8. Mara
8
MARA
M y temples ache while taking in the number of rooms I am rostered to clean this morning. The Chrysler building only has a handful of permanent tenants. Most are fly-in and fly-out residents, so it was surprising to learn we were almost full occupancy when I arrived for my shift this morning.
The number of apartments I need to service is overwhelming because it took Tillie three full days to recover from the stomach bug an on-call doctor assured me wasn’t from eating out-of-date birthday cake.
I would have started fresh next week if I were entitled to sick leave.
Since I’m not, I must suck it up.
I can’t afford more time off.
I want to scream, or better yet, walk away from it all, but I can’t. The indecent length of the split in my skirt persuaded the bowling alley manager to a ten percent discount last week, but the on-call doctor who did a house visit was female and married.
The bill for her visit means I’ll have to salvage more than the remnants at the bottom of a burned pot to make it through the next month not hungry.
After stocking my cart with cleaning products and toilet paper that is too soft not to lint in the backside of anyone fortunate enough to use it, I rub my temples, trying to ease the tension headache forming there.
Not all the throb is compliments of staying up past midnight, handwashing my uniform and handbag for today. A lot of it belongs on the shoulders of the name at the top of my cleaning schedule, and wondering if he’s the reason my hair is pulled back into a tight, headache-producing, and highly unflattering bun.
I’d only recently replaced the product I use sparingly since it cost over thirty dollars a bottle, but when I went to wash Tillie’s vomit out of my hair Monday night, my shampoo was nowhere to be seen.
I couldn’t call Ark and accuse him of stealing my shampoo. That would be preposterous considering he’d spent four times that for a cab to drive us home, and don’t get me started on the food he left behind when I kicked him out. But I’d be a liar if I said I wasn’t a bit peeved.
My cocoa butter and rose shampoo is the only luxury item I kept from my childhood. It reminds me of the innocence that was cruelly stripped from me and how keeping some memories of my past unlocked will ensure Tillie never faces the same hurt I did.
I shake off thoughts that will strengthen my headache before checking my cleaning cart is appropriately stocked. The more I try to keep my focus off Ark, the more my temples pound. The guests Ark is anticipating have requested things most men don’t use.
Makeup-removing wipes have numerous purposes, but sanitary pads are a little more telling of the gender of the people about to plump out Ark’s apartment from two bodies to six.
I can’t help but wonder when Ark’s invitation went out. Was it before or after we kissed?
My ego wants to say it was before, but considering I’ve not heard hide nor hair of Ark since we locked lips, I assume it is the latter.
After a quick shoulder roll and a prompt reminder that Ark is out of my league, I ensure I have everything in order before heading to the first apartment on my cleaning roster.
When I reach Ark’s apartment, I take a deep breath to clear my voice of nerves before gently knocking on the servants’ entrance door. “H-housekeeping.”
I wait a moment. Then, when no one answers, I use the master key to enter.
Not wanting to burst Ark’s privacy bubble for the third time in under a week, I continue to announce my presence while heading toward the primary suite. “Arkadiy?”
We usually address tenants by their surnames, but the disdain on Arkadiy’s face when he gave me his preferences ensures Arkadiy will be as formal as my greetings will go.
“Are you h-home?”
I startle when a voice from the side breaks through the thudding of my pulse in my ears. “He isn’t here.” Rafael smiles to assure me he is remorseful for my jump before he says, “He had a handful of errands to run before... he… ah…”
I nod, saving us both from the embarrassment of him admitting I’m the cause of Ark’s absence.
Gratitude flares through Rafael’s kind eyes before he asks, “Is there anything I can help you with?”
“No. Thank you.” I hook my thumb to the primary suite, my hand’s shake noticeable. “I sh-should get a start. My s-schedule is full today.”
Rafael smiles like he isn’t disgusted that I clean strangers’ messes for a living or that I speak with a stutter. “All right. Let me know if you need anything.”
I mimic his gesture before making a beeline for Ark’s room, my pace fast. The quicker I get this apartment sparklingly clean, the faster I can move on to wallowing in another million-dollar abode I could have lived in for free if I had accepted Maksim Ivanov’s generosity six months ago.
