trim bodies sporting Carolyn Roehms, Donna Karans, and Ralph Laurens.

  “What’s going on?” I asked Julia as I spotted three couples who used to be my friends when I was married to Sandy but who now pretended not to see me.

  “This is their way of downscaling,” Julia replied. “They can’t afford the fancy Italian restaurants anymore, so they come here. God forbid they should stay home.”

  “They’re lucky if they have a home,” I said mournfully.

  “What’s happening with your house? Any action?”

  “None. Not one offer. Nobody wants it except the bank.”

  “That’s tough, Koff. How are you handling it?”

  “Okay, I guess.” I was dying to tell Julia about my interview with Melanie Moloney, but there was no way I was going to tell anybody about that. Sure, Julia was a good friend, but she was also a longtime and very loyal employee of the Community Times, which meant that she had a strong allegiance to Alistair Downs. One little slip and I’d be out of the newspaper in a heartbeat. Another reason I couldn’t tell Julia was that I had no idea how she’d react to my being somebody’s housekeeper. She might be appalled that I wasn’t supporting myself in a more politically correct manner. Better not to tell her anything, I decided.

  As we ate cheeseburgers and French fries, I listened to Julia expound on everything from the Planning and Zoning Board’s recent decision not to grant the refurbished Layton Delicatessen a liquor license to details of the town’s controversial new recycling program (controversial because many Layton residents thought the little blue recycling baskets they were asked to leave outside their homes once a week were so unsightly they might contribute to the depreciation of their property values). Over coffee I asked Julia how her mystery man was.