by Karen Swan
She had rushed away as quickly as she could but still arrived here several minutes late, much to Rosaria’s evident displeasure, and Chloe had felt on the back foot with her ever since.
Waiting, still waiting for the next commandment, her eyes fell to several voluminous dress bags hanging from a portable clothes rail set near the door, a six-strong set of Louis Vuitton cases stacked in a tower ready to be brought down to her car. The two shih-tzus, Dolly and Princess, who had greeted her with ferocious yaps, were now blessedly dozing on one of the armchairs opposite, their paws twitching as they scurried in their dreams.
Rosaria herself was striking, albeit tiny at five foot one, her pale oval face only just beginning to soften at the jawline, her eyebrows like sliver moons framing sharply almond-shaped eyes. Disappointingly, her long hair, which was famously dyed a blue-black to look jet dark under the opera house lights, was twisted up and hidden beneath an orange silk turban, and her heavy curves that translated so well for classical tragedy were obscured this morning by a Japanese kimono. She wore a light muffler at her throat so that, besides her face, all that could really be seen of her were her small, ringed hands and pedicured feet. She was like a softly padded silken bundle, silent and still; such was the life of a resting soprano. She never used her voice between performances – according to Maria, who had greeted her at the door, Rosaria wasn’t scheduled to speak before six o’clock, Rio time – which meant this ‘get to know you’ meeting wasn’t going according to Chloe’s plan; she’d had more personal interactions with her postman.
Rosaria lifted the tablet again.
Arrange dinner with the President.
Oh dear God. Chloe felt her stomach drop. ‘Of America?’
‘Brazil. There is a state dinner after the performance tonight,’ Maria clarified. ‘Clearly it is an oversight that the invitation has not come through. The president and Signora Bertolotti are close friends. He would never have invited her to perform and not dine. It is an administrative error.’
‘Uh-huh,’ Chloe nodded, not believing a word of it. ‘And have you contacted his office?’ As Rosaria’s executive assistant this fell within her jurisdiction, surely?
‘Of course not. It would embarrass the president if we were to point out the error ourselves. We must employ a more diplomatic channel.’
‘Meaning me?’
‘Exactly.’
Chloe nodded, wondering how exactly she was supposed to garner a seat at a state dinner with the president of Brazil, tonight. Friday’s mingling penguins seemed small fry. ‘Okay, well sure, I’ll definitely do what I can.’
Rosaria’s eyebrow arched to a point.
‘Which means I-I’ll sort it,’ she said hastily. ‘Don’t worry. It’ll be arranged by the time you touch down.’ Chloe swallowed, her stomach plunging like she was in freefall. This was madness. On the side table, her phone buzzed and she saw Joe’s name come up. He was texting her the address of where they should meet before he flew out of the country.
She suppressed a sigh, looking back at Rosaria with her stitched-on smile. She figured she should quit whilst she was ahead. Her client’s requests needn’t necessarily stop at dinner with a president. ‘Okay, well, this has been great; I had better stop taking up your time; you should rest before your journey later. I’ll get that dinner sorted out for you.’ She cleared her throat, not at all sure how she was going to pull it off. ‘But in the meantime, I’m so glad we had the opportunity to do this and talk face to face. It’s wonderful to meet you in person at last; I’ve always been a terrific fan of yours—’
Rosaria nodded, clearly used to this bit.
‘—And I hope you too feel this has been helpful?’ Rosaria gave a sort of nod. ‘I just wanted you to be able to put a face to the voice, so to speak. Anything you need, I’m only a phone call away. Please don’t feel that anything changes for you just because Poppy’s . . . away.’ To her surprise – and dismay – they hadn’t asked after Poppy once, and Chloe had found herself explaining Poppy’s absence like a child explaining to her teacher that the dog ate her homework. ‘Your needs are my priority and I’m really excited and honoured to be working with you.’
The eyebrow twitched again.
‘For you.’
