6. Meg
6
MEG
T he trip down the hallway to my office took as long as I expected it would. Even if I had been here before, my jaw still dropped a gazillion times along the way.
I won’t pretend it wasn’t a little overwhelming. But say what you will, for all the money these people had, happiness wasn’t part of the package deal.
Unlike the last time I was here, a general feeling of gloom clung to the walls, as if the house was mourning Isabel’s absence too.
When I passed Byron’s office, the door was wide open, and it was ginormous and predictably amazing. It was all ocean views and state-of-the-art tech, oozing panache.
I was not the world’s most sophisticated girl, but I could sure appreciate class when it was shoved in my face.
My office was next door, and it was smaller than Byron’s office, but by no means less awesome.
And not that I expected Ikea boxes with instructions on how to slap an acrylic desk and cabinets together, but you could say I was a little surprised to see the room all decked out and ready for me to start working.
That included a brand-new 16-inch MacBook Pro gleaming from the top of my pretty antique desk.
It was a world away from my previous job, where I was crammed into a tiny cubicle with Sheila at the law office, working as a part-time paralegal while I waited to pass the bar exam.
And if the space wasn't already tight enough, there were Sheila’s daily chats to make it feel like a prison cell in supermax.
And by chats , I mean Sheila launching into a never-ending soliloquy about her life the second I sat my ass down in my chair on my side of the cubicle.
“How’re you doing today, Sheila?” I’d say, always hoping that for once she’d say everything was fine and leave it at that.
But no.
She’d snap her gum and snort derisively for good measure. “You’re pretty much lookin’ at it, hon. Shit, I used to be a real doll. That’s before I got married and had the bastard’s four brats. This miserable job is my escape. If not for this, I’d be somewhere in a padded cell throwing noodles at the wall and braiding my hair… And believe me, I’m actually sugar-coating it ‘cause I don’t wanna completely put you off marital bliss.”
Once Sheila got going, there was no chillaxing the gloomy broad.
Some people got their inspiration to live their best life from memes on Instagram, I got mine from listening to Sheila’s depressing narration of her existence. As in reminding me to make something of my life and never bend the knee to misery.
In my new office it was much quieter and I only had my thoughts for company. I’d fix that soon enough with some music, I decided.
Spinning around on my heels, I took it all in. And what do you know, next to the cushy sofa was a side door, all sturdy and oak.
Naturally, I was going to Nancy Drew the hell out of where that was leading to.
It opened into a very short passage with a door at the other end, which I presumed opened up into Byron’s office.
There were two opposite doors on either side of the passage, one leading to an elegant bathroom and the other one -- remember me pondering about a mini fridge? Well, here it was, not mini at all, a state-of-the-art fridge inside a kitchen with an espresso maker, a microwave, and even a fancy table with two chairs.
So, I was sharing a bathroom and a kitchen with the reformed asshole. Good to know. I considered installing a spy camera so I would never run into him here.
But I nixed that idea as soon as it had a chance to sprout. The NDA I signed made it clear that should I cross any lines, however minuscule, they’d take me to the cleaners. With a student loan that strained my budget to the max, pissing off the Belmonts hardly seemed like the sensible thing to do.
I yanked open the fridge, but all it did was spike my blood pressure. There was nothing in there but glacier water and green smoothies. Like I was some herbivore with limited culinary expectations.
First thing on the list was getting some yummy stuff to see me through the day. This body wasn’t going to survive on glacier water and pulverized spinach and kale.
Chalk it up to a very bad experience when Mom once got this bright idea that everyone was going to kick their day off with a green drink. It went about as well as one would expect with my family.
My dad, my two sisters, Isabel and I convened at the local diner for a greasy breakfast, and plotted an intervention to have Mom kill her subscription to “How to Live to 100 Years and More.”
We cornered her that evening at home after dinner.
“Gonna be a long, horrible 100 years if all you have is green stuff to chomp on,” Pops complained at the intervention, championing our case as he shoveled a heap of creamy pasta onto his butter-soaked garlic bread. “Lemme die a happy man, what do you say, sweetheart?”
Like always, Mom folded under Pops’ pleading gaze like a cheap suit.
And even if she crossed her arms and pursed her mouth with contempt at his lousy argument, our ordeal with the green drink sitch came to a screeching halt.
I sat down at my desk and opened my new MacBook Pro. Immediately, the Belmont crest lit up as the screensaver, which had me rolling my eyes. A bit territorial if you asked me. As if there was any doubt who I was working for.
First order of business was finding a pic of my family to replace that stupid crest.
There was a knock on the office door, and Nelson strolled in with the barest of smiles.
“Good morning, Meg,”
He didn’t look nearly as cheerful as when we met before. I suspected it had everything to do with Isabel.
“Nelson! Hi!” I said, pathetically relieved to see someone I knew and liked.
“Sorry for the intrusion,” he said. “But I want to make sure that you are settled in and that you have everything you need.”
“Don’t be silly, you’re not intruding. Come in. And sure, I’m settling in just fine. I mean, it could’ve been a little less depressing…not that I’m here to party, but so far it’s pretty much been like a wake but without a dead person, you know.”
Nelson sighed mournfully. “Well, where to begin. I don’t have to tell you what a disaster this whole thing is and how miserable we all are. At this stage, I cannot even look at Roman, to be quite frank. We all miss Isabel terribly. This house has lost its light… Tell me she will be back.”