I declined his offer of a rent-free apartment because I firmly believe in karma. If someone helps you, it is your moral obligation to help someone else. If you do something bad, expect something bad in return.
That’s how life should work. Does it always transpire as intended? Not always, but for the most part, the odds have swayed in my favor, so I will continue with my beliefs until they are proven inadequate.
The scent of someone recently showering fills the air when I enter Ark’s room. The towels dumped at the foot of the bed announce that the bathroom is void of a soul, but I still check, just in case.
It’s empty—of people.
The bottle of shampoo I’ve been seeking for the past three days is present, though, and it makes me confused about Ark’s game plan.
It isn’t like he can’t afford his own shampoo. The produce he purchased from a local market wasn’t from the bagged seconds stock I usually veer for every payday. It is top-shelf produce that comes with a surcharge. Even the sparkling water I stacked in the bar’s mini refrigerator last week cost more per gallon than my favorite haircare brand.
My nails nick the label of the shampoo bottle when a voice sounds from behind me. “Before I forget, I was meant to ask you…” Rafael stops talking when my jump can’t be missed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Yo-you didn’t.”
He did. He snuck up on me so agilely that I didn’t hear his steps, and it has made me mindful that Ark had every right to be furious last week. I’m not naked, and I still feel somewhat violated since I am in a bathroom. It is usually a place of sanctum.
When Rafael’s sigh announces he heard my lie from a mile out, I twist to face him. I both loath and admire the way he leans against the doorjamb like he doesn’t have a care in the world.
If only his worldly eyes announced the same.
They’re broken, though not as guarded as Ark’s.
“What did you want to a-ask?” I hate myself for stuttering, but it can’t be helped. He is in the doorway, blocking the only available exit. That’s as triggering as it comes for me.
The tightness spreading across my chest slackens when he steps deeper into the bathroom. “I wanted to ask you about that .” At the end of his sentence, he lowers his eyes to the shampoo bottle I’ve almost crushed. “I was hoping you could tell me where I can buy it.” Again, I don’t recognize his expression. “Ark is almost out, so I thought I should grab him another bottle before he returns for his fifth shower of the day.”
When I roll the bottle in my hand, my heart rate quickens. Its lack of weight exposes it is almost empty.
Ark would have had to use it at least three times a day to deplete the almost full bottle he took from my bathroom. His hair is thick, but washing it even once a day is excessive.
“He knows this is sh-shampoo, right? It isn’t body wash.” When images a chambermaid shouldn’t have of one of her clients inflame my cheeks with need, I return my focus to the core of Rafael’s question. “I purchase this brand from a local sa-salon. I can jot down the address for you if you’d like?”
Rafael gleams like a hunter who has locked in on their prey. “You use this same brand?” He sounds shocked. He needs to take acting classes. His stirring expression doesn’t mimic the bewilderment in his tone.
“Yeah. Um…” With words eluding me, I complete my reply with a nod.
My throat works through a hard swallow when Rafael pads closer. His shoulders aren’t as broad as Ark’s. I could easily squeeze by him if needed. My limbs just feel suddenly too heavy to attempt an escape.
Or perhaps I am intrigued.
Ark didn’t just steal my shampoo.
He’s been using it as well.
That’s shocking and somewhat enthralling. I took so long to wash Tillie’s vomit from my hair because I didn’t want to lose the scent of Ark’s aftershave on my neck. Could he possibly be trying to maintain the same infused scent?
I’m pulled from my thoughts when Rafael removes the bottle from my hand and inspects the label. It shouldn’t give anything away, but he homes in on the evidence as if he is Sherlock Holmes. “Is this your shampoo, Mara?”
“No,” I push out. “I don’t think s-so.”
I am a terrible liar.
I know this, and so does Rafael.
Mercifully, he doesn’t call me out as a liar.
Not directly, anyway.
“I was just asking because if it was yours, I could replace your bottle while buying Ark a new bottle.” The walls slowly close in on me when he says, “That would be the right thing to do in a situation where someone’s shampoo was stolen.”
