“I’d like to think about it overnight,” she told the agent, who then told her that three other potential clients were seeing it that afternoon. She refused to be pressured and took a long walk, thinking about it on the way back to the Left Bank. Somehow it felt like a real commitment to spend a year in Paris. On the one hand she wanted to, on the other hand, she was scared to death, and felt slightly insane to be considering it. She had wanted to live her life, but maybe this was going overboard. But she loved the idea of living there for a year, or even longer. She knew that a year from now, if not sooner, she’d have to go back to work at some job or other, in New York. She felt as though she were becoming another person, being in Paris. It was not an entirely unpleasant sensation. It felt like a new lease on life—but whose life? Hers or someone else’s?
The agent had suggested that she hire an assistant to help her furnish it, get all the necessary services signed up, gas, electric, and have the Ikea kitchen installed. It sounded like a big production. But she had a point. She gave Olivia the name of an agency to find someone to help her, and a cleaning lady, which she would need as well.
To confuse matters further, when she got home that afternoon, after buying groceries, she was still going around in circles about the apartment. It was so appealing, but a real commitment to stay for a year. She normally wasn’t impulsive but felt as though she was being so now. Deciding to come to Paris had been spur of the moment, and renting an apartment for a year would be an even bigger leap. Just for the hell of it, she called the agency the realtor had referred her to, to see what an assistant and a cleaning person would cost. If it was insanely expensive, that might make the decision for her.
She called the number, almost hoping they wouldn’t answer. She felt as though she were being pulled along by a relentless invisible force that she couldn’t resist and wasn’t sure if she should. Was this her destiny or was it folly? She had enough money to live on for a year, a little longer if she was careful, but after that, reality would hit. She couldn’t hide from it forever.
The domestic agency answered on the second ring. Olivia asked hesitantly if the woman spoke English, and she said she did. Not well, and with a heavy accent, but they understood each other. Olivia told her that she was thinking of renting an apartment for a year and staying in Paris, and if she did, she would need an assistant, at least to help her set it up, and someone to clean it, for a year. She said that the assistant would be short-term since she probably wouldn’t need her once the apartment was up and running.
“Is there construction to do?” the woman asked her.
“Not really. I need to put in a kitchen, and it needs furniture. And I’ll need to set up gas, electricity, phone, Internet, and I don’t speak French.”
“I understand,” the woman said, making rapid notes of the address, the size of the apartment, and Olivia’s contact information. “I don’t supply assistants for an office. Only household help. The cleaner is easy. The assistant more difficult. Perhaps you need a secretary.” That made sense to Olivia, and then the woman had an idea. “This may sound strange to you, and not what you are looking for. I saw a candidate today. He is looking for a temporary job here for three or four months. He is overqualified for your job, but he is very capable. You might want to meet him or try him. He’s a trained butler and was seventeen years in his last job, which just ended when his employer died. He ran two large homes for them in England, with full staff. He’s Argentine, speaks four languages, and is legal to work in France, or anywhere in Europe.” Olivia could easily imagine that he probably also cost a fortune, was undoubtedly ancient, and all she could think of was Carson in Downton Abbey, in white tie and tails. She wasn’t Lady Mary, and this wasn’t 1925.
“That sounds a little rich for my blood. I don’t need anyone that trained. And I have no idea what I would do with a butler. He’d want to serve me breakfast on a silver tray. I need someone who could help me get the apartment organized if I rent it. I’m sure he’s much too fancy for me. I don’t even know what butlers do, except in the movies.”
“I realize it’s a problem, and will be for most of my clients,” she said. “He’s trained for formal service, and very few people still want that here. It’s not adapted to today’s way of life, particularly in France. People don’t want a great deal of help, or formal training. He’s aware of that. He says he’s flexible, and it would be fairly short-term, so a project like this might work for him to set you up.”
“Why did he leave England, or why isn’t he looking for a job there?” Olivia was suspicious and thought he would be a hundred years old.
“He wants to go back, and I think it’s the only place where he’d find the right job and his training would be appropriate. But he has a mother here, and he says he wants to spend a few months close to her. She’s quite old. He’s staying with her, so he doesn’t want a live-in position, and he doesn’t mind working weekends. I have a copy of his reference from his employer’s son, the Marquess of Cheshire. They raved about him and seem very fond of him. I can scan it and email it to you if you like.”
“I just can’t imagine hiring a butler. What does he wear? What would he do?”
“Whatever you need him to do, I imagine. He must be quite resourceful, if he ran two large homes. He came to see me in a smart gray suit, white shirt, and tie. I imagine he’ll wear whatever you tell him to. He’s young enough.” She checked his application. “He’s forty-two years old. He certainly could be an assistant, if he’s willing to. I can ask him, and you can meet him if you wish, and see what you think. I can’t think of anyone on my books at the moment who would be capable of what you’re looking for. And since it’s short-term, maybe you could both find a way to make it work,” she said hopefully. Olivia was surprised by his age, but still couldn’t get the vision of the butler in Downton Abbey out of her head.
