Queen of the Masquerade (Rosie Maldonne's World Book 3)

by Alice Quinn

  Léo was in a mopey mood. He told me that he couldn’t stop thinking about his date with Erina. He was worried. I picked up a few odds and ends and shoved them in my purse—the container of leftover beans and rice from the night before and a swimsuit for Erina.

  We all had a quick wash-down with what was left in the water bottles and headed out to school. Léo only came as far as the end of the street with us before heading off to the high school.

  I dropped off my three babas at their respective thought-killing factories. I didn’t bump into anyone I knew, which is often a blessing, and I headed straight over to Rachel Amar’s place. I had to take the bus. Her apartment wasn’t exactly in my neighborhood, and I didn’t want to waste half a day getting there.

  The Russian-African insano journalist was waiting for me at the door. She had a blue-and-gold robe on this time. She wasn’t wearing a turban today. Instead, she wore her hair tied back tightly in a knot, all pulled away from her face. Her Longchamp bag had disappeared and she was now sporting a mustard-colored Hermès backpack. She looked incredible!

  “It’s you again!” I said.

  “I realized I hadn’t paid you for yesterday’s session!”

  “Yesterday’s wh . . . ? Oh! I get it! It’s this therapist claptrap again! I don’t know how many times I’m supposed to tell you. Why won’t you believe me? Take me at my word.”

  “I don’t understand what you’re getting at.”

  “I’m not a shrink.”

  “Oh, stop it with all this silliness. How much do I owe you?”

  “I told you already! It’s free of charge! Free, free, free!”

  “I see. Is this also part of the new method? I have to exchange something, is that it? But what could I possibly give you in exchange? Do you like traditional African dress? Or Dior, maybe? How about a Hermès scarf? Would you like that? What about some Egyptian cotton sheets?”

  She followed me into the building as she yammered on.

  I ran over to the elevator. I was faster than her. The doors closed before she could get in. Good. I hoped she’d now consider her ass dumped. I’d had enough of all the bats-in-the-belfry weirdness the day before. No more shenanigans, please!

  18

  I stepped inside the apartment with a feeling of ownership. I liked it! Nobody had been there to mess the joint up, and, seeing as I’d done quite a lot the day before, I felt ready to target the rest. And there was still a ton! On Rachel Amar’s note to my Véro, she’d mentioned something about wanting a deep clean, which meant windows, curtains, all that nightmare stuff. I wasn’t going to get a second to mellow out, that was for sure, and there’d def be no time to watch Monsieur Linus Robinson tapes. I’d just have to remember him, being in his arms, the icy lake . . .

  I headed to the office and Amar’s computer. Véro (now me) was supposed to check her e-mails.

  One was a message from her accountant saying Amar had to be careful. Her latest book hadn’t sold many copies. She didn’t have enough patients. She was spending too much on art and shit. Basically, she was in the red. Wow. Going broke was clearly an epidemic. And her accountant’s advice? Amar should do a lot less research and write fewer books. Books didn’t sell. She needed more patients. Patients paid.

  There was also a message from some legal firm. It was from the lawyer who was defending the infamous Full Moon Pyromaniac. Apparently this guy was still doing the whole vow-of-silence thing. He’d taken the stand and written a note stating he wouldn’t say a word unless in the presence of the author of Psychoanalysis and Criminality.

  Amar had asked to be told if there was an emergency, but I didn’t really think any of these e-mails were all that urgent. She was probably used to being broke by now, and if she wasn’t . . . Well, I guess it’s always better to find out these things as late as possible. As for the pyro guy and his lawyer, she already knew about all that. She’d said to explain she was away if he called.

  I was secretly hoping Rachel Amar would show up earlier than expected. It would mean I could get to the curtain washing and all that spring cleaning bull without having to play the secretary, and it would also give me more time to think about what we were going to do to help Erina.

  I’d only just gotten the espresso machine working when I heard the doorbell ring. It was that Trampoline woman (or whatever her name was!). She just wouldn’t give up! She had a small box, wrapped with a fancy ribbon, which she held out to me as she stepped inside.