Her phone buzzed again as she stood, picking it up, but it slipped from her hand, falling onto the water glass beside it and tipping it over. It was only water, yet the way both women flinched, it may as well have been claret pouring onto the carpet.
‘Oh, goodness,’ Chloe mumbled, looking for something with which to mop it up; but the clatter had woken the dogs who now began barking again, one of them jumping from the chair and beginning to spring at her feet – and perilously bare ankles. ‘I’ll . . . I’ll get a towel from the bathroom, shall I?’ she asked, just as the dog positioned itself directly in her path.
The yelp, heart-stopping though it was, was nothing to the cry that followed it, as Rosaria leapt from her semi-recumbent position with surprising agility. ‘Princess! My baby!’
Maria gasped in shock at the unscheduled sound of her mistress’s voice, and Chloe looked between the two women with even more horror, as the injured dog was scooped up in one moment and Rosaria belatedly clutched her throat in the next, sacrificing herself for love.
‘Ohmigod, I’m so sorry, I didn’t see her there, I didn’t know she . . .’ Chloe whispered, barely able to use her own voice now either. ‘Is she okay?’
Chloe herself wasn’t sure which ‘she’ she was talking about – dog or owner? – but her enquiry was met with stony stares as the dog continued to yowl and whimper, and Rosaria’s hand stayed at her throat. Beside Chloe, the water glass had finished emptying its contents onto the floor, a large puddle spreading through the fibres, but Chloe had a feeling no one cared about the damned carpet any more.
‘I’ll let myself out and leave you to get . . . settled,’ she said quietly, nodding, trying to smile as she picked her way across the room and dodging the other dog, which was now also running in agitated circles between the coffee table legs and her own. ‘Have a . . . have a safe flight.’
Never had she been so happy to close a door behind her. She slumped against the corridor wall with her eyes closed, wondering if she’d just managed to lose her first client.
Her phone buzzed again and she groaned. If that was Joe, chivvying her . . . How the hell did Poppy do this, day in, day out?
All good so far?
It was Jack.
‘Just peachy,’ she muttered bitterly to herself, striding down the corridor and on to the next appointment.
If it hadn’t been for the fact that he had already paid the sign-up fee upfront, Chloe would have thought this was a prank. The meeting place with Joe was a stark contrast to the lavish opulence of Rosaria’s hotel: a rickety trestle table, just one of many, set amidst a street food market in Greenwich Village. Pigeons were hopping on the ground hopefully, a group of courier cyclists walking around awkwardly in their cleat shoes, bikes left in a tangle nearby. There were vast queues at the various food carts, their wares written on blackboards, a vivid buzz of lively conversation that drowned out the sound of the traffic just a few metres away.
It was as far from anything she might have suggested as it was possible to get – there was no roof, much less a Michelin star! – and part of her wondered whether that was the point; she had the distinct impression he didn’t like playing according to the rules and that what impressed others left him cold. Reverse snobbery?
‘Hello again.’ He looked up from his phone. It was a bright, sunny day and her own image was reflected back to her in his shades. ‘Sorry I’m a bit late. The meeting overran with my other client.’ It was the story of her life today.
He didn’t reply but looked mildly irritated. Clearly none of the VIPs liked to believe anyone else’s time was more valuable than their own.
‘This place is great,’ she said brightly, looking around at the cluster of food carts set up in a large, open square aroun
d them and selling everything from specialist breads and cheeses to Korean kimchi, Vietnamese pho and Keralan curry. There was even an English fish-and-chip van, only they were selling truffle fries and vodka-battered scampi.
‘Yeah, well, it’s not the kind of place that needs concierge membership to get into.’
She looked at him, somewhat taken aback. It seemed a very odd thing for a man who had just dropped $200,000 on that very thing to say. He pushed a coffee towards her. ‘For you.’
‘Thank you.’
‘It’s Sumatran. Made with Mandheling beans,’ he said, as though that would mean something to her.
A foodie, she noted mentally, smiling as she sipped it – before her eyes widened in surprise. ‘My God, that’s so good!’ she exclaimed, pushing her fingers to her lips as though pressing the point.