“I need to make a decision about the apartment tonight,” Olivia said, feeling even more confused. “I’ll call you tomorrow and let you know what I decide, and maybe you can think of someone else in the meantime. Do you suppose a maid would be able to do everything I need, a bright young one?”
“I can’t think of anyone right now, but I’ll look at my files tonight.” Olivia thanked her, hung up, and spent the night tormenting herself. Did she want to stay in Paris for a year, or was that a crazy pipe dream and should she go back to New York to look for a job? If she stayed, should she rent that apartment or was it too grand for her, or too fancy and more than she needed? But the rent wasn’t too high. And if she did rent it, could she find someone to help her set it up? Hiring a butler sounded totally insane to her, whatever he looked like. But what did it matter if he could do the job? And she had no idea what he’d charge. Probably a fortune.
She fell asleep with the lights on, with a pad and pen in her hand, and her thoughts spinning around and around. She felt as though aliens had taken over her mind. But the last thing she wanted to do was go back to her own depressing apartment in New York and start looking for a job, working for someone else, after years of working for herself, and having to explain why her magazine had failed. It still felt too fresh for that. And if she stayed in Paris, what would she do?
She had none of the answers when she woke up the next morning and went for a walk along the Seine after she drank a strong cup of coffee. Her cellphone rang when she was on the way back. It was the real estate agent from Sotheby’s to tell her that one of the people who had seen the apartment the previous afternoon wanted it. The owner was willing to give her priority since she had seen it first, but they wanted to know by noon. She almost cried when she hung up and said she’d call her back in half an hour. She hated to make rush decisions and was tempted to say no. She didn’t have anyone to call for advice. Claire, her former assistant at the magazine, was already in L.A., and it was two-thirty in the morning for her, so she couldn’t call her. And Olivia didn’t want someone else mak
ing the decision. It was up to her. She wasn’t usually confused, but this was a big leap for her, totally different from anything she’d ever done before. She was out of her comfort zone, on unfamiliar turf. It was terrifying and exciting too.
She stopped at one of the bridges on the way back and stared down into the swirling water below her.
“What should I do?” she said out loud, and the answer came as though someone had spoken to her.
“Take the apartment,” the voice in her head said.
“Oh my God…are you sure?” She realized she was having a conversation with herself.
“You don’t have to spend a lot on furniture, and you can always send it to New York when you go back. You’re tired of what you have in New York anyway. The apartment here will open the doors to a whole new life. This is what you wanted. Now go for it!” the voice in her head said.
“Beware of what you wish for,” she said out loud, and walked back to her apartment, feeling like a crazy person. She was talking to herself now.
She ran up the stairs and called the agent at Sotheby’s.
“I’ll take it,” she said in one swift breath, feeling as though she was going over a waterfall in a barrel, or falling out a window, but once she said it, she was less scared, and felt more in control again.
“You’re doing the right thing. You won’t regret it. It’s a terrific apartment.” How did she know it was the right thing? She didn’t even know her. And Olivia already regretted it, with classic buyer’s remorse, but she was excited too. And it was only a rental after all. “It will be yours in two weeks. I’ll come over with the lease for you to sign at six o’clock. Does that work for you?”
“Yes,” Olivia said, feeling breathless, wondering what the hell she was doing and if she had lost her mind. But part of her felt happy about it, another part was terrified. She told herself that she could refuse to sign the lease and get out of it until six o’clock. But she didn’t want to, and after she hung up, she called the woman at the domestic agency.
“I’m taking the apartment,” Olivia told her, feeling slightly sick.
“Congratulations. And would you like to meet our butler?” she said, and Olivia laughed. Why not? It was just as crazy as everything else she was doing, renting an apartment in Paris for a year, needing to furnish it and put in a kitchen, and interviewing a formal butler to hire as an assistant. It was the craziest thing she’d ever done, but she didn’t have to hire the butler if she didn’t like him. She had no obligation, and she did need help, and it would only be for a short time. For no particular reason, she assumed he was gay, living with his mother, and running a formal home. She didn’t care either way. Maybe he’d be fun to work with. Although Carson on Downton Abbey wasn’t gay. She remembered then that she had to give the woman an answer if she wanted to meet him.
“Yes, I guess I’ll meet him. Will tomorrow work?” Signing the lease would be enough stress for one day.
“I’ll see if he’s available and interested. I’ll call you back and let you know.”
She called Olivia back while she was making a cup of tea to try to calm her nerves. “He can meet you anytime you like tomorrow.” She didn’t tell Olivia that he had sounded skeptical too.
“Perfect. How about four o’clock?” That way she could walk or shop or do errands, or go to a museum before she saw him.
“I’ll let him know. Call me on my cellphone and tell me how the meeting went. I hope you like him. He seems like a nice chap. He’s quiet and seems discreet.” She didn’t tell Olivia that he sounded tentative about it too. He hadn’t expected her to line up an interview so quickly, and the project sounded odd to him. He was a butler, not an assistant, and the agency seemed to know very little about the prospective employer, except that she was American, and renting an apartment for a year. He imagined that she had probably just gotten divorced or was running away from something. They didn’t think she had children, but they weren’t sure. Or dogs. He was on edge and dubious about the whole thing. And he had forgotten to ask how old she was. Probably either some cranky old dowager, or a spoiled rich girl indulged by her father. Neither possibility appealed to Joachim.