  “This is my way of paying you in part—”

  “How many times . . .” I eyeballed the box. OMG, that box smelled great! What was in it? My stomach growled a big yes. “What is it?”

  “A few appetizers from Chez Ernest. The savory kind. I guessed you might like them. Also, I had an idea. You don’t want me to pay for my therapy sessions. Fine. I’m going to cook for you instead! Like we talked about yesterday! I’ll go to the market at closing. Do you like West African dishes? Traditional Russian food? I’ll learn how to make it all!”

  “Sessions? Multiple? No. It ain’t happening.”

  She didn’t respond. I was starting to feel angsty as I followed her to the kitchen, where she put the box into the fridge.

  Seeing as she was there, and that I wanted to make it perfectly clear that I was a replacement maid and not a replacement therapist, I picked up a duster and started wiping down all the ornaments in the lounge and then in the office. One by one.

  While I did this, she went and sat her ass down in the waiting room. She took a huge file out of her bag and started reading away. She’d taken an ornate paper knife whatchamacallit from the kitchen and was playing with it as she read from the file.

  “I’m editing a study written by a colleague of mine who works in finance. It’s supposed to be sent off for printing any day now. I got the job yesterday after our session. I made a few calls. This is all thanks to you! You’re really very good at what you do, you know.”

  “What?”

  By this point, I just assumed she was one of those compulsive liars I’d read about. Maybe she needed a real doctor.

  Someone else was at the door. I startled when the bell rang, and the journalist peered at me over the top of her glasses.

  “Are you going to get that or should I?”

  I shrugged and went to open up, but she pushed me out of the way, overtook me with the letter-opener thing in her hand, and answered the door. A man, I’d say around forty years old, stepped inside. He was tall and wore glasses, a Lacoste polo shirt, and Nikes. He was the business guy I’d seen the day before on the video. He’d started some company and had been having loads of sex-swapping parties or key orgies or whatever they’re called. He was the one desperately seeking love with a capital L. He looked all wound up!

  He was obviously surprised to see us both there. He checked the name on the door, then stared drop-jawed at the journalist.

  She opened her eyes wide and boomed, “What is it? Do we know one another? Is there something wrong with my nose? It’s still in the middle of my face, isn’t it?”

  She was starting to sound like me!

  “Are you new here?” the guy said. “Allow me to introduce myself. Laroche. Alexandre Laroche. I’m one of Doctor Amar’s patients.”

  “Oh, aren’t we all? Get in line!” the journalist replied. “And what’s with the ‘Are you new here’?”

  He looked bothered by this. “I don’t get your meaning.”

  She pointed to the living room with the letter-opening-knife thingy, but it got a bit too close to my face.

  “Hey! Careful with that thing! I’m right behind you! You could have poked my eye out!”

  “So, again, I don’t get your meaning,” the guy said. He spoke slowly, really trying to pin her down. He was evidently angry that she wasn’t responding. I don’t think he’d noticed I was there.

  Madame Limousine (what was that name again?) gave him a holier-than-thou superstare.

  “If you’d just like to take a seat in the lounge area,�
�� she said, “she’ll be with you in a moment.”

  “What? Why can’t I go in the waiting room?” asked Laroche worriedly.

  She got screwball now. Real cross. As she headed into the lounge, pushing him in front of her, she whispered, “I can’t get over it! They’re all trying to jump the line!”

  Speechless, Laroche allowed himself to be frog-marched. I bet he was wondering what the f-star-star-star was happening to him (I doubted he used foul language—he didn’t seem the type).

  She threw him into an armchair and shouted to me, “OK, so where the hell was I? I said I’d cook! So, I’ll cook! You’ve got to do what you’ve got to do!”

  “What the devil is all this?” he said. “I don’t have the slightest idea what’s going on here today. I really don’t.”

  “You’re going to drive me nuts! I wouldn’t be surprised if you sent me over the edge!” she cried out, pointing at him.

  “Hey! I will not allow you to . . . Where’s Madame Amar? Huh?”