“It would be,” I agree, nodding. “But that isn’t m-my bottle.”
He watches me for several heart-whacking seconds before he says, “All right. If you insist.” He twists to face the exit. “I better leave you to it. You said you have a full schedule, and who am I to question your word?”
I let out the breath I’m holding in, confident the screams of my lungs demanding air will stop me from nibbling on the bait he’s dangling in front of me.
I’m not strong enough to withstand the flames of hell.
“It’s my bottle. I-I think.” My last two words are nowhere near as confident as my first three. “It went missing from my apartment the afternoon Ark drove m-me home.”
I can’t see Rafael’s face, but I can feel his smile.
The heat of covetousness is as hot as the inferno I was endeavoring to sidestep by being honest.
Not speaking another word, Rafael exits the bathroom, leaving me dumbfounded.
Again, I’d love a few minutes to deliberate, but that option is even more out of my reach now. I accused an owner of stealing. Things can’t get direr on the job front for me.
After rolling up my sleeves and breathing out a handful of butterflies my stomach hasn’t been without for the past week, I get to work.
I first strip Ark’s bed and gather the high-thread linen into a bundle before placing it into my cart. Time moves fast since I’m bobbing along to the tracks Tillie added to my playlists yesterday afternoon, instead of contemplating my many erroneous mistakes.
Tillie was in that stage of sickness where she was no longer contagious but not quite herself enough to go to school. While we did a jigsaw puzzle, she doubled my assurance that her birthday party was the best party she’d ever attended.
She doesn’t have much to go off. My shameful theatrics in my apartment Monday afternoon prove when your trust is low, you palm the neurosis onto more than your children.
I’ve declined every invite Tillie has received in the past five years.
The pure bliss on her face when she recalled how loudly her friends sang “Happy Birthday” has me hopeful I can loosen the reins enough that she will have both a safe and happy childhood.
A smile plays at my lips when I recall another part of our conversation yesterday. We made it halfway through the puzzle before Tillie queried about the weird smell that hadn’t left the kitchen in days.
I tried to make out I had burned the pot making hot cocoa the night she was sick, but Tillie knows me better than that. She immediately saw through my bluff before unashamedly declaring she knew Ark was the perfect match for me.
She only stopped teasing me when I reminded her that I hadn’t yet cleaned her vomit out of my work bag, and if she had enough energy to rile me, perhaps she had enough to help clean up the mess she made.
Her focus never veered from her Nintendo Switch for the rest of the day.
As I move through the motions of a thorough yet hurried clean, I think about the owner of this apartment and how he would never have to save for two years to buy a console that’s discarded the instant the latest model comes out.
Most residents of the Chrysler building are either wealthy businessmen or part of the healthcare conglomerate. One of Russia’s leading private hospitals is only half a mile away, meaning the serviced apartments attract world-renowned surgeons and their patients.
My fingers tighten around the corner of the sheets firmly when my thoughts stray to Ark for the umpteenth time today. He couldn’t be sick, surely. Excluding the time my nails dug into his shoulders, clamminess never dulled his natural olive skin coloring. His eyes are bright and without pain, and he is physically fit— extremely fit.
Someone on their deathbed wouldn’t have an eight-pack.
Or a monster dick.
I cough to clear my chest of the tingles spasming there before I finish making the bed. I can’t have these types of thoughts about an owner. It’s against the rules. Mrs. Whitten would have my head if she heard even a snippet of my thoughts. I’d hate to consider her response if she learns about our kiss. Just the thought doubles the output of my cleaning skills.
Confident the sheets are tight enough to bounce a nickel off, I vacuum the carpet, scrub the sink and toilet, and then wipe down the mirror and shower walls.
Once the products on the vanity are replenished, I take a step back and survey my work.
Everything is clean and orderly.
I can’t say the same for my heart when a shadow falls over the only exit of the bathroom for the second time in under an hour. “All done?”
My head bob is submissive, but it hides my nerves. “Yes. This room is r-ready.”
Rafael acts as if I didn’t stutter. “This room?”
Again, I nod. “I have four more rooms on m-my roster for this apartment.”