Even with his sunglasses on, she could tell he was pleased. ‘Exactly. Have you eaten?’
‘Uh, no . . .’ She looked around at the assembled choices. None of them really allowed for ladylike eating. They were all of the napkin-at-your-neck, dribbles-on-the-chin variety.
‘Like Mexican?’ he asked.
‘I’m always partial to a taco,’ she smiled, suppressing her horror at the thought of tackling one in front of him.
He frowned. ‘They don’t do tacos like you’d know them. It’s Mexican food at its finest. Their chilaquiles and aguachiles are excellent.’
Chila-whats? She looked over to see a black truck with Chimichanga written on the side in clean white font. ‘Let’s do it.’ She shrugged, taking the path of least resistance. She went to pull her legs out from under the trestle so that they could stand in line to order, but to her surprise, Joe merely turned towards the truck, raised an arm and signalled ‘two’ with his fingers. She saw the woman inside nod and signal back.
‘They’ll bring them over,’ he said, turning back to her.
‘Oh. Great.’ She slid her legs back under, wondering what he had just ordered for them both. ‘I didn’t know they do a waiter service here.’
‘They don’t.’ He offered no further explanation, the intimation being that clearly he was a good customer, or they knew he was a powerful one at least.
A tiny pause bloomed; she felt unaccountably stilted in his company. He wasn’t much older than her and yet he behaved as though he was, forcing a breach between them. ‘So tell me about yourself, Joe. What is it you do?’ she asked, figuring they may as well get down to business seeing as he wasn’t big on small talk.
He threw her a level look. ‘I have an engineering company.’
‘You’re an engineer? Gosh, now I wouldn’t have guessed that.’
‘No? What would you have said?’
Her eyes skipped over him appraisingly, taking in the sculpted physique evident even beneath his innocuous clothes. If it wasn’t for the shaggy hair, she’d have said he looked like a commando and he wasn’t a sharp enough dresser for architecture or anything design-led. But precious few jobs enabled someone to earn at the heights required to drop two hundred grand on a concierge membership – or join a Swiss bank, for that matter. ‘Something scientific perhaps – bio-tech? Or IT maybe? You look like you could’ve designed an app.’
‘On account of the beard?’ Bemusement softened his gaze a little.
She smiled. Busted. ‘Maybe. Engineering’s not an area I know much about, I’m afraid. Do you enjoy it?’
‘There are challenges I enjoy, and I like the logic running through it. I guess you might say I’ve always liked making broken things work.’
She smiled, trying to imagine him as a little boy with his Lego. She was an aunt now, to her big sister Kate’s son Orlando, so she was becoming well acquainted with the finer points of toddler construction.
‘Do you have to travel much for it?’
‘More than some, less than others.’
‘Which is your preferred airline?’
‘It depends where I am. American for domestic, BA or Swiss for Europe, Emirates for long haul.’
‘Do you have a PA?’
He looked at her with something akin to suspicion. ‘Why?’
‘It’d be good if I had a chat with them at some point so that I can help them help you with your travelling logistics. Seventy-five per cent of the requests we receive are travel-related – you know, people flying in to a new city and wanting to know the best place to eat, shows to see, that kind of thing. I could collaborate with them on that, make sure you’re getting the best possible experience wherever you are.’
‘I like to keep my business and personal lives separate and this is strictly a private venture. Besides, I have zero interest in following the crowd. I like to explore places myself and trust my own instincts.’
He gave a small shrug to their surroundings, indicating this place was a case in point. It wouldn’t feature on any magazine ‘hot spots’; you didn’t need to be on a list to get in. She looked at him, trying to work him out. Did he want their services or not? There was something prickly, almost reluctant about him, as though he disapproved of her and what she represented, which was ridiculous because he had been the one insisting that she took him on this morning.