  But the journalist stormed out of the room. She must have lost all interest. She shook her paper cutter at him as she flounced past and rolled her eyes.

  Laroche looked speechless. He sat there like a little scaredy-cat, not moving a muscle, not uttering a syllable. He stared at me. He hadn’t even noticed me up to that point. I took pity on the poor bastard.

  “Don’t pay any attention to that one,” I said. “She wants a therapy session with me and I won’t give her one, so she’s wound herself up and gotten all hot and bothered.”

  “Who are you, anyway? And why have you got that thing?” he asked, pointing to my hand. “One of you is brandishing a paper knife! The other a feather duster! What is this? A cult? Are these your magic objects?”

  He stood up hurriedly and marched toward the waiting room. He scanned inside and seemed surprised to see Madame Kerosene (or whatever she’s actually called) standing in front of the sofa.

  I was too.

  “Hey, Madame Mezzanine”—I was just hoping for the best on the name front, to hit the jackpot at some point—“what are you doing in here? Weren’t you supposed to be cooking or something?”

  “Oh, I’d like to have my consultation first,” she sulked. “I don’t see why I should have to go after everyone else.”

  “What’s your problem?” I asked.

  “S-so sorry to interrupt you,” stammered Laroche. “I’m a little taken aback, to be honest with you both. I don’t usually bump into anyone else when I come here. The whole system is run very smoothly so that we never see the . . . um . . . the others . . .”

  “Yes, well, we’re bumping today. Sorry about that,” I said. “We won’t be bumping for long, though. What I suggest you do is as follows, so listen up. Go home and call the office next week to set up another appointment.”

  “What’s going on here? Why’s everything changing?” he asked, his voice quivering. With a voice like that, I could understand how he’d annoy the heck out of anyone.

  “You don’t like my style, then? Not happy with how I do things? Well, you’re right. This isn’t how shrinks should do things! And that’s because—now, please listen carefully—that’s because I’m not a shrink. So, please, just go home.”

  “Don’t listen to a word of this,” said the journalist. “It’s some sort of new method.”

  He stared at her, then at me, then back at her before taking a very deep breath. He ran over to the sofa and plopped down on it as if he were running on impulses alone.

  “OK, are we getting on with it, then?” he asked.

  “Getting on with what?”

  “The sofa thing . . . the couch . . .”

  “Listen to me! There’ll be nothing happening on that couch, because I’m not a—”

  “This can’t be happening! Am I dreaming? You can’t just go ahead and do something like this without warning people first! I feel like I’ve been abandoned! I’m completely on my own here. What should I do?”

  Another minute of that and I think he’d have started crying real actual tears. I knew I had to shut him up and shut him up fast.

  “No, come on, you’re not alone. You’ve got all your friends. You’ve got all those sex-party people.”

  His cheeks flushed and he glanced quickly at Madame Wolverine (or whatever . . . ). She must have been very embarrassed, because she darted off to the kitchen. On her way out, she said, “Please, carry on without me. You can go ahead of me. I’ll have my turn later. No worries.”

  I almost gave up. I almost sat down at the desk to give this guy a good therapy session. I just wanted to get it over and done with so he’d get out of there. But I went for the quickest route. I grabbed his arm. He flinched.

  I pulled him gently toward the door. He wasn’t happy, but he had to go along with it. I pushed him out into the hallway with no further comment and shut the door behind him.

  I listened. I was worried he was going to start blubbering in the corridor and that the neighbors would hear, but after a while, I heard his footsteps as he scuttled away.

  19

  My cricket phone startled me with its loud chirping. It was Mimi. She wanted to hear everything that had gone on the night before.

  Mimi! Jeez! What was wrong with me? I hadn’t touched base with her at all! I put her mind at rest about Léo and told her the whole tale about the night before and how we’d all followed Erina around town.

  Mimi hadn’t gone under the knife yet. They’d postponed the whole deal by a full twenty-four hours at the last minute. She hadn’t eaten a thing because she’d been expecting to go in for surgery. It hadn’t happened, but instead of feeding her, the doctors had told her she still couldn’t have anything to eat.