My heart pounds in my ears when he straightens his spine. His height is more imposing when it is at its full stature. He is an inch or two taller than Ark but around twenty pounds lighter. “You’re servicing the rest of the rooms here?” He points to the floor at the end of his sentence.
I nod, too confused by his unmissable bewilderment to speak.
Cleaning isn’t a housemaid’s sole skill, but it is very much a part of their job description.
Shock hits me half a second before disappointment when he asks, “Does Ark know?”
“I assume s-so.”
Rafael twists his lips as if he isn’t convinced. “I highly doubt that.”
“Why?”
Don’t worry. I am as shocked as you that I didn’t stutter. The shortness of my reply helps, but it is still surprising. I guess I shouldn’t be shocked. Rafael isn’t Ark, but who you surround yourself with is as important as how you present yourself. I trusted Ark enough to fall asleep in his presence and kiss him. That means Rafael’s name will most likely soon be scribbled at the bottom of a very short list of people I trust.
Interest blooms in my chest when Rafael says, “Because he has a far more important task he needs your help with.”
“He d-does?” I sound daft. Rightfully so. I am.
And desperate.
Very desperate.
I breathe a little easier when Rafael nods before he returns to the central part of the primary suite. I follow him, my nerves instantly dispelling since there are two exits and only one person capable of blocking them.
The odds are back in my favor.
Rafael moves for a desk at the corner of the ample space while saying, “Val said she’d give you this at the same time she gave you the map.”
I’m lost in his meaning until I recall my interaction with Ark last Friday night. He said he would have his security team draw up the entry and exit points of the underground parking lot for me. I’ve seen him since then, but when a sick child is demanding your attention, you don’t have time for anything else.
“I haven’t se-seen Val this morning. She wasn’t in her office when I arrived.”
“Probably because she’s doing this instead.” Rafael gives me a hand-drawn map of the foyer. “The meetings have already started, but you still have plenty of time.”
“For?” I ask when he fails to elaborate on his reply.
“For… whatever it is that you do.”
“C-clean?”
This shames me to admit, but that is the only thing I am skilled at. When I was fired from my last job, I tried to find something different. Nothing came up. I only stumbled onto this position when I returned the check Maksim Ivanov hand-delivered to me for helping his wife.
The amount cited on the check would have had Tillie and me living comfortably for years, but I genuinely don’t believe in spending money I haven’t earned.
Again, my life isn’t close to glamourous, but it is ethical.
Rafael waits a beat before lifting his chin. “Yeah.”
“When does the me-meeting end?” I move to the cleaning cart to remove my schedule, hopeful I can squeeze in Ark’s request without too much reshuffling. A disruptive routine is as dangerous as no routine. “I could probably clean the me-meeting room?—”
“Ark doesn’t want you to clean up after the meeting. He wants you to…” He strays his eyes around the room, his lips twisting when he takes in the portable coffee station at the side of an inbuilt bar. “He wants you to serve refreshments. These meetings are a snoozefest. Without coffee, he’ll never make it out alive.”
The dramatics of his reply twitches my lips, but it doesn’t alter the facts. “I don’t do catering. There is a bakery n-nearby that?—”
When Rafael interrupts, I stop searching for a brochure I tucked away with the hope of future use. “Ark specifically asked for you. He needs you there, Mara.” The sheer honesty in his last sentence weakens my hesitation. It sounds gospel.
“Val—”
“Has already given her approval.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket. “I can call her again to check if you don’t believe me.”
He only dials two numbers before I end his campaign. “I-I believe you.” Ludicrously.
He looks at me as if all his Christmases have come at once before he says, “Great.” His eyes drop to my uniform. “We should probably get you something more appropriate to wear. First impressions count.” Before I can object, he adds, “The people attending these meetings are extremely important to Arkadiy. We don’t want to give them the wrong idea.”
I’m about to say they’re not here to judge me, but something stops me. I want to blame the woman in the living room, rummaging through designer clothes on a wheelable clothes rack. However, it feels like more than that.
Goldilocks has once again entered the bears’ house without permission, but it feels like more than a burnt saucepan is on the line this time around.