He didn’t seem like most of Poppy’s other clients – at least, not what she assumed them to be like (although Rosaria had hardly welcomed her with open arms just now either; perhaps Serena hadn’t been so off-base with her warning after all?). But sitting beside her, she had always overheard Poppy chatting to her clients with a chummy playfulness; everything was upbeat and exciting, her clients viewing her services as the cherry on the top of their ice-cream sundae lives. But Joe had a flat, almost unenthusiastic directness that she would have expected if she’d been selling him a phone or a car. Then again, he’d thought he was getting vivacious, well-connected, smart-as-a-whip and thin-as-a-snake Poppy and ended up with good, ole faithful Labrador her; she supposed it would take a while for him to adapt.
‘That’s fine,’ she smiled. ‘No problem. So then let me get some basic details from you – age, background, education, marital status, that kind of thing,’ she said, pulling her notepad from her bag.
‘Is that strictly necessary? I’m really not interested in all the fluffing bullshit. I don’t need you to pander to my ego and send me fruit baskets on my birthday. I’ve already told you what I’ve signed up for.’
She took a breath. This bit wasn’t supposed to be the hard work. ‘Joe, I assure you this is standard procedure for VIP members. Regardless of what you may start out wanting from us, that is bound to evolve and I need to build up a profile of who you are and what you like so that I can better anticipate what you’ll need from me. We’ll be working together closely. I need to get to know you.’
He inhaled deeply, the gesture seemingly bored and defensive at once. ‘It’s not like there’s much to tell – I’m thirty-four, born in Vermont. My parents are retired. I have a younger brother. I’m not married. No kids – that I know of,’ he added, seemingly in all seriousness. ‘I went to MIT.’ He shrugged, as though that was all there was to tell. An entire life condensed into one breath.
‘Well,’ Chloe smiled after a pause, knowing she could have pretty much got that information off Facebook. ‘That’s a great start.’ She pressed her hands together, wondering how to get him to soften. What had Poppy done to get him on board?
A couple of women walked up, carrying takeaway boxes of pad thai. ‘Can we sit here?’ one of them asked, indicating the other end of the table. All the other tables were taken.
Chloe looked at Joe to check he was happy with that; this was his patch after all. He might not like having strangers sitting so close, especially when they were having what he was clearly finding to be an intrusive conversation. But he gave a relaxed shrug.
‘Sure.’
She eyed the food hungrily. It really did look – and smell – incredibly good.
‘So, um, what else?’ she mused, trying to bring her concentration back to work and off her stomach. ‘So I’ll
need your address – or addresses, if there’s more than one. Also, details of your doctors, surgeons, dentists, next of kin, tailor, barber, things like that. I’ve emailed a form over to you so if you could get it back to me as soon as possible, then I can add it to your profile.’ He looked back at her in silence, seeming incredibly bored, and she guessed he usually had people to do this for him; but if he insisted on keeping this strictly in the private realm . . . ‘Obviously, the sooner I know all I can about you, the sooner I can start helping you and anticipate your needs.’
The look he gave her suggested she would never be able to anticipate his needs but they were interrupted by the woman coming over from the truck with two steaming plates of chilaquiles. Chloe’s mouth started watering instantly as she saw that they were quartered corn tortillas, topped with tomato salsa and grilled red snapper. All was forgiven. The smell was divine.
‘There you go, Joel.’ Her black hair was wildly curly, held back by a red cloth hairband, stacks of rubber bracelets up her tanned arms. And her accent was thick, dancing almost. She was South American-looking.
‘Thanks, Ariane.’
Chloe smiled her thanks in silence. ‘Primarily then, the most helpful thing you could tell me is what it is that you want from me? Apart from the holiday house, I mean. You’re saying you don’t personally care about where’s hot or not, but if you need to be somewhere or have to impress a client, we can help. Our reach is global.’ She watched him begin to eat with typically male concentration, as though this was the first food to pass his lips in a week. ‘Equally, if you need anything logistical to be arranged that might be out of the remit of your PA, I can sort that for you – jet charter, a helicopter, a bulletproof car? You name it; I can order you a rickshaw in Bangkok with three minutes’ notice if that’s what you’d like. Whatever you need.’