  “I must have lost seven pounds since I’ve been in here. It’s great! I can’t cheat because I can’t move and nobody will fucking feed me! You wait and see how skinny I’ll be when I get out of here!”

  I thought she was being really brave. I wouldn’t have been so funny and chatty if I were in her shoes (or bed socks). She was tiring out pretty quickly, but I was glad I’d managed to reassure her about Léo.

  My mind wandered to the water back at the trailer and how it might actually be simpler if we all bunked at Amar’s place until I got the chance to figure it out. May as well. I could do the housework in the evenings if I didn’t have enough time to get it done during the day with all my to-ing and fro-ing.

  I headed back to the office and found the journalist lying on the couch—a delighted smile on her face.

  “Are you free at lunchtime?” I asked her.

  “Free? Why?”

  “Because it’s Wednesday. I have to pick up my kids from school. There has to be someone there to meet them at midday, but I can’t do it. Too much work here. Could you go and fetch them for me? I’ll call up the school and let them know you’re coming.”

  “No problem.”

  “Also, could you drop by my place and make sure that a teenage boy named Léo comes home? He’ll help you with all the kids. Then bring them all back here after that. Seeing as the boss woman isn’t here, we can all sleep in this apartment and it’ll save all this traipsing around. I think it’s a pretty nifty idea!”

  “That’s fine. But then you’ll take me for a session, agreed?”

  “Well . . .”

  “Great! Finally!”

  “You don’t give up, do you?”

  “No! How did you guess?”

  “Listen, that’s all well and good, but I have to at least try to do some housework. The windows need cleaning, as well as the curtains, doorknobs, and light switches. Then there’s all the ironing. Sitting on my ass listening to you harp on is hardly going to get any of that done, is it? I need this job. Well, I need the money, at least.”

  “I get it, I get it—you want to anchor me to reality. I understand your technique.”

  I let out a sigh and made a quick call to the kiddies’ schools.

  “What’s your name again, please?” I asked her.
<
br />   “Eudoxie Bintou Apraksine.”

  “I’m calling to let you know that Madame exactly what she just said will be picking up my kids today.” They checked my telephone number, first off, and then I had to answer a ton of questions about my babies’ dates of birth, as well as all the details about the lady in question. It took ages.

  A bing bing sound let me know that I (Rachel Amar, actually) had gotten mail.

  My stubborn “patient” was letting rip as she jabbered on and on in a monotone. “I don’t know what it is that’s driving me, but my brain is insanely active. It’s like I can never switch it off. I wish I could be less of a perfectionist, say no sometimes, and find a way to balance my professional life and my home life. Not to mention my love life!”

  “Yes, but you can’t have it all, right? Nobody on this planet knows how to balance all that shit. Take me, for example: I can’t even find the time to do a quick shift down at Tony’s. He gets real busy just as I have to leave to pick up the kidders from school. And then, who’s supposed to take care of them while I’m helping out Tony? If I pay someone to babysit, it’ll end up costing me more than I can earn.”

  “Button it! I’m doing the talking here! I like your new method and all, but you can only push me so far.” And off she went again. “I can’t sleep at night. I have to find a way to . . .”

  I sneaked a peek at Rachel Amar’s laptop and noticed she’d received an e-mail from none other than Linus Robinson.

  I felt the blood pounding in my chest. This was dramatic!

  I had to read it. I had to read it now! It was my number-one priority and I had to get it done before attempting to start anything else. But my mother and grandmother had instilled good manners in me, and this meant I was stuck like glue to my chair, listening to Madame Windowpane. They’d both told me that you can’t go reading shit when you’re supposed to be listening to someone—especially when that person thinks you’re their shrink. Well, they didn’t say anything about the shrink bit. I added that.

  I nearly crapped my pants when Madame Iodine (getting closer . . . ), from her relaxed position on the couch, legs crossed, started cackling like a maniac, grabbing her sides as she howled and howled. She even started banging her fist against her forehead. Freakazoid of a woman!