He said as much to his mother that night when she got home from work. He was already sorry he had agreed to the interview.
“See what you think when you meet her,” his mother said sensibly, smiling at him.
“I’m a butler, Mama, not an errand boy or an assistant.”
“You’ve done lots of things that an assistant would do. And errands, when you were younger. She’s a woman alone in a foreign country, renting an apartment, and she doesn’t speak the language. It doesn’t matter what she calls you, she needs help. That doesn’t make her spoiled or cranky. It means she can pay someone to help her get the job done. She’s probably a businesswoman, a lot of American women are. Don’t get all worked up about it. Go with an open mind.” As usual, she gave him good advice, and he put the interview out of his head and on the back burner for the night.
* * *
—
Olivia was sitting in her apartment on the quai Voltaire with the keys to her new apartment in her hand. She had ordered a wire transfer from her bank in New York for the first month’s rent, and a security deposit, and the owner said she could go to the apartment and measure whatever she needed to. It had all gone smoothly, and she had done it. She felt calm about it now. She couldn’t wait to see the apartment again and was planning to go the next day. She was smiling as she walked out onto the terrace and watched the Eiffel Tower sparkling. It was magical, and this was home now, for the next year.
Olivia went to her new apartment the next morning at ten o’clock. She had the outer code to the building, and there was an intercom she didn’t need to use. No one stopped her, and she walked up to the second floor and let herself into the apartment. There was an alarm, but it wasn’t on. She flipped on the lights and walked around the sparsely furnished rooms. There was a bed and a chest in the bedroom and nothing else, a dining room table with six chairs of one kind and two of another. There were two couches in the living room that were decent looking, and no tables. The second bedroom was empty, and she could use it as an office, a closet, or a storeroom, and there was a counter in the kitchen, a few cupboards and a sink, but no stove or refrigerator. The bones of the apartment were as beautiful as she remembered, but the furnishings were paltry and inadequate, as she remembered too. She needed to replace them, but not spend a fortune. She wanted the apartment to be livable, comfortable, and cozy, but she wasn’t trying to replicate Versailles. She had been to the flea market once in Paris when she had come on a business trip and wondered if she could find decent things there at reasonable prices. The prices had seemed high to her, but the merchants were willing to bargain, and many of them spoke English, since a lot of Americans bought there. And Ikea was a great resource for basics, and simple, practical things.
She walked around the apartment, trying to figure out what she wanted to do. A coffee table in the living room, some lamps, some comfortable chairs to sit in, better dining chairs that matched. None of it had to be expensive, just pretty and practical. She noticed the curtains again and how handsome they were. And she could see trees from her windows, which gave the place a country feel. The floors were as beautiful as she recalled. She wanted to get started, so it would already be more inviting when she moved in. And she reminded herself that she had owned and run a decorating magazine for ten years and would figure out what to do.
She stayed for over an hour and had several ideas and written notes by the time she left. She had lunch at a bistro, and went for a walk in the Tuileries Gardens, and was back at her current apartment for the interview with the butler at four o’clock. Since he was coming from a reliable source, with supposedly excellent references, she felt comfortable meeting him at her apartment. She had no idea what to expect, but she had a better idea now
of the help she needed with the apartment. She really wanted some assistance with the move. She wondered if he’d be too big a snob to go to Ikea or the flea market with her. If so, he’d be no use to her.
The intercom buzzer sounded at exactly four o’clock. He said his name, and she buzzed him in. She opened the apartment door to him two minutes later and was startled when she saw him. He didn’t look anything like she’d expected. He looked younger than his age, was tall, blond, very attractive, and impeccably dressed in gray slacks, a gray turtleneck sweater, and a British-looking tweed jacket. He looked like an actor, and nothing like a butler, and even less like Carson in Downton Abbey. He wasn’t wearing white tie and tails.
“I’m sorry not to wear a suit and tie,” he said apologetically. “I wasn’t sure what you preferred, but I thought more informal for a Saturday afternoon seemed appropriate. Of course, I can wear formal wear to work.” Jeans would have been more appropriate to help with the move. She was wearing jeans, a black turtleneck sweater, and running shoes, and she noticed that he looked a lot more put together than she did. And he was wearing very good-looking brown suede shoes. He looked much more British than Argentine. And he spoke with a slightly British accent, as many Europeans did, not a Spanish one. It was an international accent and his English was perfect.
After they sat down, she told him about the apartment she had rented, where it was, and what she thought it needed. She told him that she had rented it for a year.
“The apartment is really beautiful, and it’s in good condition. The furniture is very mix-and-match, though, and looks like it came out of someone’s attic. I need to buy a few things. Like a bed, some tables and chairs. And it needs a kitchen. I was thinking Ikea, nothing too elaborate, just clean and functional, maybe in a fun color. I don’t want to go crazy for a year, but I want it to be livable and pretty.”
The Butler Page 8