I sank into my chair, the heaviness in my chest flaring up. “Hell if I know, Nelson. All we can do is hope… Ask me again why I refuse to fall in love. Why I don’t depend on anyone else to make me happy. And why there is no man on God’s green earth who could lay claim to my spirit and break my heart.”
Not that my admission pacified Nelson.
“If I remember correctly, you were the one carrying on about destiny and fate,” Nelson said, displeasure wrinkling his voice. As if somehow I was to accept partial blame for the whole sorry mess.
My only defense was to backpedal on my claims. “I’ve changed my mind. Destiny and fate can kiss my sweet ass.”
Nelson attempted a smile and failed. “I hear you. Well, we are looking forward to you being in our midst. It will make the torment easier to bear. And I do hope you will find a way to enjoy working here.”
Maybe it was my eye roll, or maybe it was the way my lips barely stifled a curse, but Nelson picked up on the fact that I might not share his sentiment.
“Enjoy? I wouldn’t go that far,” I said. “But I’ll tell you what will make it more bearable is if that fridge in the kitchen here didn’t cater to a jungle primate and instead offered some yummy stuff for a grief-stricken woman whose bestie is hiding out from the evil Belmont clan.”
Nelson almost laughed. “If you care to give me a list of what you want, I’ll make sure to get it for you. All our meals are catered from outside, so in the morning, I take everyone’s orders for lunch. That goes for dinner as well…if you should happen to stay late for work.”
There was a pause during which I had a lightning-quick fantasy about staying late and sharing dinner with Byron at the small table in our kitchen as we labored over contracts and whatnot.
An involuntary cringe knotted my insides, and I almost gagged. Since when do I fantasize about bullshit like that.
I pulled myself together real fast. “Wait, you guys have to order in? Doesn’t a place like this have cooks and stuff?”
Nelson sighed and glimpsed at the ceiling, a man at his wits’ end. “It’s a long story, but no, we don’t currently have a chef.”
Wheels turned in my head. It wouldn’t hurt to have an ally around here. “Are you looking for one?”
“That is certainly for Emily to decide, but now with Byron and you in the house… and with Isabel not here to show Sophia the ropes, it might become a pressing issue to acquire a full-time chef. Why, do you perhaps know a suitable candidate?”
“Oh yes, I do. Take a seat, Nelson, you won’t get taller standing up.”
Nelson sat down on one of the chairs in front of my desk, all proper, back straight, and his legs crossed, hands neatly folded on his lap.
“Wow, Nelson, you really know how to sit down.”
“Oh, I have nothing on Emily,” he said. “Wait until you watch her take a seat. It’s quite the masterclass in etiquette.”
“I bet she’d have a conniption watching me plant my ass on a chair. I’ve heard a lot about this Emily. Will I ever get to meet her?”
“You are in her house, of course you will,” Nelson grinned. “Emily makes it her primary objection to vet everyone who spends more than thirty seconds on the estate, let alone two seconds in the house.”
“Sounds like I’d better not get on the wrong side of Belmont Manor’s grand dame lest I want my head on a pike perched on the front of the big black gates.”
This time, Nelson genuinely smiled. “Oh, I can just feel it will be a joy to have you around. You have two weeks to settle in and familiarize yourself with things here before she and Henry return from Rochester.”
“That’s the old guy ruling the roost, right? The one holding all the cards. Who stipulated Roman marry that chick from Europe to supersize the empire.”
Nelson delicately snorted a laugh. “If you want to put it that bluntly, yes.”
“Crazy rich people, right Nelson?”
He replied with a dry nod. Loyal to the Belmont family but scornful of their ways. I scrolled through the contact list on my phone. “I’m going to find this place a chef. Let me make a quick call. Hang tight.”
I dialed a number and put the phone on speaker. Marguerite's very sleepy, gruff voice answered on the other side. “Merde! This better be good! What!?”
Hearing Marguerite’s voice diluted some of the despair floating in the air. ‘Hello, you sexy bitch,” I said to her. “I have a question. How attached are you to your job as chef at Le Petite Chateau?”
“Say what now!?” she rasped.
“Remember that place where you got Isabel her reading job?”
“Uhm…okay, what about it?”
“They’ll be needing a chef soon. Your snazzy self will fit in here just fine.”
“Unless it’s more than I make with a better kitchen, I’m not interested,” Marguerite replied, yawning loudly in my ear.”
“And if I told you the pay will be way more, and the kitchen is probably the size of the entire Le Petite Chateau?” I said.
“Hmm…and this couldn’t wait?” she complained. “Call me when it happens.”
She hung up, and I grinned at Nelson. “She’s in. You know the French—two espressos, a croissant, and a hint of existential dread before they’re ready to make any decision in life.”
“I happen to know about Marguerite, and I can put in a good word,” Nelson said. “But again, it will be Emily’s decision, not mine.”
“Yes, Emily. To tell you the truth, I don’t know if the prospect of meeting her fills me with anticipation or fear.”
Nelson stood up, looking a little happier than when he came in. “You’ll be fine, Meg. And please, any time you need something, don’t hesitate to text me. I’m here to see to it that your stay here with us goes as uneventfully and smoothly as possible.”